Chapter Eight
November 8th, 1793
The severed blonde curl lay in stark relief against the polished wood of the desk.
‘Hardly conclusive evidence of my wife’s demise.’ Sebastian Hastings, Earl of Langford, kept his glance dispassionate as he lifted his gaze from the silken strands.
‘This might be more convincing,’ Beaumont said, removing a single sheet of paper from the inside pocket of his coat and smoothing it out with meticulous care.
A death certificate.
‘I did not realise the citoyens of the Committee of Public Safety had sufficient time to document Madame La Guillotine’s every victim,’ Sebastian drawled.
An ugly colour suffused the other man’s features. He was tall and had quick eyes set within a narrow face; everything about him was angular except for the pouches under his eyes and a lax softening of his chin.
Sebastian had always disliked Beaumont, but that was a pale sentiment compared to his hatred now.
Sebastian wanted to kill him.
He wanted to squeeze the man’s throat with his bare hands until his eyes bulged and his face purpled into lifelessness.
But he would not do so. He could not do so or any hope of recovering his children would be lost.
‘Given my wife’s apparent demise, might I enquire after the welfare of my children?’ he asked instead, keeping his face expressionless and his tone bland.
‘They are in my care.’
‘How reassuring. And what will it take to get them out of your care and into my own?’
Beaumont smiled, the thin lips curving upward to reveal neat white teeth. He leaned over the desk and Sebastian smelled the cloying sweetness of the man’s cologne. ‘Your children will be returned for a price.’
‘And if I am unable to meet that price?’
Beaumont reached for the blonde curl, twisting it through his well-manicured fingers. He moved it slowly—around, between, under and over. ‘Efficient lady—Madame La Guillotine.’
Sebastian stood, the movement violent and impossible to contain. His chair crashed against the wall. It fell sideways and banged to the floor.
Beaumont jumped back, but Sebastian rounded the desk and was on him. He had the man by the throat, pulling him so close he could see the pores of the man’s once-handsome face.
‘I promise you one thing,’ Sebastian ground out between his clenched teeth. ‘If my children are hurt, you will not live.’
April 7th, 1794
Sarah Martin lifted her skirts. Her feet sank into the mud and water dripped rhythmically from the bushes bordering the woodland path.
Neither fact lowered her spirits.
Smiling, Sarah sniffed the earthiness of the English countryside and held her skirts higher than was respectable.
Mrs Crawford would have frowned, but then Mrs Crawford spent considerable time in that occupation.
Sarah’s sun had risen, metaphorically, shortly after luncheon with a last-minute dinner invitation from Lady Eavensham to even the numbers at her dining table.
Such
