Why Kings Confess (25 page)

S
e
bastian walked the cold, rain-washed streets of Mayfair and tried to think. Would a woman who believed in the divine right of kings plot to kill a young man she thought might be the only surviving son of Louis XVI of France? On the surface, the answer seemed to be no. And yet, this was a woman who had dedicated her life to the restoration of the Bourbon dynasty, not to the restoration of a certain frail young prince who may or may not have died in the Temple Prison. If she considered Damion Pelletan a threat to the eventual accession of Marie-Thérèse and her husband to the throne of France, would Lady Giselle kill him?

Sebastian believed she would.

What had Alexi Sauvage said about her brother?
Damion despised the Bourbons.
Had he expressed those sentiments to Lady Giselle? If he had, it might well have led to his death.

The family trees of Europe’s royal houses were littered with kings who had fallen victim to a usurper’s hand. Fathers murdered by sons, nephews by uncles, cousins by cousins. How did Lady Giselle explain such irregularities, he wondered? As the divine wisdom of Providence working in mysterious ways? Probably. Those who believed God was on their side all too often found it easy to kill in His name, secure in the comfortable certitude of their own righteousness.

And yet . . . And yet his imagination still balked at the image of Lady Giselle and her cousin the unknown Chevalier stalking Damion Pelletan through the mean streets of St. Katharine’s on one of the coldest nights of the year. Sebastian knew he was still missing something. The question was,
What?

He kept coming back to the image of Damion Pelletan standing before the Gifford Arms, his head thrown back, his gaze on the cold night sky above. How many people knew Damion and Alexi Sauvage intended to visit Hangman’s Court that night? Lady Giselle? No; she was gone by the time Alexandrie arrived. Lord Peter? Possibly, if he had lingered longer than he claimed. Jarvis’s man? Again, possibly—if he had been close enough to overhear their conversation. Harmond Vaundreuil? Again, possibly.

Sampson Bullock?

Sebastian paused. The wind gusted up, cold and damp against his face and carrying with it all the smells of the city. Could Sampson Bullock have known that Alexi Sauvage and her brother were headed for Hangman’s Court that night? Yes. Bullock had been following and watching her for days. What if he learned of not only her plans to visit St. Katharine’s, but also her intent to ask her
brother
to accompany her?

Two things about this convoluted string of murders kept tripping Sebastian up: the bloody print left in the alley by a woman’s shoe, and the brutal murder of the Frenchman Foucher. Combined with the attack on Serena in Birdcage Walk, the latter seemed to suggest either the Bourbons or some other enemy of Napoléon’s peace proposals. Yet how could either be linked to the explosion in Golden Square? If Alexi Sauvage were able to identify her brother’s killer, she would have been murdered with him.

Yet an idea was forming in Sebastian’s mind, an explanation that accounted for these discrepancies and more.

It was time he had another talk with Mr. Mitt Peeples.

•   •   •

Sebastian arrived at the Gifford Arms to find a dray half-loaded with trunks drawn up outside the inn, its mules standing with legs splayed and heads dipped in the cold wind. Mitt Peebles, wearing his leather apron and at his most officious, was directing two workmen carrying a handsome campaign desk out the inn door.

“Careful there, now,” he called as one of the men bumped into the doorframe.

“What’s all this?” asked Sebastian, walking up to him.

“They’re leaving—what’s left of ’em, that is. Guess they figure they’d best get out while the getting is good. You heard another of ’em was found dead? Had his eyes gouged out. Who’d do something like that? Ain’t no Englishman, if you ask me.”

“Are you saying Harmond Vaundreuil is returning to France?”

“Well, can’t say I know for certain
where
he’s going. But I can guess, can’t I?”

Sebastian watched the workmen maneuver the desk into the back of the dray. “I wonder: Are you familiar with a cabinetmaker by the name of Sampson Bullock?”

“Bullock?” Mitt paused, his saggy-jowled face going blank as he pondered the question. “Don’t believe so, no.”

“He’s a giant of a man, tall and big boned, with curly black hair he wears long. Ever see him hanging around the inn?”

Mitt shook his head. “Not so’s I recall, no. Why? You think he may be the one doing all this?”

“At this point, I don’t really know.”

Mitt grunted, his protuberant eyes watering in the cold wind. “All I hope is that word don’t get out, linking these goings-on to the inn. Won’t do to have folks thinking the place is hexed. Won’t do at all.”

Sebastian watched the two porters head back into the hotel. “Is Monsieur Vaundreuil about?”

