Page 6 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

Sebastian’s scarred face went white with fury. He looked from Milsom to Julia and back again. What the devil had his valet told his meddling sister? More importantly, what in hell had his sister told to Miss Stafford? “Get out,” he snarled, advancing on her.

Julia retreated behind a chair. “I’ve persuaded her to stay the month,” she said. “It was the best I could manage. She cannot stay any longer than that because of the children, you see, and—”

“What?”

Julia offered him a tentative smile. “Two little girls.”

Sebastian went still. Once again he had the sense of all the breath leaving his body. “Their father?” he managed to ask.

“Mr. Claude Dinwiddy. A merchant. Can you imagine?”

He sank blindly back into his chair, managing to find it beneath him by only the purest chance. He leaned his head back against the leather upholstery, breathing raggedly as his fingers closed tightly around the lock of hair hidden in his hand.

Why had he never thought…? Never considered…? Of course she was married! Of course she had children! And why in God’s name should it matter anymore? It had been three years since he had known her. If he had ever known her.

She was nothing to him now.

“My lady, if you’ll give us a moment,” Milsom murmured to Julia.

Ignoring the valet, Julia came to perch on the chair opposite from her brother. “Is it the pain, Sebastian? Does it hurt very terribly? Oh, do something Milsom!”

Milsom already had the matter well in hand. “Here you are, sir,” he said. “Just as you like it.”

Sebastian opened his eyes, to find the familiar face of his batman looming over him. He was holding out a glass of brandy and a folded handkerchief. Sebastian took both, using the handkerchief to press against the injured side of his mouth as he drank. The nerves had deadened there and he had learned early on that, unless he made some effort to prevent it, liquid would leak out of his mouth and run straight down his chin.

Julia began to weep. “I am sorry. I did not mean to make things worse. Shall I send her back, Sebastian? Please do not make me. It was ever so difficult to convince her to come. And she has been given the whole month to stay here. Pray let her, Sebastian. It is the only holiday poor Miss Stafford has had in two years!”

For once, Sebastian did not trust his hearing. “Miss Stafford?”

“Certainly Miss Stafford! Whom did you think I meant? Oh, dear! You have not become confused, have you? Is it from the pain? Or is it—”

Milsom cleared his throat. “If I may interject, my lady. You’ve given the impression that Miss Stafford is married to a Mr. Dinwiddy—”

“I never did! I said she was a governess to the Dinwiddy family.” Julia paused, her brow creasing. “Didn’t I?”

“A governess,” Sebastian repeated. “I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, but it is true! That is where I found her. At a quaint little house in Cheapside. She had no idea who I was at first, but after I explained…Well…She did not want to come—”

“No doubt,” he said acidly, taking another swallow of his brandy.

“Not because of your injury. I think…That is…She said that I was mistaken. That you did not care for her. Though I do not know how that can be since you have kept her lock of hair with you all this time. And so I told her!”

“You what?”

Julia drew back. “I know I should not have said so, but she would not have believed you wanted to see her otherwise, would she? I daresay she is disappointed you did not come to her aid after her father died.”

Anger, mortification, and deep, overwhelming misery warred within his breast. He scarcely knew what his sister said anymore. Miss Stafford was not married? Miss Stafford was a governess? Her father was dead?

He had been home nearly a year, secluded in the country and, most of the time, very nearly off his head with pain and anguish. He had not been able to bear the daily papers. Indeed, the British Army, the sepoy rebellion, and the entire continent of India had been topics on which no one at Pershing Hall dared utter a word. As a result, he had missed the news of marriages, births, and deaths. He had grown entirely disconnected from the world he once inhabited. And he preferred it that way.

But now…

“So,” he said, “Sir Roderick Stafford is dead.”

“Oh yes. These last two years since.” Julia sunk her voice, “A suicide, I fear.”

Good God! Could it be? He had met the man only once and been treated rather shabbily. Sir Roderick was an inveterate gamester, a gentleman always looking ahead toward the greater prize. And so he had with his only daughter. A second son of an earl—a mere soldier—would never have been good enough for Miss Stafford. Not when she was being courted by a baron, a viscount, and the independently wealthy third son of a marquis.