He found Knox lying with his eyes closed, so ashen and still that for a moment Sebastian thought him already dead. Then he saw the rifleman’s bare, bandaged chest jerk, heard the labored rasp of a dying man’s breath.
Hero sat nearby, her fingers laced together in her lap, her eyes sunken and stark, as if she’d just been given a glimpse into the yawning mouth of hell. “He was coming to see you,” she said softly.
“Do you know why?”
She shook her head. “He tried to say, but it didn’t make any sense. And then he lost consciousness.”
Sebastian stared down at the pale face that was so like his own. And he knew a renewed surge of anger and regret and a panicked sense of impending loss that he could do nothing—nothing—to avert.
Knox drew another ragged breath and opened his eyes. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” he said, his voice a hushed quaver.
Sebastian felt his throat seize up, so that for a moment all he could do was set his jaw and nod.
“You asked . . . You asked about Diggory Flynn.”
“Never mind about Flynn. You need to save your breath.”
A ghost of amusement flitted across the former rifleman’s features. “Save it for what? It’s probably Flynn who killed me. They say . . . he’s a good shot.”
“Who is he?”
Knox’s head moved restlessly against his pillow. “He doesn’t . . . really exist. But there’s . . .” His breath caught on a cough, and a line of blood spilled from the corner of his mouth.
Sebastian reached for his handkerchief and carefully wiped away the blood.
Knox licked his dry lips “They say there’s a Buckinghamshire vicar’s son . . . served as an exploring officer in the Peninsula . . . likes to use that name.”
“Who told you this?”
“Doesn’t matter. She doesn’t know . . . any more.” Knox’s hand came up to grasp Sebastian’s wrist. “Tell . . . tell Pippa . . . I’m sorry. The boy . . .” He drew in a noisy, oddly sucking breath. “Should have married her. Know what it’s like . . . growing up the bastard son of a barmaid. Now . . . too late.”
“No.” Sebastian took Knox’s hand in both of his and gripped it with a determined fierceness. “It’s not too late. I can find a vicar. Get a special license and—”
But Knox’s hand lay limp in Sebastian’s grasp. And as he watched, the eyes that were so much like his own grew unfocused and empty, and the bandaged chest lay ominously still.
“Breathe, damn you!” Sebastian sank to both knees, the rifleman’s hand still clenched tightly between his own as he watched, waited for the next breath.
“Breathe!”
He was aware of Hero coming to stand beside him, felt her touch on his shoulder although he did not look up. She stood beside him as the minutes stretched out, until the absence of life had shifted from a dread to an undeniable certainty.
Finally, she said, “I am so sorry, Devlin.”
He suddenly felt bone tired, his eyes aching, a tight band squeezing his chest as he shook his head slowly from side to side. “I don’t even know who he was. Don’t know if I just lost a brother, or not.”
“Does it matter?”
“On one level, no. But . . . I should know.” A man should know his own brother, thought Sebastian.
His own father.
She turned toward him, cradling his head in her palms to draw his body against her soft warmth. The only sounds were the patter of the wind-driven rain striking the windowpanes, the fall of the ash on the hearth, and his own anguished breath.
“I thought he was you,” Hero said to Sebastian later as she sat by the fire in the library, a forgotten cup of tea on the table at her side. “I saw him coming around the corner from Bond Street as I was stepping down from the carriage. I called to him—called your name. And then I saw the bullet hit his chest and I thought you were dead. I thought I’d lost you and . . .”
She swallowed, her voice becoming shaky. Hushed. “I didn’t know I could hurt that much inside. Then I realized it wasn’t you, it was Knox, and I was glad because it meant you were still alive.” Her face took on a stark, fierce look. “God help me, I was glad.”
He knelt at her feet, his hands entwined with hers in her lap. He’d seen her shoot an attacker in the face and bash in a murderer’s head without losing her composure or equanimity. But what had happened today had obviously shaken her badly; he could feel the fine trembling going on inside her still.
She said, “And then that poor woman—Pippa—came, and even though I felt sorry for her, all I could think was how relieved I was that it was her man who was dying. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn’t help it. Because if I lost you . . . I don’t know how I’d bear it.”