“Aye. In the coffee room, last I saw him.”

Sebastian walked into the coffee room to find Vaundreuil and his clerk, Bondurant, standing beside one of the tables near the front windows. They had a tan leather case open on the tabletop and appeared to be verifying the papers it contained. Bondurant glanced over at Sebastian, then silently thrust the last of the papers into the case, buckled it, and left the room.

“I hear you’re leaving,” said Sebastian, staring after the clerk.

Vaundreuil swiped one hand across his lower face. His eyes were red rimmed and puffy. “You blame me?”

“No. But what about the negotiations?”

The Frenchman shrugged. “They weren’t exactly going anywhere.”

Sebastian went to stand with his back to the fire. “When I saw you yesterday morning, you were determined to stay. What changed your mind?”

“My daughter. She insisted I needed some slippery elm for a sore throat I’ve been complaining of, and walked down to the apothecary’s yesterday afternoon to get it. Someone followed her.”

“Did she see him?”

“No. The fog was too thick. All she heard was footsteps, and then a man’s cough. But she had no doubt he was following her. He stopped when she stopped, then started up again when she moved on. She ran the rest of the way back to the inn.”

Sebastian studied the other man’s drawn face. “Who do you think is doing this?”

“The Bourbons, perhaps? Some industrialist or financier like that Scotsman, Kilmartin? Who can say? All I know is, I’ve had enough.”

“What about Jarvis? Any chance he could be behind the killings?”

“No.”

“So certain?”

Vaundreuil turned toward the window, his gaze on the workmen, who were now loading a pile of bandboxes into the wagon. “Am I certain? No, I suppose not,” he said after a moment. “There’s no denying that Jarvis plays a deep game—a deep and dangerous game. It’s reached the point I don’t trust anyone anymore.” He gave a humorless huff of laughter. “And pray don’t bother to point out the irony of my saying that because, believe me, I see it. The only person with nothing to be ashamed of in all this is Madeline. And I want her safely out of it.”

“When does your ship sail?”

“At ten this evening.”

“Then if you’ll take my advice, you will get your daughter aboard quickly and stay in your cabin until the ship has cleared Greenwich.”

The sound of a woman’s footsteps on the stairs drew Vaundreuil’s gaze to the entrance passage. “But why would anyone want to harm my daughter? Who would do such a thing?”

Madame Madeline Quesnel appeared at the entrance to the coffee room. She wore a black wool carriage gown and carried a traveling reticule in her hand. Her gaze went from her father to Sebastian.

Sebastian said, “When the destinies of nations are at stake, some men will stop at nothing.”
Some men, and some women
. He swept her a bow and smiled. “Have a safe voyage,
madame
.”

T
he la
st of the light was leaching from the sky when Charles, Lord Jarvis, crossed the forecourt of Carlton House toward his waiting carriage.

He was feeling mildly pleased with the recent progression of events. There would be no peace negotiations with the impudent upstart, Napoléon; that avaricious little opportunist, Vaundreuil, was at that very moment scurrying toward home with his tail between his legs. The war in Europe would continue to its proper end, with a triumphant host of British troops marching down the Champs-Élysées and the forces of radicalism utterly crushed. Not for a century or more would any nation rise up to threaten Britain’s global dominance, nor would any populace again dare to overthrow their betters and proclaim the rights of the vulgar masses.

He paused while a footman hastened to open his carriage door and let down the steps. Settling comfortably on the plush seat, Jarvis was spreading the carriage robe across his lap when the door opened again and Viscount Devlin leapt up to take the seat opposite.

“Mind if I ride along?”

“Actually, yes.”

The Viscount smiled. “I won’t stay long. I take it you’ve heard that Monsieur Harmond Vaundreuil is leaving London?”

“I have.”

“Was that your doing?”

“Not entirely.”

“But you did send someone to follow his daughter.”

Jarvis leaned back in his seat and simply raised his eyebrows.

Devlin said, “Vaundreuil thinks you killed Pelletan and Foucher.”

“Harmond Vaundreuil is a venal, foolish man. Why would I bother to indulge in such ghoulish theatrics when I already had the head of the delegation on my payroll?”

“Perhaps Pelletan and Foucher threatened to expose Vaundreuil to Paris.”

“Ah. In that case they most definitely would have needed to be eliminated. However, to my knowledge, Foucher at least remained blithely ignorant of Vaundreuil’s treasonous activities. And as you know, my knowledge is quite extensive.”

