Why Kings Confess (22 page)

S
ebastian had long ago come to the conclusion that there were two types of madmen in this world. Places like Bedlam were full of those society labeled as insane: men and women who heard voices, who lurched between mania and despair, or who were so tormented by life’s vicissitudes or their own demons that they simply disengaged from the world. Many were undoubtedly crazy enough to commit murder. But they seldom got away with it.

More dangerous by far, in Sebastian’s estimation, were those like Sampson Bullock: men with a solid grasp of reality who seemed sane, yet whose thought processes were breathtakingly brutal in their single-minded self-interest. Easily enraged and never forgiving of the most insignificant of perceived slights or injuries, they moved through life with an utter disregard for the wants and desires of those around them.

But there were times when Sebastian wondered if he was wrong, if perhaps people like Bullock weren’t actually mad, after all. Perhaps they simply lacked a fundamental component of what we like to believe it means to be human. The problem with that theory was that Sebastian had known dogs and horses capable of the very love and compassion such individuals seemed to lack. Utterly without conscience or empathy, they saw others not as fellow beings but as targets or opportunities. Not all were violent or lethal. But those who were could kill without guilt, convinced that their victims either brought death on themselves or were too inconsequential to merit consideration.

A man like Bullock could easily have killed both Alexi Sauvage’s brother and her aging, faithful servant as part of a twisted plan to avenge himself on the woman he held responsible for his own brother’s death. For the same reason, Bullock was also more than capable of cutting out a man’s heart. Sebastian had no evidence to suggest that Bullock knew about the relationship between the young French doctor and the woman Bullock hated, but it was certainly possible that in the process of following and watching her, Bullock had somehow learned of the connection. And yet . . .

Why would Bullock also kill and mutilate Colonel André Foucher— or try to kill Ambrose LaChapelle? That implied a connection to the Bourbons or an interest in the peace negotiations that Bullock lacked. The connection between LaChapelle and the peace delegation was tenuous, but there.

Still thoughtful, Sebastian turned his steps toward the Gifford Arms.

•   •   •

Monsieur Harmond Vaundreuil was feeding the ducks beside the Ornamental Water in St. James’s Park when Sebastian walked up to him.

“There was another murder last night. Just over there, on Birdcage Walk,” Sebastian said. “Did you know?”

The Frenchman scattered a handful of bread crumbs, his attention seemingly all for the ducks quacking and jostling around him. “According to what I am hearing, the attack was on one of the mollies who frequent the walk. What could it possibly have to do with me?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Perhaps you see connections where none exist.”

“I don’t think so.”

The Frenchman smiled faintly and scattered more bread crumbs.

Sebastian said, “I’ve been listening to some interesting whispers. Whispers that tell me Damion Pelletan discovered you’re playing a double game; that while you pretend to serve the interests of France, you’re actually cooperating with Lord Jarvis to ensure that the peace negotiations come to naught.”

Vaundreuil puffed out his chest and lowered his heavy dark brows with an admirable display of moral outrage. “That’s preposterous! Why would I do such a thing?”

“Material reward is the most typical reason. That, and revenge. For some previous slight, perhaps? Then again, there’s always the possibility of securing a prestigious position in the restoration government—although if that is your motive, you can’t be aware of Marie-Thérèse’s scathing opinion of you.”

Vaundreuil threw away the last of the bread crumbs in a swift, angry gesture. “What are you suggesting? That I killed Damion Pelletan because he discovered I’m an English agent of influence? What about André Foucher? Am I to have done away with him for the same reason? And why, precisely, would I steal their hearts and eyes? As grisly mementos of their past faithfulness and service?” He swiped one hand through the air before him as if brushing away an annoying fly. “Bah! This is ridiculous!”

Sebastian studied the Frenchman’s red face and thrusting jaw. He had no trouble believing Harmond Vaundreuil capable of killing two of his colleagues, if he thought it necessary to protect himself. But the conviction that something else—or at least something more—was going on here remained.

Sebastian said, “Did Damion Pelletan ever speak to you of his father? Specifically, of his father’s visits to the Temple Prison in the summer of 1795?”

The Frenchman looked confused, his mouth hanging open, so that he had to swallow before he answered. “What?”

“His father, Dr. Philippe-Jean Pelletan, visited the Temple Prison at least twice in the summer of 1795. He treated the little Dauphin before his death, and he may have seen Marie-Thérèse, as well. Damion Pelletan never said anything about it to you?”

“No. But . . . surely you don’t think something that happened so long ago could have anything to do with the murders here in London today?”

