Page 8 of The Lost Letter: A Victorian Romance

Sebastian was there.

Alone.

He stood facing the cold fireplace, his large frame cast half in shadow. At the sound of her approach, he went unnaturally still. And then he turned around.

Sylvia clasped her hands tightly in front of her to stop their trembling.

He had shaved and combed his hair, she saw. And he was now quite properly attired in a black frock coat and trousers with a patterned waistcoat, a clean, white linen shirt, and a perfectly knotted black cravat. Except for his heavy scars and the white cast to his right eye, he looked very like the Sebastian of her memory. Tall, dark, and powerfully made. A bit intimidating, in fact.

“Miss Stafford,” he said, bowing.

His voice sounded different to her ears. It was low-pitched and hoarse. And it was completely devoid of warmth. “Lord Radcliffe.”

He looked at her for a long time, his expression unreadable. “Yes,” he said at last. “I am Radcliffe now.” He motioned to a leather-upholstered armchair near the fireplace. It was oversized and unwelcoming like everything else in the dark, cavernous room.

She crossed the short distance to it, her slow, measured steps belying the frantic beating of her heart. It was difficult to see entirely clearly. The heavy curtains were drawn and not a single gas lamp or candle burned to dispel the shadows that clung to the wood-paneled walls and carved, mahogany furnishings. But Sebastian did not seem inclined to open the curtains or to light a lamp. Quite the contrary. He appeared at home in the darkness. Or, at least, reluctant to emerge from it.

Sylvia’s throat tightened with emotion, as she sat down, straightening her skirts and folding her hands primly into her lap. Sebastian took the seat across from her. He was so close that she could smell the faint, masculine scent of his shaving soap. It was spiced bergamot, she realized. The same fragrance he had favored three years before. Her already quivering stomach performed a disconcerting little somersault.

“You are well?” he asked.

“Quite well, thank you,” she said. “And you…?”

His voice was cold as hoarfrost. “As you see.”

Sylvia’s brow creased with sympathy. Oh, Sebastian.

Three years ago, she would have reached out to him. She would have told him that everything was going to be all right. That it did not matter how he looked.

But now…

Now, he was a stranger. She did not know quite how to respond to him and Sebastian made no effort to put her at her ease. He merely continued to look at her in that same fathomless way.

After several moments of very strained silence, she could bear it no longer. She leaned forward in her chair, her blue eyes softly earnest, and said, “I was very sorry to hear about the death of your father and brother.”

A long pause preceded his reply. “Were you?”

“Very much.”

“And yet I am the earl now.”

There was an underlying hint of sarcasm in his tone. She could not imagine why. She had certainly done nothing to deserve it. “A title seems poor compensation for losing two members of your family, my lord.”

“A worthy sentiment.”

“It is how I feel, sir. It is how anyone who cared about their family would feel.”

He fixed her with a cold, faintly derisive stare—a stare made all the more unsettling because of his sightless eye. “Is that a reprimand, Miss Stafford?”

She had the grace to redden. “Forgive me, I did not intend—”

“Your own father is dead now, I understand.”

“He is.”

“A suicide, was it?”

Sylvia’s polite expression slipped for an instant. It was only through sheer force of will that she was able to keep her countenance. “Yes,” she said. “He shot himself two years ago. In a London gaming club, as you must know.”