Why Kings Confess (18 page)

“
D
o you think Gibson is in love with Alexandrie Sauvage?” Hero asked.

It was after dinner, and they were seated in their drawing room. Hero was petting the bored-looking black cat, while Sebastian—who saw no reason to follow the popular custom of drinking port in solitary splendor at his dining table when he could be enjoying the company of his wife—held a glass of burgundy. He was dressed in the silk knee breeches, white stockings, and buckled shoes that were de rigueur for a gentleman attending a formal London function. It was the night of his aunt Henrietta’s musical soiree, and he had suddenly discovered a very good reason for attending.

He took a slow swallow of his wine, for Hero’s question had given voice to one of his own concerns. “I’m very much afraid he might be.”

“It could be good for him.”

“Perhaps—if we were talking about any woman other than Alexi Sauvage.”

“Maybe you’re wrong about her.”

Across the room, her gaze met his, then dropped to the hand she moved slowly up and down the cat’s back.

“You don’t need to tell me,” she said quietly, her voice suddenly, oddly scratchy, so that he wondered what she had seen in his face.

He could hear the rattle of carriage wheels on the pavement outside, the whisper of ash falling on the hearth. The memory of that spring was like a frozen shiver across the skin, an incubus that stole his breath and tormented his soul. “No; I do. I should have told you before.” He found he had to draw a deep breath before he could go on. “I met her three years ago, when I was serving as an observing officer for a vain, pompous, and extraordinarily vindictive colonel named Sinclair Oliphant. Wellington’s forces were already beginning to push into Spain, and Oliphant was in charge of securing the mountain passes out of Portugal.

“One day, he ordered me to carry sealed dispatches to a band of partisans said to be camped in a small valley below the ancient convent of Santa Iria. Except it was all a hoax. Oliphant knew the partisans weren’t there, and he’d had one of his spies tip off a French force operating in the area. They were waiting for me.”

Hero stared at him. “He deliberately had you captured? But . . . why?”

“There was a large landowner in the area—Antonio Álvares Cabral—who was refusing to cooperate with Oliphant. Álvares Cabral wanted to make certain the French were gone for good before he risked throwing in his lot with the British. I didn’t know it at the time, but the dispatches I carried were false; they were written specifically to fool the French into thinking the abbess of the convent of Santa Iria was in league with the partisans.” Sebastian kept his gaze on his wine, glowing warm and red in the fire’s light. “The abbess was Álvares Cabral’s daughter.”

Hero’s hand had stilled its rhythmic motion. “Alexandrie Sauvage was with the French forces?”

“She was—although she was Alexi Beauclerc then. By that time, her first husband had died, and she’d taken up with a French lieutenant named Tissot.”

“So what happened?”

“After he read the dispatches I’d carried, the French major, Rousseau, rode off with some of his men. He was planning to torture me in the morning for whatever other information I might have, then kill me. But I managed to escape shortly before dawn—by killing Lieutenant Tissot.”

“Alexi Sauvage’s lover?”

“Yes.”

There was more to the story, of course—much more. But he wasn’t sure he was capable of talking about it. Still.

Hero had the sensitivity not to press him. She said, “You think Alexi Sauvage would deliberately hurt Gibson, just to get back at you?”

“I don’t know. But my distrust of her motives doesn’t stem only from what happened in Portugal. She’s a beautiful young Frenchwoman who attended one of the best universities in Europe. Gibson is a one-legged Irish opium eater who learned everything he knows about surgery on the world’s battlefields.”

“He’s a good man.”

“He is. But I’m not convinced Alexandrie Sauvage is the kind of woman to appreciate that. She keeps lying to us—about her father’s theft of the Dauphin’s heart, about her brother’s intentions with Lady Peter, about the fact that Damion Pelletan even
was
her brother.”

“Not telling you something isn’t exactly the same as lying.”

“It is in my book—at least when we’re talking about murder.”

“I can understand her lingering animosity toward you. But if she truly loved her brother . . . why be so secretive?”

“I don’t know.” He glanced at the clock, set aside his wine, and rose to his feet.