“I don’t know. How much time did Pelletan spend with Colonel Foucher?”

Vaundreuil frowned. “Some. They would sit together of an evening, drinking brandy. Talking.”

“Talking about what?”

“Foucher’s time in the army. Women. Their hopes for the future . . .” He shrugged. “What do young men speak of when they drink? I never paid much attention to them.”

“So Pelletan might have told Foucher of his father’s observations of the Orphans in the Temple?”

“I suppose so, yes. But . . . what are you suggesting?”

Sebastian watched the ducks waddle away across the wet grass, quacking contentedly as their bulbous bodies lurched comically from side to side. What was he suggesting? That Marie-Thérèse had been brutally raped by her jailors in the Temple Prison? That she had been impregnated—or so badly injured that they’d summoned a physician to her? That the possibility of what had happened in the Temple—of what had really happened there—becoming known had so horrified her that she’d dispatched her minions to kill and kill again, in the hopes of keeping the truth quiet? Sebastian had no doubt she was capable of ordering the deaths of any number of men, if she thought it necessary to preserve what she saw as her divine family’s honor. But was she mad enough to order her henchmen to steal her first victim’s heart and gouge out the eyes of the second?

He wasn’t sure.

Vaundreuil said, “Are you suggesting these killings are somehow related to the death of the Dauphin? But . . . that is madness!”

Sebastian met the Frenchman’s gaze and held it. “Cutting out a man’s heart is madness.”

C
laire Bisette came to see Hero shortly before eleven that morning.

The Frenchwoman was pale and wraithlike, with hazel eyes set deep in a gaunt face and dull, dark blond hair drawn back in a severe knot. Her old-fashioned dress was hopelessly faded and darned at the elbows, cuffs, and collar, although she’d obviously tried hard to present a clean, neat appearance. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten in a fortnight.

She brought with her the names of “respectable” people who could vouch for her integrity, honesty, and trustworthiness, although she admitted she had never held such a position as the one for which she was applying. Her only qualification was having cared for her own two children, both of whom were now dead.

Hero took the list of names, sent for tea and sandwiches, and slowly coaxed the anxious, stiff woman to talk. They spoke not only of children, but of Voltaire and Rousseau, of the concept of limited monarchy and the recent attempts to launch an expedition to the North Pole. After half an hour, Hero said, “I’ll have Morey show you to your room in the nurseries. You can make arrangements with him to have your things brought over.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “But . . . you can’t mean to engage me without checking my references!”

“I will check them, of course. And if they tell me you are a charlatan, I shall let you go. Only, I hope I am not such a poor judge of character.”

Claire Bisette was surprised into a soft laugh. It was the first laugh Hero had heard from her. Then the woman cocked her head to one side and said, “The child is due when?”

Hero’s hand tightened around her cup, but she said calmly enough, “Soon.”

“There is a problem?”

When Hero simply stared at her, Claire Bisette hastened to say, “I beg your pardon, my lady; I should not have asked.”

Hero shook her head. “No. As it happens, you are right. The babe is lying breech.”

“Ah. My first child, Henri, was stubborn in that way. But a good friend of mine turned him in the womb.”

“Do you mean Madame Sauvage?”

“I do, yes.”

“And what she did worked?”

“It did, yes. I knew the instant he turned—it felt just like a giant fish flopping inside me.”

Hero set aside her teacup. “How long have you known her?”

“Madame Sauvage? We were children together, in Paris.”

“So you knew Damion Pelletan, as well?”

“No. My family had moved to Nice by the time Dr. Philippe-Jean brought Damion home.”

Hero shook her head, not understanding. “What do you mean, brought him home?”

“Damion Pelletan was Alexi’s half brother. She didn’t know he existed until she was nearly grown.”

“When was this?” Hero asked sharply—more sharply than she had intended.

Claire Bisette frowned with the effort of memory. “I do not recall precisely. It was sometime after the Terror. The summer of 1795, perhaps?”

T
h
e Dowager Duchess of Claiborne was famous for never leaving her bedchamber before noon or one o’clock. She was still sipping her hot chocolate in bed when Sebastian walked into the chamber and tossed his hat and driving coat on a chair.

“Do I take it my useless excuse for a butler has simply abandoned all attempts to exclude you?” demanded Henrietta, sitting up straighter.

“Give the man credit; he tried.”

She put up a hand to adjust her bed cap. “What do you want now?”

Sebastian went to warm himself before the fire. “I want to know what you can tell me about Lady Giselle Edmondson.”

