wounds and binding broken bones. This heat has got to let up soon, or we’re all going to die—or wish we could.”
“Find anything interesting with Pennington?”
“Nope. He was stabbed four times in the back, probably with just your ordinary, everyday knife. That’s all.”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes against the fiercely blazing sun. “What about Hayes?”
“Finished him too. Didn’t see anything to change my opinion about what happened the night he died. The second slash of the sickle is probably the one that brought him down, and then the killer twisted the blade, severing the artery and killing him.”
“Would he have had much blood on him? The killer, I mean.”
“On his cuffs, maybe. But probably not much beyond that. The initial cuts didn’t hit anything vital. It’s the internal damage that did the work, so the blood would have seeped out slowly rather than spurting all over your killer.” Gibson gave his basin a final shake and turned. “How about a wee something to slake the thirst of this god-awful heat?”
Sebastian blew out a long, harsh breath. “Sounds good to me.”
It was later, when they were sitting at the table in Gibson’s kitchen, a pitcher of ale from the corner tavern on the boards between them, that Gibson said, “Did find one thing you might consider relevant—about your Earl’s disreputable son, I mean.”
“Hayes? What’s that?”
“He was dying of consumption.”
Sebastian felt a sudden chill sluice through him. “Do you think he knew it?”
“Don’t see how he could help but.”
“How much longer did he have to live?”
“Four to six months, at best. Probably less. Certainly no more.”
Sebastian stared out the window at the sun-drenched ancient stone outbuilding at the base of the yard where Nicholas Hayes still lay. “That casts everything in a slightly different light.”
Gibson nodded. “I thought it might.”
Chapter 25
H ero and Calhoun spent the morning searching the streets near Smithfield without any luck.
It was later, when she was in the library studying a map of London she had spread across the table, that she heard a visitor ply the knocker on the front door.
“Major Hamish McHenry to see Lord Devlin,” said an unfamiliar Scottish voice when Morey answered the door. “Is he receiving?”
Turning her head, she heard Morey say, “I beg your pardon, Major, but his lordship is not at present at home.”
There was a pause. Then the unknown major said, “I’ll try again later.”
Something about the depth of the disappointment in the man’s voice brought Hero to the library door. “May I help you, Major? I’m Lady Devlin.”
The major had been turning away, but at her words, he paused. He was a lean, sandy-haired man of medium height, probably in his early forties, with the chiseled features and weathered complexion of a man who’d spent many years serving his country in harsh, unforgiving climes. His eyes were framed by the kind of deep fan lines left by smiling or squinting into a bright sun, but Hero didn’t think they were smile lines. His face was somber and a little sad, and she had the feeling that expression was habitual.
“You’re very kind, my lady,” he said with a bow. “But I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”
She smiled. “No trouble. It’s so dreadfully hot out; may I offer you something refreshing to drink? Lemonade, perhaps? Or if you prefer, we’ve a barrel of ale delivered fresh from the brewery this morning.”
A slow, answering smile spread across the Scotsman’s face, transforming it. “Ale sounds grand.”
“Then ale it is.”
Later, when they were seated in the drawing room, the major with a tankard of ale and Hero sipping a cup of tea, she said, “Have you recently returned from France?”
“Not so recently. My mother fell ill not long after Christmas, and the doctors weren’t holding out much hope for her recovery. My only brother’s in India, so I came home in March and missed the end of all the fighting, I’m sorry to say.”
“That must have been frustrating for you.”
He gave a wry smile. “I won’t try to deny it.”
“And how is your mother?”
His grin spread. “Fit as a fiddle at an Irish jig.”
“Thank goodness for that. Will you stay in the Army, now that Napoléon is finished?”
He nodded. “My regiment is being ordered to America. There’s talk we may try to take Washington, D.C., or perhaps New Orleans.”
“Ah, yes, of course. With all these endless celebrations for peace in Europe, it’s easy to forget we’re still at war with the United States.” She took a sip of her tea. “Did you know Devlin when