She rose with him, upsetting the disgruntled cat, who arched his back and glared at Sebastian. “I still can’t believe you’re going to ask Marie-Thérèse about her brother’s heart in the middle of your aunt Henrietta’s soiree.”

“Not Marie-Thérèse; Lady Giselle. I have it on excellent authority that Marie-Thérèse will never condescend to speak to me again, ever since I committed the unforgivable sin of daring to contradict her royal personage. It’s one of the many hazards of believing in the divine right of kings; you start equating yourself with God, which means you see your enemies as not merely annoying or unpleasant, but the literal servants of Satan.”

“What do you expect Lady Giselle to tell you?”

“Nothing, actually. But I want to watch her face when I ask her whether or not Marie-Thérèse knows about the fate of the Dauphin’s heart.”

“Surely you don’t think
Marie-Thérèse
killed Damion Pelletan?”

“Do I think she personally cut out his heart? No. She and Lady Giselle were closeted in prayer that night, remember? But I’d say she’s more than capable of delegating the task to one of the hundreds of sycophants hanging around Hartwell House.”

“But . . . why? Why would she want the heart of a man whose only sin was that his father performed an autopsy on a dead child?”

“Revenge? Malice? An exchange of missing body parts? I don’t know. But the connection is there, somewhere. I just haven’t found it yet.”

•   •   •

London might still be thin of company, but virtually everyone who was anyone appeared to have decided to attend the Duchess of Claiborne’s soiree that evening. As he pushed his way through the crowded reception rooms, Sebastian counted two royal dukes, a dozen ambassadors, and nearly enough peers to fill the House of Lords. The strains of one of Haydn’s string quartets drifted through the cavernous town house. The rendition was exquisite, although no one really seemed to be listening to it.

“Good God, Devlin,” exclaimed his aunt when she saw him. “What are you doing here?”

She was looking regal in purple satin and the magnificent Claiborne diamonds, her gray head crowned by a towering purple velvet turban sporting an enormous diamond and pearl brooch.

He bent to kiss her rouged and powdered cheek. “I was invited, remember?”

“And you turned me down. Twice. The only time you ever come to these things is when you want something.” She regarded him through narrowed eyes. “What is it now?”

He lifted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and smiled. “Who. In this case, it’s definitely a ‘who.’ The Duchesse d’Angoulême and her devoted companion, Lady Giselle Edmondson. They are here, I assume? Your soiree was given as one of the reasons for their removal to London—that, and the theater. Although I’m told the latter is not such a draw now that Miss Kat Boleyn has inexplicitly chosen to absent herself this season.”

“Marie-Thérèse said that to you?”

“She did.”

“Nasty woman. I swear, if she ever does become Queen of France, they’ll have another revolution.”

“She is here, I take it?”

“She is. I saw her go down to supper just moments ago. None of the Bourbons ever miss a chance at a free meal.”

He found Marie-Thérèse seated on one of the brocade-covered chairs lined up against the wall of the dining room, where a buffet of delicacies had been spread to tempt the jaded appetites of the guests. She wore an elegant gown of turquoise silk with a plunging neckline designed to show off her mother’s famous drop pearl necklace; three white plumes nodded from the curls piled on her head, and she had a white ostrich-plume fan she waved languidly back and forth, although it was not hot.

He saw her stiffen, her gaze meeting his across the crowded room. Then she looked pointedly away.

Smiling faintly, he walked up to where Lady Giselle was awkwardly endeavoring to fill two plates, one for herself and one for the Princess. “Here; allow me to help you,” he said, relieving her of one of the plates.

“Thank you.” She gave him a wry, almost conspiratorial smile. “I saw the look she threw you just now. You ought by rights to be dead on the floor.”

“I’m told she’ll never forgive me. But you have?”

“I understand what you’re trying to do. I can appreciate that—even admire it—however much I might disapprove of some of your methods.”

Sebastian’s hand hovered over the nearest platters. “Crab and asparagus?”

“Yes, please.”

He added them to the plate in his hand.

She reached for a serving of shrimp in aspic. “You’ve obviously sought me out for a reason; what is it?”

Sebastian studied her still faintly smiling profile. “Somehow, I suspect you’re not going to approve of what I have to say.”

She gave a soft laugh. “Shall I undertake not to throw this plate of food at your head?”

