Page 5 of What Cannot Be Said

“Did she seem nervous? Afraid? Worried in any way?”

She thought about it a moment. “I guess she seemed pretty much the way she always did, sir.”

“What about your cousin Emma?”

Arabella twitched one shoulder. “She was just... Emma.”

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt either your aunt or your cousin?”

“Hurt them? No, sir.” She glanced toward the lane, where Lady McInnis’s carriage stood waiting. “Will we be able to go home soon, sir?”

“Soon,” said Sebastian. It was an hour’s drive back to London, and the light would be fading from the day before long. If neither Sir Ivo nor Viscount Salinger arrived soon, the keeper’s wife had volunteered to accompany the children back to London in Lady McInnis’s carriage, with Lovejoy following behind in a hackney.

Arabella sucked in a deep breath that flared her nostrils, her gaze dropping to the kitten now sleeping in her lap. “What about Aunt Laura and Emma?”

“Sir Henry—the magistrate from Bow Street—is taking care of that.” The bodies were being sent to a surgeon named Paul Gibson for autopsy, but Sebastian saw no reason to burden this young girl with that knowledge.

“What—” Arabella broke off, her throat working as she swallowed, then tried again. “What do you think would’ve happened if Percy and I hadn’t gone off like that? Do you think Aunt Laura and Emma would still be alive? Or would Percy and I be dead, too?”

She was looking up at him with liquid, pleading eyes, and he understood only too well the anguish that was tormenting her, that would probably always torment her. He’d seen it too many times in war—the guilt that bedevils the lucky ones who are inexplicably left alive when those near to them die. He wanted to say, Don’t ask yourself that; don’t even think it. But all he could say was, “I’m not sure we’ll ever know. But I do know that your aunt and cousin would be very thankful that you’re here now, safe. You and Percy.”

She nodded, her face tightening in a way that told him she was fighting back tears. And all he could think was, Where is their damned father?

Chapter 4

Sir Ivo McInnis arrived just as they were preparing to load the children into their dead aunt’s landau.

He swept up before the simple thatched keeper’s cottage in a black barouche drawn by a team of black horses driven by a liveried coachman. “Uncle Ivo!” called Arabella, darting forward to throw herself against the Baronet’s chest as soon as he descended his carriage’s steps.

A big, thickset man in his late forties with a full face, small pale eyes, and thick dark hair, he had a reputation as a sporting man—a bruising rider to hounds, a member of the Four-in-Hand Club, a regular at such places as Jackson’s Boxing Saloon and Angelo’s Fencing Academy. His estates were in the northwest of England, in Cumberland, although he also kept a hunting lodge near Melton Mowbray in Leicestershire and spent much of his time there or in London. He might be only a baronet, but his family was ancient, wealthy, and powerful. Even as he clasped his niece to his broad chest, his gaze went beyond her to where Sebastian and Lovejoy stood in conversation beside Lovejoy’s gig.

“You’re Sir Henry?” said McInnis, setting his niece aside and walking toward them.

Lovejoy stepped forward. “I am, yes, sir. My sincere condolences on the—”

“Where are they?”

Lovejoy paused. “Lady McInnis and your daughter, you mean?”

“Yes, yes,” said McInnis impatiently.

“On their way to London.”

“To Grosvenor Square?”

“No, sir.” Lovejoy threw a cautioning glance in the direction of the children. Percy had crept up to his sister’s side, and the two were now holding hands, watching and obviously listening intently. The magistrate lowered his voice. “To the surgery of Paul Gibson, in Tower Hill. For a postmortem.”

“What the devil?” the Baronet’s voice boomed. “I’ve authorized no such thing.”

“I’m afraid it is necessary, sir.”

“Why? I’m told they were shot. Why the blazes do you need a postmortem?”

Lovejoy glanced again toward the children, who were silently staring at them, their faces lacking any emotion in a way Sebastian found profoundly troubling. “It may tell us something, sir. Something that could help us catch the killer.”

McInnis’s jaw hardened, his eyes narrowing as he shifted his attention to Sebastian. “You’re Devlin, aren’t you?”

Sebastian knew the man, but only vaguely. “I am, yes.”

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