Why Kings Confess (27 page)

He flung her off, the blood in his eyes now. She stumbled back, off-balance, careening hard against the gallery’s wooden balustrade. Sebastian heard the crack of breaking wood, saw the horror of comprehension flood her face.

The old railing gave way, the banister shattering. She scrabbled one-handed to catch herself. If she had let go of the urn, she might have saved herself. But she held on to it, falling backward into space with a cry of rage, her black skirts billowing around her.

“Mon Dieu!”
screamed the priest as she slammed into the pavement with a bone-breaking smack.

The impact knocked the urn from her grasp, the rock crystal shattering against the pavement in a shower of clear, glittering fragments, the torn heart coming to rest just inches from her outflung hand. She stared up at the chapel ceiling with wide, sightless eyes. But Sebastian didn’t even pause to make certain she was dead.

He was already running for the door.

P
aul Gibson sat with his back propped against the edge of the kitchen table, a smile crinkling his eyes as h
e watched Alexi fill the teakettle and set it on the trivet.

“I didn’t offer you a place to stay to turn you into some one-legged Irishman’s cook and housekeeper.”

She looked up at him. The firelight gleamed through the glorious cascade of her hair in a way that made him think of misty sunrises and the first turning leaves of autumn. “Mrs. Federico will be back, just as soon as she feels she’s made her point.” She straightened and came to stand between his spread thighs, her hands on his shoulders, her gaze locked with his as she mimicked his brogue. “And what’s wrong with a one-legged Irishman, then? Hmm?”

He rested his hands on her hips, still awed by the realization that she desired him, that she saw something of worth in him. He was desperately afraid she’d eventually realize he wasn’t worthy of her, that she was driven more by a combination of gratitude and pity than by a recognition of deep affinity and the kind of loving respect that could endure.

“Alexi—,” he began, only to break off at the sound of a knock on the front door.

“Well, go on,” she said, moving away with a laugh when he hesitated.

He pushed regretfully to his feet. “That’ll be Devlin, come for the results of the autopsy on that Haymarket jeweler.”

Snagging a brace of candles, he limped down the passage to open the front door. Only it wasn’t Devlin; it was Lord Jarvis’s tall, intimidating daughter, a footman at her side holding an umbrella. A fine rain had begun to fall, driven in stinging eddies by a growing wind.

“Good God, Lady Devlin.” Gibson took a quick step back. “Come in, please. Is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” she said, giving her wet skirts a shake as she entered the narrow passage. She nodded to the footman, who closed the umbrella and darted back toward the waiting carriage. “I’d like to speak to Alexi Sauvage. Is she here?”

“I am.”

Gibson looked over his shoulder to find Alexi standing with her head held high, her arms folded tight against her waist. The two women’s gazes met, clashed.

“I won’t keep you,” said the Viscountess. “I’ve come to apologize for my rudeness. I accused you of the basest of motives, when your sole intent was to try to save the life of my child, and for that I am sorry.”

Alexi came up beside him, her lips parted in surprise. “It worked? The babe turned?”

A strange smile played about the Viscountess’s lips, and Gibson thought he’d never seen her look more approachable—or more likeable. “Yes. I don’t know how to thank you, except to say . . . I’m sorry.”

She turned to leave, but Alexi put out a hand, stopping her. “I was just making tea. Please say you’ll join us.”

The Viscountess shook her head. “I don’t want to intrude.”

“At least stay ’til the storm eases up a bit,” said Gibson as the rain pelted down harder.

She hesitated, then gave a slow smile. “All right. Thank you.”

He led the way to the parlor while Alexi disappeared into the kitchen. “When I heard your knock,” he said, setting the candlestick on the chest near the door, “I thought it might be Devlin coming about Farragut’s autopsy.”

She went to stand before the fire, her hands extended toward the blaze. “Did you discover anything?”

“Just this, which I’ll admit has nothing to do with the poor man’s murder.” He picked up one of the heavy, alcohol-filled specimen jars that lined the mantel. “It’s a wee bit hard to see, I’ll admit.”

“What it is? It looks like a—”

She broke off, the color draining from her face as she stared beyond him, toward the doorway.

Breathing in a sudden stench of wet wool and fresh wood shavings and rank male sweat, Gibson turned, feeling as if he were helplessly caught in a dream spinning into an irrevocable nightmare.

Sampson Bullock filled the doorway, his hat and shoulders dark with rain, his features twisted into a triumphant sneer. He held Alexi before him, a hank of her fiery hair wrapped around his meaty fist, the blade of a butcher knife laid flat against her cheek. Her face was alabaster white, her throat working violently as she fought to swallow.

She was so small the top of her head didn’t even come up to the massive cabinetmaker’s shoulder, and Gibson felt his heart thump against his ribs, heard a strange roaring in his ears. His gaze locked with Alexi’s and he took an unconscious step forward. “What the bloody—”

“Come any closer and the lady doctor here loses an eye,” warned Bullock, increasing the pressure on the flat of the blade until it pressed into Alexi’s face, distorting her features and drawing a trickle of blood high on her cheek.