“That might help. You see, I’ve made a rather troubling discovery. It seems that not only did Damion Pelletan’s father perform an autopsy on the boy identified as the Dauphin; he also removed and carried away with him the child’s heart. He still has it.”

She was no longer smiling. Her lips parted, two little white lines appearing at the corners of her mouth as her hand tightened so hard on the plate she held that he wondered it didn’t crack. “I did not know that. Are you certain?”

If she were an actress, she was a world-class one. Sebastian said, “I’m told he keeps it in a crystal vase in his study. Why would he do that?”

She reached for a bread roll. “It has long been the practice in France to preserve the internal organs of the royal family separately from their bodies. The burial of the royals’ remains typically took place at the basilica of Saint-Denis. But their hearts and entrails were willed to various places. The previous Dauphin of France had his heart buried at Val-de-Grâce, along with those of scores of other kings and queens and princes of the blood.”

Sebastian wondered if she’d heard of the fate of those hearts during the Revolution. Their precious silver and gold reliquaries torn open and sent to the mint to be melted down, the hearts were put into a wheelbarrow and burned—except for a few that were sold to painters, who liked to use the dried organs to create a special rare red-brown pigment known as “mummia.”

He said, “So you’re suggesting—what? That Dr. Philippe-Jean Pelletan was a royalist? That he took the Dauphin’s heart so that even if his body were consigned to a common grave, his heart might at least be preserved?”

“I don’t know Dr. Pelletan’s politics. But he has managed to hold on to his position at the Hôtel-Dieu in Paris through the Revolution, the Directory, and now Napoléon’s empire. Whatever his opinions, he is obviously most adept at keeping them to himself.”

Sebastian glanced toward Marie-Thérèse, who sat rigidly staring at him with palpable dislike. He said, “Pelletan took a risk, preserving the heart of the child who died in the Temple. He obviously believed the boy was indeed the Dauphin.”

“The rumors that the Dauphin somehow escaped the Temple—that the boy who died in his place was an unfortunate deaf-mute imposter—are just that: rumors. A myth. A tale told to comfort those unable to accept the harshness of reality.”

“Yet the rumors persist.”

“They do, yes. I will never understand why the revolutionaries failed to show Marie-Thérèse her brother’s body. Perhaps after years of neglect and mistreatment, they feared she might not recognize him. Or perhaps they feared allowing her to see the state to which their cruelty had reduced him. But there is no doubt in my mind that the last son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette died in the Temple in 1795. To suggest otherwise is as ridiculous as to lend credence to the silly tales of the Dark Countess.”

Sebastian shook his head, not understanding. “What Dark Countess?”

Lady Giselle gave a small, tight laugh that held no real humor. “Ask Ambrose LaChapelle. I’ve no doubt he would enjoy telling you the story.” She took the second plate from Sebastian’s hand. “And now you must excuse me, my lord. Thank you for your assistance.”

He watched her return to the Princess’s side and fuss about her with unfailing good humor. A few glances were thrown in his direction, but he had no doubt Lady Giselle was seriously editing her recital of their conversation.

He went in search of Ambrose LaChapelle. But neither the French courtier nor the Comte de Provence was in attendance that night. Sebastian was just calling for his hat and cloak when a small, lithe figure in a tiger’s striped waistcoat wiggled in through the crush, deftly evading all attempts to collar him.

“Guv’nor!” cried Tom, panting as he skidded to a halt. “Come quick!”

Sebastian felt his stomach twist as he gripped the boy’s slim shoulders. “What is it? Is it Lady Devlin?”

“What? Oh, Lord no. It’s Sir ’Enry Lovejoy. ’E says t’ tell ye that Frenchy colonel ’as been found dead, on the Old Swan Stairs. And wait till ye ’ear what the killer done t’ ’im!”

W
hat was left of Colonel A
ndré Foucher lay sprawled on his back halfway up—or halfway down, depending on one’s perspective—the ancient, slime-covered granite steps known as the Old Swan Stairs. Located at the base of Swan Lane just above London Bridge, the stairs led from the lane down to the Thames.

