Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(35)

Hero turned to stare out over the masts of the ships frozen fast in the river below London Bridge. “This blasted war. Sometimes I think it will never end. For how many years can the nations of Europe continue fighting each other? Some of the men dying today must be the grandsons of those who fell two decades ago.”

“What a horrid thought.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

They walked on in silence, each lost in her own thoughts, the air heavy with the smell of woodsmoke from the fires lit in an attempt to keep the Tower’s lions and other exotic animals alive. The surrounding streets were nearly deserted, the battlements of the castle walls stark and empty against the heavy white sky. But Hero was becoming increasingly aware of a creeping feeling of unease that she finally realized came from a sense of being stared at—although when she looked around she could see no one.

“What is it?” Alexi asked when Hero looked behind her for the third or fourth time.

“I don’t know. I have the oddest sensation—as if someone were watching me.”

Alexi let her gaze drift over the rows of ancient houses pressing in on the castle. “I don’t see anyone.”

“Nor do I. I’m probably being fanciful.”

“You? That I find impossible to believe.”

Hero smiled.

“How is your article coming?” asked Alexi.

“Honestly, I’ve barely given it a thought.”

Alexi squinted up at the heavy clouds pressing down on the city. “Are you still interested in interviewing the wives of men who’ve been impressed?”

Hero glanced over at her. “I am, yes. You know of another woman?”

The Frenchwoman nodded. “A young girl named Amy Hatcher. She’s originally from Devon, but after her baby was born she came up to London, hoping to trace her husband. If you want to talk to her, we’ll need to hurry.”

“Why? Is she ill?”

Alexi’s lips flattened into a hard line. “She’s in Newgate. She was arrested before Christmas trying to steal a ham and is scheduled to hang on Tuesday.”



Sebastian arrived back at Brook Street to find Hero seated at his desk and calmly cleaning the brass-mounted flintlock pistol given to her years before by her father. It was a small weapon of a type known as a “muff gun,” designed to be carried concealed in a woman’s fur muff.

“Is this routine maintenance?” he asked, watching her. “Or did you shoot someone?”

Hero carefully replaced the barrel and locked it in place. “I think someone might be following me. I don’t know for certain because I didn’t see them. But under the circumstances I thought it best not to take any chances.”

Sebastian tried to keep any sign of the raw panic he felt flare within him from showing on his face. “I’ll assign two of the footmen to—”

“No,” she said, setting the pistol aside and wiping her hands.

“But—”

She gave him a long, steady look. “Someone tried to kill you earlier today. Do you intend to take two footmen with you wherever you go from now on?”

He found himself smiling. “Point taken. But you will be careful?”

“I suspect I’ll be far more cautious than you,” she said, returning his smile.

And he realized that was another point he couldn’t argue.



That night, unable to sleep, Hero stood at her bedroom window as a fresh fall of snow hurtled down from out of a heavy white sky. She thought it must be near dawn, although it had been hours since she’d heard the watch’s cry. She hoped the old man had retreated to his box for warmth. Either that, or he’d frozen to death.

She clutched her cashmere wrap tighter against the cold radiating off the frosted glass. Frustration and sorrow swirled within her, along with a healthy dose of raw, throbbing anger. She heard the shifting of the mattress behind her, felt Devlin’s arms slide around her waist to draw her back against his warm, hard body. He kissed her hair and said simply, “Hero.”

She tipped her head back against his shoulder, her throat so tight it hurt. “I’ve always thought of myself as a fiercely rational being, driven by intellect rather than emotion and sentimentality. But I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps I don’t know myself quite as well as I’ve always believed.”

Any other man would assume she was spooked at the thought that someone was following her. But Devlin knew her well. He pressed a kiss against her neck. “Discovering that a babe you fought so hard to save has died anyway would be enough to overset most people.”

“But I’m not supposed to be like most people,” she said with a wry smile. The smile faded. “Alexi warned me the baby would die, that he was too tiny, too poorly nourished in the womb to survive. But I’d hoped if I could help his mother . . .”

He nuzzled his face against her neck. “I know.”

“It’s not right, what we do. Kidnapping men and carrying them off as essentially slaves to serve on our warships, all without a thought to the wives and children they leave behind to starve. As if their hopes and dreams—as if their very lives—matter not at all. We killed that baby—everyone who has ever kept silent about impressment, who accepts it as just or even an unfortunate necessity. We killed him.”