Why Kings Confess (8 page)

H
armond Vaundreuil drew up in the shadow of the chapel’s modest portico. He was built small and rotund, with fat fingers and a short neck swathed in a voluminous white cravat. He had full cheeks and the kind of eyes that practically disappeared into his round pink face when he smiled, so that the effect was one of cordial good cheer. It was an effect that Sebastian knew, even without being told, was deceptive. One did not achieve Vaundreuil’s position without a ruthless opportunism and the kind of brutal self-interest that gave no quarter and took no prisoners.

“I know who you are,” he said. “You’re that earl’s son—the one with a peculiar obsession with murder and justice. Devlin, isn’t it? I saw you standing at the back of the church.”

Sebastian turned to face him. “Decided not to stay for the funeral mass?”

The Frenchman gave a soft laugh. “I was trained for the priesthood, as a boy. Needless to say, the choice of a vocation was not mine. In my family, second sons joined the army and third sons became priests. If for no other reason, I shall forever be grateful to the Revolution for sparing me a life of hypocrisy and unutterable ennui. Believe me, Damion Pelletan would have known better than to expect me to sit through his funeral mass.”

“You knew Pelletan well?”

“He was my personal physician. I have a troublesome heart, you see.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

“No?” Vaundreuil slowly descended the last step, an odd, tight smile crinkling the flesh beside his eyes as he drew up on the footpath. “Be wise, my lord, and leave well enough alone, hmm? Believe me, it is better for all concerned if Damion Pelletan is thought to have been killed by footpads.”

“Better for you, for me, or for Damion Pelletan?”

Vaundreuil’s smile widened. “For everyone.”

“Someone tried to kill me today, on the road from Hartwell House. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Vaundreuil laughed out loud with what sounded like genuine amusement. “They are a murderous lot, the Bourbons. And you have no idea what you are meddling in.”

“Not exactly,” agreed Sebastian. “But I have a very fertile imagination—plus a healthy appreciation for what the loss of half a million men in six months can do to popular perception of an upstart leader’s legitimacy.”

The Frenchman was no longer smiling.

Sebastian said, “Given that a member of your delegation has been—”

“
Delegation?
What nonsense is this?”

“—has been murdered, one might expect you to cooperate with any attempt to find his killer. Yet you appear to have no interest. Why is that?”

“But we are cooperating—with Bow Street. And Bow Street assures us that Pelletan was killed by footpads. Why try to make his death out to be something more than it was?”

“Damion Pelletan was not killed by footpads, and you know it.”

“So certain, my lord?”

“What kind of footpad steals a man’s heart and leaves his purse?”

Vaundreuil’s face went utterly slack with what looked very much like horror.
“What did you say?”

“You heard me.” Sebastian studied the other man’s pale, suddenly haggard features. “Would you have me believe you didn’t know?”

The Frenchman swiped a shaky hand across his mouth. “No. I was not told the details. I mean, I saw the body at that dreadful surgery near the Tower. I knew the chest was— But . . . the heart? Taken?” He swallowed hard. “You are certain?”

“You find the knowledge unsettling. Why?”

“Good God; who would not find it unsettling? I mean . . . to steal a man’s heart! It is barbaric. It is the work of madness. What a violent, dangerous place this London of yours is.”

“True. Yet it’s considerably more salubrious than Paris in, say, 1793. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Vaundreuil’s jaw hardened. “Those dark days are twenty years in our past.”

“Twenty years is not so long ago.”

The wind gusted up, scuttling a loose playbill down the street and bringing them the voice of the priest with sudden, unexpected clarity.
“Ambulabo coram Domino, in regione vivorum . . .”

Sebastian said, “Who would want to put an end to the possibility of peace talks between Napoléon Bonaparte and the British government?”

“I never said—”

“Very well; in honor of your exquisite sensitivity to the finer points of language, I’ll rephrase the question:
If
preliminary peace talks were to be held between Paris and London, who would have an interest in seeing them brought to an untimely end?”

“Truly,
monsieur
? The list is endless. In my experience, those for whom war is lucrative are rarely satiated. For them, war is opportunity, not hardship or sorrow. After all, it is rarely their sons who lie in unmarked graves on foreign soil.”

Sebastian studied the fat, successful bureaucrat before him. Vaundreuil himself had obviously profited handsomely from the Revolution and the endless wars that followed it. But all Sebastian said was, “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

The Frenchman gave a tight-lipped smile. “Surely you know those in England who profit from war better than I, yes?”

“And the French?”

Vaundreuil shook his head. “In France, even those who once grew rich off the empire know that the efforts of the last two decades are no longer sustainable. I suspect you’ll find that those French most fervently opposed to the idea of peace between England and Napoléon are to be found on
this
side of the Channel, not the other.”

“You mean the royalists?”

“The émigrés, the royalists, the Bourbons. There are tens of thousands of my former compatriots here. Most dream of someday returning to France. And of revenge.”

“Do the Bourbons know of your presence here in London?”

“Officially? No. But there are few involved in this conflict who do not have their own spies.”

