“Son of a bitch,” swore Sebastian. Heedless of the mud, he sank back on his haunches, the dead boy still gripped in his arms. “Son of a bitch,” he said again.
And then he said it a third time. “Son of a bitch.”
Hero was dressed and seated beside the fire in her bedchamber, the ancient Hebrew manuscript open on her lap, when Devlin walked in, bringing with him a pungent odor of rotten cabbage, horse manure, and mud. He’d already stripped off his coat and boots, but his face, waistcoat, and breeches were liberally smeared with muck, and he held a longhaired black cat tucked up under one arm.
The manuscript slid to the floor, forgotten, as she started at him. “Devlin. Good God. Are you all right?”
“What are you doing up?” he asked as the cat gave a disgruntled howl and leapt from his arms.
“I couldn’t sleep. What happened? And what are you doing with that cat?”
“He claims I owe him since he saved my life, although I maintain he was only returning the favor.”
She started to laugh. Then she noticed the dark red sheen mingled with the muck on his waistcoat and the laughter died on her lips. “Is that your blood?”
“Only some of it.” He headed for his dressing room, stripping off clothes as he went.
She followed him. “How much of it?”
He yanked off his ruined waistcoat, his nose wrinkling as he tossed it aside. “My apologies for the aroma. I fear I slid through someone’s garbage pile. Calhoun isn’t going to be happy. I think that waistcoat was his favorite.”
“How much of it?” she demanded again, helping him ease his ripped shirt over his head. He tried to turn away, but she saw the long purple slit that cut across his ribs and caught his arm. “Devlin—”
He squinted down at it. “It’s not deep.”
“Why didn’t you go to Gibson and get it sewn up?”
“It’s not that bad.”
“You could get lockjaw from it!”
“Sewing it up wouldn’t prevent that, now, would it?”
She gave him a look that needed no accompanying words and turned toward the bellpull. “If nothing else, you need to wash it well with hot water. I’m ringing for Calhoun.”
“Good God, no; it’s nearly four in the morning.”
She let her hand fall to her side and turned toward the door. “Very well. I’ll go down into the kitchen and heat some water myself.”
He let her ring for Calhoun.
Afterward, she curled up on the rug beside his chair while he sat before the fire, a glass of brandy in his hand, and told her what had happened.
“What do you think those men were looking for?” she asked when he had finished. “The blue diamond Collot told you about?”
He took a long, slow sip of his brandy. “I suppose it’s possible, but I doubt it. I think whatever is going on here is far more serious than some diamond—however big it might be.”
“Are you certain the rifleman in that carriage was shooting at the young housebreaker and not you?”
“If he was aiming at me, he’s an appalling shot.”
“Most people are.”
“Not this one. He hit the lad square in the chest, killing him almost instantly.”
She kept her gaze on the cat, who was giving himself a long, fastidious bath beside the hearth. “You think he was killed to keep him from revealing who hired him?”
“I think it likely, yes.”
“But . . . why? Why not simply haul the lad into the carriage and whisk him safely away?”
“He said the man I killed in the house was his brother. I suppose that once we learned the identity of the dead man, it wouldn’t have been hard to track down the lad and find whoever was behind the attempted burglary.”
“But the man in the carriage had no way of knowing the older man was dead.”
“They could have heard the shot. And they knew that only one of their men came out of that house, chased by me.”
“True,” she conceded. “You didn’t see anyone around before you went inside?”
“No. But that doesn’t mean they weren’t there.”
“Do you think they recognized you?”
“Well enough to know that I wasn’t their hireling, obviously. But probably not so well as to know who I was. Most people don’t see well in the dark.”
“Some do.”
He met her gaze, and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. He said, “The lad was no more than twenty feet away from the rifleman when he was hit. It wasn’t a difficult shot.”
“True.” She watched the cat curl itself into a ball, sigh, and close its eyes. The milk bowl and plate of minced beef beside it—provided by Calhoun—were now empty. She said, “Did you go to the authorities?”
“I did not. I took to my heels and fled.”
“With the cat.”
“He was insistent.”
“Is it a he?”
“It is. I checked.” Bending forward, he picked up the manuscript from beside her. “If you were looking at this, no wonder you couldn’t sleep.”
“It is . . . bizarre. I’m anxious to hear what Abigail McBean can tell me about it in the morning.” She leaned back against his chair, felt his fingers brush her flesh as he played with the curls at the nape of her neck.