Page 5 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

He could muster no interest in poring over ledgers and even less in riding out to meet with any of the tenants. It was too easy to imagine their horrified reaction to the sight of his scarred face. Granted, he had known most of his father’s tenants since his youth, but mere familiarity was no guarantee that they would not respond to him with pity and disgust. He need only look to his sister’s reaction for proof of that.

“That’ll be Lady Harker now,” Milsom said.

Sebastian stiffened at the sound of muffled footsteps coming up the stairs and down the hall. The housekeeper, Julia, and one other. Lord Harker, perhaps? Good God, he hoped not. The last time that pompous ass had come to visit him in his rooms it was to read him an officious lecture on why a gentleman must never threaten to throttle his sister. But no, it was clearly the housekeeper and two women. Julia and her maid. Or Julia and a friend. Heaven help him. How long did his sister plan to stay?

“I am not receiving, Milsom,” he informed his hovering valet.

“Naturally, my lord,” Milsom replied. And when a gentle tap—the sort of anemic knock one might give at an invalid’s door—announced the presence of his irritating younger sibling, Sebastian heard Milsom open the door a crack and say, quite firmly, “His lordship’s not receiving today, my lady.”

“Not receiving! Look here Milsom…” Julia’s voice sunk to a poor apology of a whisper. “We discussed this and you promised that you would be of some assistance! If you care at all for my brother you will let me pass!”

Sebastian heard a rustle of expensive fabric as Julia shouldered past his valet and stormed into the room. With a sigh of resignation, he rose from his chair and turned to face her.

And then he froze.

The door to his room stood open. Julia was striding toward him, Milsom standing by the door with a helpless look on his face. And in the hall, her wide, blue eyes meeting his from across the distance, was Sylvia Stafford.

Sebastian felt, all at once, as if all the breath had been knocked out of his body.

He would know her face anywhere. It had been emblazoned on his brain through every icy cold night, every sweltering march, and every bloody skirmish. It was the last thing he had seen before he lost consciousness in the dirt outside the gates of Jhansi. The one image he had clung to when he was certain that he was about to die.

And now here it was before him. That lovely, long treasured face. A perfect oval, sculpted by fine cheekbones, a straight, elegant nose, and a soft, voluptuous mouth. He had kissed that mouth once. A lifetime ago. And those slender hands that were now clutching white-knuckled to her bonnet had once caressed his face.

“May I have a lock of your hair, Miss Stafford?” he had asked her the last night they were together. He remembered it as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. It had been at a ball given by Lord and Lady Mainwaring. He had taken her out for a walk in the garden. There had been a full moon.

“You may,” she had said, blushing. “But I’m afraid you must cut it yourself.”

Her thick, chestnut hair had been swept up in a spray of sapphires. He had touched it for the first time with an unsteady hand, working loose a single glossy curl with his finger. “Is this all right?”

“It feels like rather a lot. Perhaps you might take a bit less?”

“I shall take so much,” he had said, neatly severing the lock with a small pocketknife, “that there will be nothing left for you to give to your other admirers.”

She had looked up at him with a quizzical smile. “Do you imagine I oblige every gentleman who requests a lock of my hair?”

“Have other gentlemen made such a request?”

“Yes.”

“And have you…?”

“No,” she had said. “You are the first.” And then she had carefully removed one of the pale blue silk ribbons from her gown and given it to him to bind up the freshly cut tresses. “What will you do with it?” she had asked him afterward.

“Keep it close to my heart,” he had replied gravely. “And whenever I despair of coming home again, I shall take it out and look at it. And I shall think of you.”

Sebastian felt a tremor go through him. But it was not merely an effect of the deeply unhappy memory. It was part rage. Part horror. He had been standing, staring at her, showing her his full face. For how long? One second? Two seconds? Enough time for her to have a clear view of his sightless eye and of every wretched scar. He turned away, his hand raising instinctively to cover the right side of his face.

And then Milsom shut the door.

“You mustn’t be angry, Sebastian!” Julia approached with hands clasped beseechingly to her bosom. “If you will let me explain—”

“By God, I should ring your neck,” he rasped. “And you.” He turned on his traitorous valet. “Curse and confound you—”

“Pray don’t blame Milsom! I forced him to tell me about her. He had no choice.”

Sebastian could hear the housekeeper in the hall offering to show the young lady to her room. Footsteps sounded as the two walked away. He listened intently for Miss Stafford’s distinctive voice, deeply ashamed of himself for needing so desperately to hear it, but there was only silence.

“And you cannot blame me,” Julia continued. “For once I learned about the lock of hair that you keep I could not rest until I knew the entire story.”