Gibson drew up, his hands gripping the specimen jar so hard they hurt. He was suddenly, hideously aware of the rasp of his breath sucking in and out, the violent flickering of the candle flames eddied by a cold draft he realized must be coming from the open kitchen door.

“Who are you?” demanded the Viscountess.

“Don’t ye know?” The cabinetmaker gave a jeering laugh that held no real humor. “Ye mean to say your husband, the high and mighty Viscount Devlin, didn’t tell ye ’bout me?”

“His name is Sampson Bullock,” said Alexi, her voice awe-inspiringly calm, “and he’s here because he holds me responsible for his brother’s death.”

Bullock tightened his hold on her hair hard enough to make her wince as he pulled her head back at an unnatural angle. “Ye are responsible, ye bloody bitch. I told ye I’d make ye sorry ye ever stuck that Frenchie nose of yers where it don’t belong. Ye sorry now, hmm? Thanks to you, yer brother’s dead, and that woman of yers too. Now it’s yer turn.” He slid the knife away from her cheek to point it at Hero Devlin. “And hers.”

Gibson took a slow, careful step forward, then another, the specimen jar still gripped in his hands. He was shaking so badly he nearly dropped it, his gait an awkward hobble.

“Damn ye; I told ye not to move,” swore Bullock. He nodded to the specimen in Gibson’s hands. “Wot the bloody hell is that?”

“This?” Gibson held up the jar. “It’s a heart.” His gaze locked with Alexi’s. He tried desperately to convey to her what he intended to do even as he acknowledged that was impossible. He hoped that at least she understood to expect something.

He eased the cork from the jar’s wide top. “It’s quite oddly shaped. Want to see?” he asked, and dashed the contents in the cabinetmaker’s face.

Bullock roared and reared back as the alcohol stung his eyes. He held on to the knife but let go of Alexi to swipe his big hand across his face.

Ducking beneath his arm, she snatched up the brace of candles from the nearby chest and thrust their flames against his coat.

The alcohol-soaked cloth caught with a
whoosh
, the flames leaping up to light his long black hair.

“Alexi!” screamed Gibson, terrified the flames would ignite the alcohol that had inevitably also splashed over her head and shoulders.

Bullock let out another bellow, turning blindly this way and that, sending his battered hat flying as he beat at his head and tried to tear off his flaming coat. “I’ll kill ye!” he screamed. “I’ll kill ye all.”

Devlin’s wife whirled toward the fireplace. It wasn’t until she seized the poker with both hands that Gibson realized what she was about. Throwing all her weight behind it, she took a step forward and swung the poker at the cabinetmaker’s head.

The solid iron bar smashed into the side of Bullock’s skull with an ugly, bone-crunching
thwunk
. He went down hard, knocking over the end table as he fell, the flames leaping from his coat and hair to catch the tattered, alcohol-soaked carpet.

“Quick,” shouted Gibson, stumbling and almost falling as he lurched toward the windows. “The drapes!”

Alexi got there first, yanking down the worn, heavy cloth in a cloud of dust and cobwebs. Hero Devlin tore off her cape, smoke billowing as she beat at the flames that were already crackling toward the door.

“Here!” shouted Alexi, flinging the drapes at the fire.

Together they beat and stomped until the last of the flames had died and the cabinetmaker lay in the midst of a black, charred carpet, his head a pulpy mess.

“I trust he’s dead,” said the Viscountess.

“Yes,” said Alexi.

Their breath coming hard and fast, their faces flushed with heat and triumph, the three exchanged exultant glances that required no words to clarify their meaning.

Then a distant shout and the crash of the front door brought them around.

Devlin catapulted into the parlor, only to draw up short, his gaze jerking from his wife, to Gibson and Alexi, to the bloody, blackened corpse at their feet.

“What the hell?”

The Viscountess wore a strange, stunned expression that puzzled Gibson until he noticed the wet stain that soaked her skirts and spread across the carpet at her feet—a stain that had nothing to do with the alcohol he had thrown.

“Well,” said Gibson with a laugh driven by giddy relief. “You may be a wee bit late to help take care of Mr. Bullock here. But at least you’re in time to escort your wife home—quickly, I should think. From the looks of things, your babe has decided that now is a grand time to be putting in its appearance.”

Saturday, 30 January

T
he babe might have turned, but Hero labored hard all that night and half of the next day. At first, Sebastian helped her walk back and forth before the fire as the storm outside whipped wild gusts of wind and driven rain against the house. Then, when the pains came so hard and fast she could no longer walk, he sat beside her, her hand held fast in his. If he could have taken her pain into his own body, he would have done so. After a few more hours, he thought that if he could give his life to stop this endless, inhuman agony, he’d do that too.

And still the babe refused to come.