“Any chance the Comte de Provence could be behind Pelletan’s death?”

“Provence?” Vaundreuil crinkled his nose in a way that turned down the corners of his mouth. “The soi-disant Louis XVIII is ill, childless, and old before his time. In my opinion, the one who bears watching is the younger brother, the Comte d’Artois. Artois, and his niece, the Duchesse d’Angoulême. It would be a mistake to dismiss Marie-Thérèse as half-mad. She is, after all, Marie Antoinette’s daughter. I have heard Napoléon himself say that Marie-Thérèse is the only real man in her family.”

“He fears her?”

“I would not go so far as to say he fears her. But he watches her, yes. He definitely watches her.” Vaundreuil touched his hand to his hat and inclined his head.
“Monsieur.”

He was turning away when Sebastian asked, “Are you by chance acquainted with Lord Peter Radcliff?”

The Frenchman pivoted slowly to face him again. “I know the man well enough to have recognized him, if that’s what you mean.” An unexpected gleam of amusement lit Vaundreuil’s small, dark eyes. “I assume you noticed that he, likewise, did not stay for Pelletan’s funeral mass?”

“Why would a son of the Duke of Linford attend the funeral of a French physician who arrived in London only three weeks ago?”

“I believe Radcliff is married to a young Frenchwoman. Someone Pelletan knew in Paris many years ago.”

Sebastian was familiar with the young Lady Peter, for her beauty was legendary. She had come to England nine years before, when her father—a highly respected general in the Grand Army—had a falling-out with Napoléon that forced the family to flee France. But she had not arrived in London penniless, for the general had managed to accumulate a small fortune that he kept safely abroad. And he had settled nearly half of his wealth on his beautiful daughter.

An unpleasant gleam shone in Vaundreuil’s eyes. “Perhaps you seek too complicated a motive for this murder,
monsieur
. Perhaps what we are dealing with is a simple—if somewhat ghoulish—
affaire de coeur.
It would explain much, yes?”

“Was Pelletan in love with Lady Peter?”

“Once, perhaps; who knows? Damion Pelletan was my physician, not my friend or confidant.” Vaundreuil bowed again. “And now you really must excuse me, my lord.”

Sebastian watched him stroll away toward Portman Square, the cold wind flapping the tails of his black coat, while from inside the church came a low, mournful chant.

“Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem. Amen.”

L
ord P
eter Radcliff was one of those men who wore the dignity of his exalted birth with an easy grace and a good-natured smile. Born into a life of rare wealth and privilege, he was a duke’s second son, which meant that all responsibility for maintaining the family’s vast estates and managing their considerable investments fell not to him but to his elder brother. To Lord Peter came a handsome allowance and the freedom to spend his days as he saw fit, lounging in the famous bow window at White’s, hunting in Melton Mowbray, and surrounding himself with a circle of bon vivants known for their exquisite manners, their flawless taste, and their willingness to bet on almost anything.

Like his friends Beau Brummell and Lord Alvanley, he’d once enjoyed a brief career in a fashionable London regiment. But he soon sold out to devote himself to the less demanding activities of a man-about-town. His marriage eight years before to one of the most beautiful women in London had little altered his way of life. Which was why, rather than look for Lord Peter at his comfortable house in Half Moon Street, Sebastian spent the evening moving from one gentlemen’s haunt to the next, from White’s in St. James’s Street to Watier’s in Piccadilly, and then on to Limmer’s—all without success.

He was sipping a fine French cognac in a fashionable coffeehouse near Conduit Street when Lord Peter entered the room and walked straight up to him.

“Why the devil are you looking for me?” he demanded, the fingers of one hand tapping against his hard thigh.

Sebastian leaned back in his seat. “I think you know.”

Radcliff hesitated a moment, then ordered a brandy, pulled out the chair opposite, and sat. “I saw you at the French chapel.”

Sebastian brought his cognac to his lips and regarded the Duke’s son over the glass’s rim. “You were friends with Damion Pelletan?”

“Me? No.” Radcliff propped one exquisitely polished boot on the other knee. The posture was casual, relaxed. He had a reputation amongst his friends for easygoing charm and boundless generosity, although Sebastian knew there were those who had seen another side of him, a side that could be brusque and condescending and freezingly arrogant. “I went for the sake of my wife. He was a friend of hers when she was a child, in Paris.”

“But you did know him?”

“I met him once or twice.” He gave Sebastian a hooded, sideways glance. “To be frank, I don’t quite understand why you’ve involved yourself in this. The papers are saying he was killed by footpads in St. Katharine’s.”

“He was killed in St. Katharine’s, yes. But footpads had nothing to do with it.”

Radcliff was silent for a moment, his gaze dropping to the glass he twirled back and forth between his hands. He was still an attractive man, with a wide, winning smile. But in repose, one could see that the years of dissipation were beginning to leave their marks in telltale ways, coarsening the texture of his flesh and loosening the muscle tone of his still trim frame.

Sebastian said, “What can you tell me about him? You say your wife knew him in Paris?”