By day, it was a busy landing point for the wherrymen and barges that plied the river. But at this hour of the night, the river was deserted. A heavy, wet fog swirled around the body; the air was thick with the smell of the river and damp stone and death. His arms were thrown up on either side of his head, elbows slightly bent, palms toward the white sky. Sebastian took only one look at the man’s face before turning away.

“Good God. What did they do to him?”

Sir Henry Lovejoy stood at the edge of the steps with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his greatcoat. He had a scarf wrapped around his neck and held his shoulders hunched forward, although whether it was from the cold or the horror of what lay before him, Sebastian couldn’t have said.

The magistrate cleared his throat. “It appears someone has gouged out his eyes.”

“And his heart?”

“Oh, he still has that.”

Sebastian squinted down the river, toward the bridge. But the fog was so thick he couldn’t see five feet in front of his face. “How did you even find him?”

“A wherryman tripped over him.”

“Has anyone spoken to Harmond Vaundreuil?”

“Not exactly. The clerk, Camille Bondurant, identified the body. According to the constable who carried the news to the Gifford Arms, Monsieur Vaundreuil took the news quite badly. He’s now dosed himself with laudanum and taken to his bed.” Lovejoy’s disgust at this Gallic display of sensitivity flattened his face and quivered his nose, although he felt compelled to add, “I gather he has a bad heart.”

“He thinks he does, at any rate.”

“Having two of your party of five murdered—brutally—is enough to give anyone a bad heart.”

“True.”

Sebastian hunkered down beside the murdered man and forced himself to take another look. A dark stain of blood spread out from beneath the body. “How was he killed?”

“Stabbed in the back, from the looks of things. But we’ll know more when Gibson’s had a go at him.”

“I wonder why the eyes?” Sebastian said, half to himself.

“It is rather symbolic, is it not? Rather like the theft of Pelletan’s heart. Perhaps Foucher saw something he was not supposed to see.”

Sebastian let out a long, troubled breath. In his arrogance, he’d thought he was narrowing in on who had killed Damion Pelletan, and why. But Foucher’s death—and, more important, what had been done to him after death—suggested that the focus of Sebastian’s inquiries so far had been all wrong.

•   •   •

He pushed to his feet. “Have you heard anything about this morning’s explosion in Golden Square?”

Lovejoy nodded. “I saw a preliminary report not long ago. It seems the rooms in which the charge was set were empty; the woman who previously occupied them died last week.”

“Convenient. No one saw anything?”

“Apparently not. But there’s no doubt that whoever set the blast knew what he was doing. I’m told the gunpowder was contained in such a way that the full force of the blast went upward.”

“Toward Alexandrie Sauvage’s rooms.”

“Yes.”

Sebastian brought his gaze back to the French colonel’s ruined face. He’d become convinced that the theft of Damion Pelletan’s heart was somehow connected to the reason for his murder. But Foucher’s death complicated that scenario even as it underscored his conviction that they were dealing with a killer who was either far from sane or else diabolically clever.

Or perhaps both.

The problem was, how did that morning’s attempt on the life of Alexi Sauvage fit into any of it?

“Nothing symbolic about trying to blow someone up,” he said aloud.

Lovejoy swallowed. “If there is, I don’t see it.”

Sebastian nodded and started up the stairs, the soles of his dress shoes slipping on the wet, slimy stones. Then he paused to look back as a thought occurred to him. “What was Foucher doing here, anyway?”

“That we don’t know.”

“Monsieur Vaundreuil picked a damned inconvenient time to dose himself with laudanum.”

“Perhaps he’ll have developed more of a stiff upper lip by tomorrow.”

“One can only hope,” said Sebastian.

Wednesday, 27 January

The next morning, Charles, Lord Jarvis, was still in his dressing room when he heard someone ringing an impertinent peal at the distant front door. He pulled on an exquisite pair of unmentionables and calmly buttoned the flap.

His valet’s head jerked around, eyes widening at the sound of a shout, followed by a light, quick step on the stairs.

Jarvis said, “From the sounds of things, I shall shortly be receiving a visitor. You may leave us.”

“Yes, my lord.” The valet bowed and moved toward the door, just as the handle turned and Viscount Devlin walked into the room.