“Lady Giselle? Good heavens; whatever for?”

“Humor me.”

“Well, let’s see . . .” She frowned thoughtfully. “Her father was the Third Earl of Bandor. Handsome man, but sadly emotional and far too taken with the works of the French philosophes. He moved to Paris shortly after he came down from Oxford, and refused to return home even when his father died and he inherited the title and estates.”

“He married a Frenchwoman?”

“He did. One of Marie Antoinette’s ladies. Giselle spent much of her early childhood at Versailles. She and Marie-Thérèse were essentially raised together.”

“And then came the Revolution.”

Henrietta set down her chocolate cup with a soft
chink
. “Yes. Foolish man. He could have left. So many did. But he was convinced he was witnessing something extraordinary.”

“And so he was. Only, not quite what he had anticipated. He and his countess were killed?”

“Yes. Giselle survived, of course, but no trace has ever been found of the two younger children. The boy—who would have been the fourth earl—was declared dead some years ago.”

“So who holds the title now?”

“A cousin.”

“Since the majority of Bandor’s wealth was safe in England, I assume Giselle’s portion survived the Revolution?”

“Oh, yes. She could have married at any time, had she wished.”

“So why didn’t she?”

Henrietta gave him a long, solemn look. “Really, Sebastian; use your imagination. You know what those days were like—the things that were done to gentlewomen. I hear there was even a child, although fortunately it died shortly after birth.”

“I see,” he said softly. And he thought it probably explained much about both Lady Giselle and Marie-Thérèse.

Henrietta said, “Most of those hanging around the Bourbons are a drain on their resources. But not Giselle. If anything, I suspect she actually helps to support the Princess. They’ve been together ever since Marie-Thérèse was released from prison.”

“What do you think of her?”

Henrietta pushed out an oddly heavy sigh. “Well . . . she’s charming, and pretty, and certainly far more likeable than Marie-Thérèse.”

“But?” prompted Sebastian.

“Let’s just say I would have been very troubled had one of my own sons wished to wed her.”

“Meaning what?”

But Henrietta only shook her head, reluctant to put her implications into words.

•   •   •

Ambrose LaChapelle was inspecting a tray of imported laces in a small shop on Bond Street when Hero descended from her carriage and bore down upon him.

“Walk up the street with me a ways,
monsieur
,” she said, smiling. “There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

He cast a quick, apprehensive glance at her swollen belly, then looked away. “
Can
you walk?”

“Of course I can walk. I promise, I’ve no intention of delivering in the middle of Bond Street, so you needn’t look so alarmed.”

He raised his chin and twisted it to one side, as if his neckcloth had suddenly become too tight. “Why me?”

“I’ve just discovered something extraordinary. And in thinking it over, I’ve decided you’re probably the most likely person to be able to explain it to me.”

“I don’t believe I like the sound of that,” said the French courtier.

But Hero simply gave a tight, determined smile and bore him inexorably up the street.

A
fter leavi
ng his aunt Henrietta’s Mayfair house, Sebastian spent the next several hours in St. Katharine’s, talking to the residents of Cat’s Hole and Hangman’s Court. He was working on a theory that was still missing too many parts to be even remotely feasible, and he was beginning to wonder if he was driven more by his own prejudices and presumptions than anything else.

He finally found a half-blind, gin-soaked ex-soldier who claimed he’d seen a couple of strangers near Hangman’s Court the night Pelletan was killed. But his descriptions were vague, and he said the two men didn’t seem to be together. The soldier also swore that if there’d been a woman there too, he’d have noticed her and remembered her.

Sebastian wasn’t so sure.

He was standing on London Bridge, his elbows on the stone parapet, his gaze on the cold, mist-swirled waters below, when Ambrose LaChapelle walked up to him.

“You’re a hard man to find,” said the Frenchman.

Sebastian shifted his gaze to the man beside him. “I didn’t know you were looking for me.”

Today the courtier wore the polished Hessians, buckskin breeches, and elegant greatcoat of a man about town. Only the soft curls peeping out from beneath the brim of his top hat reminded one of Serena Fox.

Sebastian said, “Last night, you told me you didn’t know who might want to kill you. Change your mind?”

“Let’s just say your wife changed my mind.”

“Lady Devlin?”

LaChapelle stood with his gloved hands clasped behind his back, his gaze on the forest of masts that filled the river below the bridge. After a moment, he said, “How much has Madame Sauvage told you of her brother’s childhood?”

“You mean on the Île de la Cité?”

“No; before that.”

