“Yes?” prompted Sebastian.
“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said the vicar, nervously clearing his throat as he looked pointedly away.
Sebastian suspected he knew exactly what was suddenly troubling the vicar. But there weren’t many with the courage to tell an earl’s son that he bore an uncanny resemblance to a Bishopsgate tavern owner who had begun life as the illegitimate offspring of a Shropshire barmaid.
Chapter 7
Carrying a small box with the mechanical nightingale under one arm, Sebastian followed the narrow, rutted road that wound westward from the village toward the wild, purple-hazed mountains of the Welsh border. The hedgerows here were a fragrant tangle of sun-warmed dog roses, bryony, and traveler’s-joy; the sky above a fierce, clear blue; the fields golden with ripening wheat.
He could have driven the short distance to Heddie Kincaid’s cottage, for a gentleman who journeys with his wife and infant son does not travel lightly. But he had no desire to order out either his crested chaise and four or the light, fast curricle that was his preferred means of transportation. He walked, listened to the bees buzz in the clover, and thought about the past.
Growing up, Sebastian had always known he was different from his siblings even if he’d never understood why. Born the fourth child and third son of the Earl of Hendon and his countess, Sophia, Sebastian had instinctively felt himself to be an outlier, utterly unlike the Earl in looks, temperament, interests, and talents. Whereas his sister and older brothers had eyes of the famous St. Cyr blue, Sebastian’s were a feral yellow, with a strange, animalistic ability to see clearly both in the dark and over great distances. And it didn’t take Sebastian long to realize that his hearing was abnormally acute as well.
Yet somehow he’d never questioned his parentage, never questioned that he was a St. Cyr—until two years ago, when he’d learned the truth: that Hendon’s beautiful, fun-loving, rebellious Countess had played her lord false; that Sebastian was not, in fact, a son of Alistair St. Cyr but the bastard offspring of one of the Countess’s many nameless lovers.
It was a secret Hendon had always known, although he’d kept it hidden from both Sebastian and the world. Even when Hendon’s first and second sons died, leaving Sebastian as the only heir, he hid it still, which was why Sebastian was known as Sebastian St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, son and heir of the Earl of Hendon.
When in truth he was none of these things.
The discovery had helped send Sebastian into a downward spiral and very nearly destroyed him. He’d somehow managed to pull himself out of it—largely, he suspected, thanks to the appearance in his life of Hero and Simon. But the painful sense of being a stranger to himself, and the questions, remained. For if he wasn’t who he’d always thought he was, then who was he?
And then he had encountered Jamie Knox, the tall, lean ex-rifleman who looked enough like Sebastian to be his brother.
Or at least a half brother.
He came upon Heddie Kincaid’s cottage a quarter mile or so beyond the Blue Boar, beside a clear, small stream that flowed through a ferny glade shaded by towering beech and elm. The cottage was small, with only a single dormer, a lean-to shed, and a few chickens scratching in the yard. But the thatch was new, the casement windows freshly painted a cheery blue, and the vegetables, herbs, and flowers in the garden well tended.
Sebastian hesitated just a shade too long, then turned up the lavender – and rosemary-edged path to the cottage’s front door.
The information that Heddie Kincaid was blind had eased one of his major concerns: that the old woman would see the resemblance between Sebastian and her grandson and be troubled and confused by it. Except that it was not Heddie Kincaid who opened the door to Sebastian’s knock, but a willowy, striking woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties. Jamie Knox had been dark and yellow eyed, whereas this woman had reddish blond hair and eyes of a light, crystal-like blue. But her resemblance to the ex-rifleman was startling enough that for a moment Sebastian could only stare at her—as she stared at him, one hand tightening around the edge of the door.
“The Lord preserve us,” she said at last, her chest jerking on a quickly indrawn breath. “Who are you?”
He removed his hat and held it in one hand against his thigh. “My apologies for the intrusion, madam. I am Devlin.”
“You’re the London lord the young Squire asked to help him with this murder?”
“Yes, but that’s not why I’m here. I’m looking for Heddie Kincaid. I knew her grandson, Jamie Knox.”
“Jamie’s dead.”
“I know.”