“Oh, good,” said Devlin. “You’re still here.” He was dressed in doeskin breeches, tall Hessians, and a black coat, and he brought with him all the smells of a foggy London.

Jarvis wrinkled his nose and reached for a starched white cravat. “As you see.”

Devlin shut the door in the interested valet’s face. “I take it you’ve heard about Colonel Foucher?”

“I have.”

He was aware of Devlin studying him, those ungodly yellow eyes glowing with a fierce passion. “Is it you? Is this all part of some diabolical scheme to frighten Harmond Vaundreuil into fleeing back across the Channel?”

“By plucking out the hearts and eyes of his underlings? How revoltingly Gothic. What do you suggest I do next? Eliminate the clerk—what’s his name?”

“Bondurant.”

“—by having his tongue cut out?”

“If anyone’s capable of it, you are.”

Jarvis laughed. “Thank you. Or was that meant as an insult?” He carefully settled the wide strip of linen around his neck. “While I’ve no doubt such a simple solution would appeal to you, the fact remains that it is not I. Nor do I know who is doing this. But I won’t pretend to be even vaguely troubled by the turn of events. If Vaundreuil is still in London by the end of the week, I’ll be very much surprised.”

Devlin stood with his legs braced wide, his head thrown back, his jaw set hard. “Yet you would have had me believe you were concerned my inquiries might disrupt the progress of the negotiations.”

“I was concerned.” Jarvis smiled. “If not quite for the reasons I led you to believe.”

“Would peace with France really be so bad?”

“As long as Napoléon still rules as Emperor? Yes.”

“Who would you have in his place? The Comte de Provence?”

“For a time. He is next in line, after all, and one must at least appear to observe the traditional order of succession. Provence is a fool and ridiculously infatuated with the more extreme permutations of constitutional monarchy. But he’s old before his time and hopelessly fat. He won’t last long.”

“And then what? His brother, Artois? The man is a dangerous reactionary as well as being foolish and vain and hopelessly profligate. The French would never put up with him for long.”

“I think perhaps you underestimate Artois’s enthusiasm for repression. He watched the mistakes his brother Louis XVI made back in 1789, giving in to one demand after the next, when a few well-placed whiffs of grapeshot would have scuttled the entire Revolution before it had a chance to gather momentum.”

Devlin remained silent.

After a moment, Jarvis smiled. “You know, of course, that I’ve had men watching the French delegation since their arrival?”

“I didn’t know, but I can’t say that I’m exactly surprised. Would you have me believe they observed something useful?”

“As to its usefulness, that is not for me to say. But I do know they witnessed an interesting quarrel between Damion Pelletan and his sister on the night he died.”

The Viscount’s eyes narrowed. “You knew Alexandrie Sauvage was Pelletan’s sister?”

Jarvis kept his gaze on the mirror, his fingers adjusting the folds of his cravat.

Devlin said, “Where precisely did this quarrel occur?”

“At the Gifford Arms. I’m told that a man and a woman arrived first; they spoke to Pelletan for a time, then retired. Madame Sauvage appeared just as Pelletan was about to return to the inn.”

“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.”

“Really? How industrious of you. Only, I gather you somehow neglected to hear of the quarrel which then took place.”

“And what precisely was the subject of this quarrel?”

“That, my informant was too far away to hear.”

“Then how did he know it was a quarrel?”

“It was rather heated. There was no mistaking the level of passion involved.”

“And the man and woman who came before? Who were they?”

“My observer was unable to make an identification.”

“Indeed?”

Jarvis smiled at the Viscount’s posture of stiff incredulity. “Yes, indeed.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because this obsession of yours with the death of Damion Pelletan is becoming tiresome. You belong at home with your pregnant wife.”

“Hero is fine. Believe me, she wouldn’t thank you for encouraging me to hover anxiously about her.”

Jarvis smoothed the line of his waistcoat, his gaze hard on his son-in-law’s face. “If my daughter dies because of the babe you planted in her belly, I swear to God, I will kill you. Personally.”

Devlin’s gaze met his and held it. And Jarvis saw there a deep and quiet awareness of the looming danger to Hero that Jarvis realized matched his own.

“She’s not going to die.”