Alistair James St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon, stood with his hat in his hands, his face ashen as he stared down at his dead wife.
He was a big man, barrel-chested, with a large head and slablike face framed by white hair that had once been thick but was now beginning to thin. His most distinctive feature was his intensely blue eyes, a characteristic of his family so unique and consistent that they were known as “St. Cyr eyes.”
Sebastian’s eyes were a startling feral yellow.
He stood on the far side of the bed from the man he’d grown up calling Father—the man he still called Father, although Sebastian knew now that he was not, in truth, Hendon’s son. He wasn’t sure what he had expected from the Earl—a brusque nod in confirmation of his estranged wife’s death, perhaps, or even a controlled hint of residual rage. What he hadn’t expected was this—this profound grief tinged by what he realized was guilt.
“She’s still beautiful,” said Hendon, his voice husky. “So beautiful.”
Sebastian nodded, not trusting his own voice.
More minutes passed. Then Hendon said quietly, “Did she suffer much, do you think?”
“I honestly don’t know. The pain from all those shattered bones must have been beyond horrific. But I don’t know for how long she was conscious.” It was a thought that haunted him: How long had she lain there in the dark, alone and afraid and in pain?
How long?
Hendon said, “I blame myself, you know.” He must have seen the surprise in Sebastian’s face because he said, “Oh, not back then, not when she ran away. Then I was all puffed up in my righteousness, blaming her for everything from Cecil’s death to her endless infidelities to—” He broke off, but Sebastian knew what he’d been about to say: To leaving me with an heir not of my own loins.
Hendon reached out one shaky, blunt-fingered hand that hovered over her head. “We never should have married. She was the wrong wife for me, and I was the wrong husband for her. She was so beautiful, so vivacious and accomplished, and that’s all I saw. I wanted a gracious, well-bred countess, a devoted mother for my children, and I didn’t give a thought to what she wanted—to what she needed. I thought she should be content with the roles society expected of a noblewoman. And it infuriated me that she was not.”
Sebastian drew a deep, painful breath and kept silent.
“She was brilliant, you know,” said Hendon. “Far more brilliant than I. Brilliant and restless and frustrated—so frustrated with what society and I demanded of her. We quarreled constantly, and in time . . . I think she came to hate me. Hate me for what I was doing to her. And so she punished me in the only way she could.”
He brought his hand down gently on her head, stroking her bloodstained hair, then raised his gaze to Sebastian’s face. “You knew she was living here, in Paris?”
“Yes. Did you?”
Hendon nodded. “But I’d heard she was traveling. I was relieved. I . . . I hoped you’d be gone before she returned.”
Sebastian knew a spurt of anger that came close to rage and forced himself to swallow hard. How long had Hendon known? All those years Sebastian had been searching for her, and Hendon had kept silent.
But then, of course he had. He’d kept silent about everything.
“She was traveling,” said Sebastian. “She arrived back in Paris only late yesterday afternoon.”
Hendon let his hand fall back to his side, and Sebastian noticed it then curled into a fist. “You’ve no idea who did this to her?”
“Not yet. But I will.”
Hendon nodded and turned away abruptly. “Have you told Amanda?”
“No. I thought it would be better coming from you.” There was little love lost between Sebastian and his elder sister, and there never had been. “She’s still here in Paris, isn’t she?”
“She is. She won’t be happy, having it come out—that her mother has been living in France for years under an assumed name, I mean.”
“Perhaps it won’t come out.”
“It will come out,” said Hendon, descending the winding stairs. “These things always do.”
Sebastian hesitated an instant, then followed him downstairs. “Did you know about General McClellan?”
He saw Hendon’s back tense. Then the Earl said, “I knew.”
“What else do you know?”
Hendon drew up on the landing and turned to face him. “Very little. And I say that in all honesty. I was kept apprised of where she was living, but I had no desire to know more than that. Why would I?”
Why indeed, thought Sebastian.
Hendon cast a disparaging glance around the old-fashioned stairwell. Like all the houses fronting the Place Dauphine, this one had been built over two hundred years before, in the days of Henri IV, and even then it hadn’t been particularly grand. “I don’t understand why you choose to live here, of all places.”
Sebastian found himself smiling. “You sound like Amanda.”
“Huh,” grunted the Earl, descending the last flights of stairs. “I was hoping to see my grandson again.”
Simon wasn’t really Hendon’s grandson, of course, but that didn’t stop the Earl from considering the boy his. Hendon’s obvious, intense love for the little boy was one of the things that had helped reconcile the breach between the two men.
Sebastian said, “Hero’s taken the boys to watch the street performers by Notre Dame.”
“Best to get the children out of the house, I suppose.” The Earl paused while the footman moved to open the front door. “You’ll be handling the funeral arrangements?”
“Yes—well, Hero will be.”
She’d quietly taken responsibility for dealing with both the government officials and the pompes funèbres, something for which Sebastian was profoundly grateful.
Hendon nodded. “Let me know.”
“We will.”
Hendon stepped out into the cobbled roadway, then frowned at the sight of a footman in Angoulême livery trotting toward them.
“Monsieur le vicomte?” said the tall young footman, drawing up before him with a bow.
“Yes,” said Sebastian.
“A message from the Duchesse, my lord.”
Sebastian took the missive in some surprise and broke the seal.
“What is it?” asked Hendon, watching him.
Sebastian ran his gaze down over the flowing script. “It’s from Madame Royale’s huissier du cabinet. He writes that the Duchess wishes to see me immediately.”
“What the devil for?”
“I’ve no idea.” Sebastian handed a coin to the footman and said, “Thank you. Tell madame I’ll attend her sometime this afternoon.”
“She won’t like that,” said Hendon, watching the footman trot off. “She’s not accustomed to being kept waiting.”
Sebastian shrugged. He and the French King’s niece had met before, in England; their interaction had not been cordial. “She can wait. There are things I need to do first.”