Dr. Lawrence gave a small shrug. “Whatever you call it, their meeting was the greatest misfortune of our lives. We searched for her—my father, brother, and I—but London is a big place when someone does not wish to be found, and there are so many young women without family or protection. By the time we did find her, she was with child and adamant that she would stay with Sanderson. She loved him, she said, and he loved her, although he was conspicuous in his absence. My father, in a fit of rage, disowned her right there in the front room of the hovel where Sanderson was keeping her, an act that haunted him to the end of his days.

“It was at this time that I went to Edinburgh to study medicine. I should have stayed, but I was young and keen to start my own life. The events that unfolded from there on were related by Father upon his deathbed and sworn by me to keep secret from everyone except you, my lord, or your associates.”

He paused and rubbed his forehead as if considering how to continue. Finally, he looked up, his gentle brown eyes pained.

“Forgive me for what is about to come, Lady Augusta. It is shocking.”

“I have heard and seen a great deal, Dr. Lawrence.”

With a resigned nod, he continued. “My father—a conscientious professional—attended lectures at Bart’s. On one such occasion he decided to attend a dissection. It was to be of a pregnant woman…”

I drew in an audible breath. “No,” I whispered, hoping to ward off the horror of where this story was heading. “Surely not.”

The young doctor nodded slowly. “I am afraid so. The corpses upon the table were my sister and her unborn child. My father’s daughter and his grandchild, split open.” He stopped, overcome for a second.

“Mon Dieu,” Evan murmured.

The doctor wet his lips. “As you can imagine, the sight was too much for my father. He collapsed and was brought home. For two days he literally could not speak, and when his voice finally returned, he refused to speak of what he had seen. Not to my mother, my siblings, or even me when I returned home. He alone carried the burden of that horrifying sight and its consequences for sixteen years, until he confessed all to me on his deathbed. I believe it unbalanced him, for he was never the same again after that terrible day.”

“Surely he could have informed the magistrate,” I said.

The doctor nodded. “He did try. First he confronted Sanderson—knowing he must be somehow involved in the deaths—but Sanderson merely shrugged off my father’s accusations. He said that no one would be interested in a dead whore and her bastard. My father soon found out Sanderson was correct. He received no help from the magistrates. No help from anyone. And so he decided to exact justice himself.”