Radcliff seemed to rouse himself from his brown study. “She did, yes. They grew up next door to each other on the Île de la Cité. His father is still a prominent physician at the Hôtel-Dieu or some such place.”

“Oh?”

Radcliff frowned. “I seem to recall hearing about a dustup of some sort or another involving the father, but it was years ago. Something to do with the royal family during the Terror. I couldn’t tell you exactly what.”

“What do you know of Damion Pelletan’s politics?”

“Politics?” Radcliff shook his head. “I had the impression Pelletan had no interest in politics. His passion was medicine.”

It struck Sebastian as more than a little strange that someone with no interest in politics would join a peace delegation, even if simply in the capacity of a physician. But all he said was, “When was the last time you saw him?”

Radcliff took a slow, deliberate sip of his brandy, as if carefully considering his response. “I don’t recall, precisely. A week ago, perhaps? Maybe more.”

“Not last Thursday night?” asked Sebastian, thinking of the unidentified man and woman who had visited Pelletan at the Gifford Arms the night of his death.

Radcliff froze with his glass suspended just above the table. All traces of easygoing bonhomie had vanished, leaving him looking mulish and vaguely sulky. “No;
not
Thursday night. I spent Thursday night at home alone with my wife.”

“All night?”

“Yes, damn you.”

Sebastian thrust out his legs to cross his boots at the ankles. “You say you attended Pelletan’s funeral for the sake of your wife. Is she distressed by his death?”

“Of course she is. What do you expect? They were old friends.”

“Yet, having put in an appearance at her childhood friend’s funeral, you didn’t feel the need to return home and comfort her?”

Angry color mottled Radcliff’s cheeks. “What the bloody hell do you mean to imply by that?”

“Have you by any chance heard precisely how Damion Pelletan was killed?”

A faint wariness crept over the other man’s features. “I assumed he was bludgeoned to death. That’s what footpads normally do, is it not?”

“Actually, he was stabbed in the back with a dagger. Then the killer—or killers— dragged his body into a noisome passage and cut out his heart.”

Something flared in the other man’s eyes, something quickly hidden by his lowered lids.

Sebastian watched him closely. “Do you have any idea why someone would want to do that? It seems rather symbolic, don’t you think? To rip a man’s heart from his chest.”

For one fierce moment, Radcliff’s gaze met his.

Then he slammed his unfinished brandy on the table and thrust up to stride quickly from the coffeehouse, the amber liquid in the glass sloshing violently back and forth until, at last, it stilled.

•   •   •

Half an hour later, Sebastian arrived at Tower Hill to find Paul Gibson seated on the wooden chair at the injured woman’s bedside, his elbows propped on his splayed knees, his chin in his hands. A basin with a cloth stood on a nearby table, its surface splashed dark with spilled water. He raised his head at Sebastian’s entrance but did not stand. In the bed, the woman lay terribly still, her eyes closed. Sweat glistened on her white forehead and drenched the flame red hair dark at the temples.

“How is she?” Sebastian asked quietly.

Gibson shook his head and let out a long, strained breath. “She’s delirious. I’m afraid her fever is climbing.”

“From the chill she took the night of the murder? Or from her injury?”

“There’s no way to tell.” He raked the disheveled hair from his face, then linked his fingers behind his neck to arch his back in a stretch. “I asked one of my colleagues at St. Bartholomew’s—Dr. Lothan—to stop by and have a look at her. He wanted to blister her, bleed her, and purge her—the usual panoply of ‘heroic’ medicine.”

“Did you let him?”

“No. I swear I’ve seen more men killed by bloodletting and purging than by cannon- and musket balls combined. I thanked him for his advice and showed him out. But ever since, I’ve been sitting here wondering if I shouldn’t at least have let him try it. I mean, I’m just a simple surgeon. I can set your broken arm or cut off your mangled leg, and if you’re game I might even undertake to cut out your kidney stones. But I’m no physician. I never went to Oxford or Cambridge; my Latin is abysmal, my Greek nonexistent, and the one time I tried to read Galen I gave it up after a few pages. Who am I to question a medical tradition that’s endured for more than two thousand years?”

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit. You know more about the human body than any physician I’ve ever met.”

Gibson gave a ragged laugh. “If you’re dead.” Reaching out, he squeezed the cloth over the basin and began again to bathe the woman’s face.

“Has she said anything more?” Sebastian asked, going to stand at the foot of the bed.

Gibson had reduced the size of the bandage on the woman’s head, so that Sebastian had his first good look at her. She was an attractive woman, in her late twenties or early thirties, with milky white skin faintly dusted with cinnamon across her high-bridged nose. Her eyes were closed, but Sebastian knew what color they would be if they were open: a deep, loamy brown.

“Nothing coherent,” said Gibson. But then he must have sensed the subtle shift in Sebastian’s posture, or perhaps a sudden charge in the air, because he turned to look at Sebastian. “What is it?”

Sebastian kept his gaze on the woman. “I’ve met her before.”

“You have? Where?”

“Portugal. Her name was Alexandrie Beauclerc then. The last time I saw her, she swore that if our paths ever crossed again, she would kill me.”