“Mother of God, why don’t you
do
something?” he raged once at Alexi Sauvage sometime around midafternoon. Gibson had insisted on deferring to the French doctor, saying she’d delivered more babies in the past year alone than he had in his entire career. But as the hours dragged on and on, and Hero labored in grim-faced, silent endurance, Sebastian had to doubt his friend’s wisdom.

The Frenchwoman looked at him, her own face flushed and etched with lines of exhaustion. “Your son will come when he is ready, my lord.”

“First babes do have a habit of taking their own sweet time,” said Gibson softly.

How much time?
Sebastian wanted to scream. But somehow he swallowed it and plastered a facade of calm over a cold, soul-destroying terror.

Occasionally he could hear the voices of Hendon, Jarvis, and Lady Jarvis, waiting together in a tense vigil downstairs. Claire Bisette kept bringing food that Gibson and Alexi both ate with a hearty appetite that Sebastian found revolting. And then, just when Sebastian thought Hero could surely endure no more, Alexi said, “It’s coming.”

He couldn’t look. And so he looked instead at Hero’s face. And he knew that any man who’d ever arrogantly boasted of the male sex’s superior strength, endurance, and courage had never watched a woman give birth.

“You did it, my lady,” said Alexi, her voice thick with a rare emotion.

Hero clutched Sebastian’s arm, her fingers digging deep into his flesh, her entire body shaking and heaving with exhaustion and triumph. “Is it all right? Please tell me it’s all right.”

She was answered by a lusty squall that brought a sting of tears to Sebastian’s eyes, so that he had to bury his face in the sweat-soaked tangle of Hero’s hair.

“You’ve a fine son,” said Alexi, holding up a kicking, screaming infant smeared with a hellish mixture of blood and something white and waxy.

Hero gave a tired, shaky laugh, her arms opening wide to receive her son.

She lay smiling down at the screaming infant for the longest time, an expression Sebastian had never seen before softening her features. Then she looked up, her gaze meeting his, and he fell in love with her all over again.

“Told you it was a boy,” she whispered. “The next one can be your girl.”

Just the thought of putting her through this again made his legs suddenly feel weak, and he found he had to sit.

“Have you decided on a name?” asked Alexi.

“Simon,” said Hero. After months of wrangling, they’d finally reached a compromise: She could name the boys, while he would name the girls. “Simon Alistair St. Cyr.”

She shifted the babe to face Sebastian, so that he got his first really good look at his son. He had a head of thick dark hair plastered to his skull, but his eyes were screwed shut, his face contorted and flushed red with his howls.

“What color are his eyes?” asked Gibson.

“I don’t know,” said Hero. “He’s screaming so hard I can’t see.”

And then, as if aware of the intense scrutiny directed upon him, Simon St. Cyr drew in a shuddering breath, ceased his cries, and opened his eyes.

“The Lord above preserve us,” said Gibson.

They were yellow.

Tuesday, 2 February

The day dawned gray and blustery, the clouds heavy with the threat of more rain.

Paul Gibson stood beside the grave of Damion Pelletan. A small hole had been dug down through the grave’s soft, recently filled earth. Alexi stood at his side, a small wooden box containing her brother’s heart held in her hands. The wind whipped the hair around her head and flapped the black skirts of her mourning gown. Her face was pale but composed, her head held high. He wondered if she was praying, and realized he didn’t even know this about her—if she believed in a God, or sought solace in her religion.

He’d asked her last night as they lay in each other’s arms if she was truly certain that Damion Pelletan was her father’s son and not the Lost Dauphin of the Temple. She’d looked at him quietly for a moment. Then her gaze shifted to someplace far, far away. She shook her head, her breath catching, and said, “No.”

He supposed they’d never know the truth. Perhaps some questions were never meant to be answered. He wondered if anyone would ever know or even care how many millions had lost their lives in this endless war that raged from one end of Europe to the other. Some died filled with that oddly altruistic hubris known as patriotism; some died for glory or God or money to buy ale and whores; others for a dimly understood—or misunderstood—principle. But most died simply because they were in the wrong place, or because they were doing what they were told.

He figured arrogant men of overweening ambition and insatiable greed would always manage to convince or coerce others into dying for them.

He watched Alexi nestle the small wooden box containing Damion Pelletan’s heart deep into the space that had been dug for it, then take a handful of dirt from the pile beside it and release it in a rush of falling earth.

Gibson nodded to the sexton, who began to fill the hole with heavy shovelfuls that quickly hid the box from their sight.

The heart of an uncrowned king or a simple physician’s son; did it matter which they buried? Gibson wondered. He thought not, although he knew that for questions such as this wars were fought and men died, and other men such as he limped through life on mangled limbs.

They stood together side by side until the last of the earth lay heaped upon the grave and the sexton walked away. And still they stood, her hand creeping out to take his, their gazes meeting as the wind snatched at her hair and her lips curved into a trembling smile.