Devlin stared out the carriage window at a ragged young crossing sweep leaping out of their way. “You told me once that you had a man watching the Gifford Arms the night Pelletan was killed.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me again what he saw.”

Jarvis sighed. “Really, Devlin; this obsession of yours is becoming rather tiresome.”

“Humor me.”

“Very well. Let’s see . . . An unidentified man and a veiled woman arrived by carriage; for reasons doubtless understood better by you than by my informer, Pelletan elected to speak with them outside the inn rather than inside. The exchange was heated, but since my agent unfortunately lacks your acute hearing, the subject of that conversation remains unknown.”

“And then what happened?”

“The man and woman returned to their carriage, leaving Pelletan on the pavement in something of a passion. He was still standing there when Alexandrie Sauvage arrived. They also quarreled. Pelletan then returned to the inn and came out again wearing a greatcoat and gloves, after which he and Sauvage went off in a hackney.”

Jarvis was aware of Devlin sitting forward, his lips parted.

“What?” asked Jarvis, looking at him with disfavor.

“And the man and first woman? You said they returned to their carriage. When did they drive away?”

“Immediately after Pelletan and his sister left in a hackney.”

“You’re certain?”

Jarvis was known for his flawless memory. It was one of his greatest assets, for he could recall conversations and reports, verbatim, long after their occurrence had faded from other men’s minds. At the Viscount’s question, he simply curled his lip in contempt.

Devlin said, “Tell your coachman to pull up.”

“Gladly.”

The Viscount started to jump down, then paused with his hands braced against the doorframe to look back and ask, “Are you by chance familiar with a young French émigré named the Chevalier d’Armitz?”

“Vaguely. Why?”

“Can you describe him for me?”

“Above medium height. Stocky. Dark hair.”

“What do you know of him?”

“Very little. He forms one of that horde of émigrés attached to the Bourbons. He killed a man once—and I don’t mean in a duel. Some captain in the Home Guard accused Armitz of cheating, and later that night was found stabbed in the back.”

“Interesting. He’s tried to kill me twice.”

“What a pity that he didn’t succeed,” said Jarvis.

But Devlin only laughed.

•   •   •

Hero stood at the nursery window, one hand resting on the crest of her belly, her gaze on the dark storm clouds gathering over the city. She had come here often over the past six months, to supervise the workmen preparing the rooms, to indulge in some uncharacteristically maudlin reveries, and, lately, in search of quiet solace.

But tonight she was smiling
.

She had spent fifteen to twenty minutes every two hours for the better part of two days on her knees, telling herself she was a gullible fool and yet doing it anyway. And then, when she’d been about to give it up in disgust, she felt a sensation akin to a giant fish doing a somersault in a tight barrel. Over the past several months she’d become familiar with the movements of her child. And so she knew even without being told that Alexi Sauvage’s bizarre suggestion had worked; the babe had finally turned, and her chances of surviving the coming birth with a living child had just soared.

Hero knew no one would ever describe her as a humble woman; she was proud, impatient, and opinionated. But she was also not above owning up to an error. And as she watched the last of the daylight fade from the sky, she knew she owed Sauvage both an apology and a heartfelt expression of gratitude.

Intent on ordering her carriage and setting out for Tower Hill, Hero was about to turn from the window when a movement caught her eye. A man stood in the shadow of a cart drawn up across the street. He was a big man, tall and broad shouldered, dressed in the clothes of a tradesman, with a battered hat pulled low over dark curly hair worn too long. In the gathering gloom, his features were indistinct. Yet she could not shake the impression he was staring at the house with a level of malevolence that was almost palpable.

“Claire,” she said to the Frenchwoman who was folding clothes into a chest in the small room off the nursery. “Do you see that man—there, near the cart? Do you know who he is?”

Claire Bisette came to stand beside her, a chemise held in her hands. “No. I’ve never seen him before. Why?”

But Hero simply shook her head, unwilling to admit to a sense of foreboding for which she had no real basis.

Leaving the nursery, she sent word to the stables to have her barouche brought around, then changed into a carriage dress of green gros de Naples with a vandyked shoulder cape trimmed in black. By the time she left the house, an icy wind had kicked up, the lamplighter and his boy hurrying to touch flame to the last of the oil lamps that stretched in a line toward Grosvenor Square.

They caught her eye as the footman was handing her up into her carriage. And for a moment, she saw the man again, tall and dark, with long black hair and a scar across one cheek, standing near the corner of Davies Street.

Then he drew back, the wind fluttering a torn page of newspaper in the gutter and bringing her the scent of the coming rain.