Sebastian studied the courtier’s exquisite, fine-boned face. “I didn’t know there was a ‘before that.’”

The Frenchman nodded, as if Sebastian had only confirmed what he’d already known or at least suspected. “Until the summer of 1795, Philippe-Jean Pelletan had only one child, a girl named Alexandrie. But then one day in early June, he returned to his house on the Île de la Cité bringing with him a small boy. He claimed the lad was his own son—a love child, born of a secret affair some ten years before. He told his curious neighbors that the boy and his mother had been imprisoned during the Terror. The mother died, so Pelletan was now bringing the child home to raise as his own.”

“Are you saying that child was Damion?”

“He was, yes. Needless to say, there were whispers. Philippe-Jean had been a widower for some years. So why had no one ever heard of this boy? Not only that, but the child was quite fair, whereas the elder Pelletan had black hair and dark brown eyes.”

A cold gust of wind blew the mist against Sebastian’s face. He smelled the river and the dankness of the bridge’s ancient wet stones, and the smoke from a hundred thousand coal fires burning unseen in the fog-shrouded city. “What are you suggesting? That Philippe-Jean Pelletan was somehow complicit in a scheme that successfully rescued the Dauphin and substituted a dead or dying child in his place? That Damion Pelletan wasn’t his son at all, but the Lost Dauphin of France? You can’t be serious.”

“Don’t get me wrong; I’m not saying I believe it myself. But that doesn’t mean the possibility has not been suggested by others.”

Sometimes a piece of information was like a solitary candle kindled in a dark, empty room, burning bright but useless. Yet there were times when its light made sense of what had until then remained subtly inexplicable or unseen. Sebastian said, “So that’s why both the Comte de Provence and Marie-Thérèse went out of their way to consult with Damion Pelletan. It had nothing to do with their health at all; they wanted to see for themselves how much he resembled the dead Prince. And what was their conclusion?”

The Frenchman shrugged. “In my experience, we tend to find resemblances where we look for them—whether in truth they exist or not. After so many years, who could say with any certainty?”

Sebastian thought about the body he’d seen lying on Gibson’s slab, the high, sloping forehead and prominent nose so much like Marie-Thérèse’s—or a thousand other people’s. If Provence and Marie-Thérèse had gone looking for a resemblance, they would have found it. He said, “How did the Bourbons come to know the details of Damion Pelletan’s childhood?”

“You think we have no contacts in Paris?”

“I’ve no doubt you do—although as I recall, the Comte de Provence would have me believe those ‘contacts’ somehow failed to tell him the purpose of Harmond Vaundreuil’s visit to London.”

LaChapelle simply gave a faint smile and shrugged.

The plash of a wherryman’s oars carried to them through the fog. When it came to powerful motives for murder, Sebastian suspected that preserving one’s position in the line of succession to a throne probably ranked right up there near the top—even when the throne in question was temporarily occupied by a Corsican usurper. The reappearance of the Lost Dauphin would completely overthrow the claims of the current aspirants to the French crown—and Marie-Thérèse’s chances of someday becoming queen.

“Of course,” LaChapelle was saying, “there is no real proof, one way or the other.”

“To your knowledge.”

“To my knowledge,” LaChapelle conceded. “However, given what is at stake, the mere possibility might have been enough to put Pelletan’s life in danger.”

Sebastian watched the courtier shift his gaze to the piers at the base of the bridge, where the river churned and swirled in deadly eddies. If the Comte d’Artois had been in London, Sebastian would have suspected him in an instant, for the youngest of the three Bourbon brothers could be as cruel and vicious as he was vain and self-indulgent. But Artois was far away, in Scotland, while if the wheelchair-bound, uncrowned King himself were involved, Sebastian found it difficult to understand why LaChapelle would have believed himself the target of the attack in Birdcage Walk.

Sebastian said, “Why try to kill you? I can understand killing Foucher—and mutilating his body—in the hopes of frightening Vaundreuil into abandoning the peace negotiations. But why you?”

“Perhaps because of what I know—or suspect.”

“Someone told me of a child born to Lady Giselle during the Terror—an infant that did not survive. How did that baby die?”

LaChapelle lifted his gaze to meet Sebastian’s. He was a man who had witnessed life at its most barbaric, who had no illusions about his fellow men or the depths of depravity of which they were capable. Yet Sebastian caught a glimpse of fear in his eyes—the kind of fear instinctive to all men when confronted with evidence of a certain kind of callous inhumanity that bordered on madness.

“She smothered it.”