Who Buries the Dead

Chapter 45

Sebastian reached home just as Pippa, the barmaid from the Black Devil, was coming down the front steps. She had a paisley shawl drawn up over her head and a child of perhaps a year on her hip. At the sight of Sebastian she paused, her arms tightening around the child, so that he squirmed in protest.

“It’s your fault!” she screamed, tears mingling with the rain on her face. “I told him no good would come of it, but would he listen to me? No. He never listened t’ me.”

Sebastian stared at the child in her arms. It was a boy, with fine-boned features and a small, turned-up nose and the same yellow eyes that stared back at Sebastian from his own mirror.

From his own infant son.

“What are you talking about?” he said.

Her laugh was raw, torn; not really a laugh at all. “You sayin’ you don’t know? He’s layin’ up there in one of your own fancy beds, dyin’ because of you, and you don’t know?”

He grabbed her arm more roughly than he’d intended. “Knox?”

She jerked away from him. “You tell him- You tell him, I won’t stay and watch him die.” And she pushed past him, her head bowed against the rain, her shoulders convulsing with her sobs as the boy gazed back at Sebastian with a solemn, intense stare.

Gibson was coming out of the guest bedroom at the end of the hall when Sebastian reached the second floor.

“How is he?”

The surgeon rubbed his eyes with a spread thumb and forefinger. “I’ve done what I can. The bullet ripped through his lungs and lodged beside his heart. He’s bleeding inside, and there’s no way to stop it. At this point, it’s just a matter of time.”

“Surely there’s some hope-a chance-”

Gibson shook his head. “Lady Devlin thinks whoever shot him mistook Knox for you.”

Sebastian felt an aching hollowness open up inside him, carved out by denial and rage and a hideous, familiar sense of guilt. “Where was he?”

“Just steps from your front door.” Gibson started to say something else, then stopped.

“What?” asked Sebastian.

“It’s just. . the resemblance is uncanny.”

“Yes,” said Sebastian, and turned toward the bedroom.

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.”

His hands tightened on hers. He understood how she’d felt because he’d known the same helpless despair when he thought he was about to lose her in childbirth. He said, “I’m sorry, Hero. I’m so sorry. But. . I can’t stop what I do, if that’s what you’re asking me.”

She loosed her hands from his grip to press her fingers against his lips. “I’m not asking you to stop. I won’t pretend I don’t fear for you-I fear for myself, because I know my love for you makes me vulnerable. But I know too that what I feel is the same fear endured by every woman whose man ever marched off to war; every wife who watches her son or lover sail to sea or go down in a mine to earn his bread. Risk is a part of what it means to be alive. We can’t live our lives in a constant, paralyzing fear of death.”

“Some do,” he said, his lips moving against her fingers.

A fierce light shone in her eyes. “Yes. But I refuse to.”

Her words echoed something Kat Boleyn had said to him once, long ago. He shifted his hands to Hero’s shoulders, leaned forward until his forehead was pressed against hers. “I will be careful. I can promise you that.” Once, he had been careless with his life, heedless of whether he lived or died.

That was no longer true.

She gave him a sad smile. “I know.”

He kissed her, hard, on her mouth, then rose to unlock the upper right drawer in his desk and withdraw a sleek, walnut-handled dueling pistol. This was not the small, double-barreled flintlock he often carried, which was easily concealed but accurate only at close range. This pistol was made with a long, lightly rifled barrel that made it deadly even at some distance.

“You think the shooter was Diggory Flynn?” she asked, watching as Sebastian set about loading and priming the pistol.

“I’d say it’s more than likely, yes. I think he was watching the house, waiting for me. He saw Knox, and like you, he assumed Knox was me.” Sebastian paused, his hands stilling at their task as the bitter truth of it all washed over him anew. “Knox died because he looked like me. He died in my place.”

She rested her hand on his arm. He thought she was going to tell him it wasn’t his fault, that he couldn’t keep blaming himself for deaths caused by others. Instead, she said, “Will you kill him?”

“First, I’m going to find out who hired him.” Sebastian slipped the pistol into the pocket of his caped greatcoat. “And then I’m going to kill him.”