Why Kings Confess Read online

  “You have no idea.”

  The two men turned together to walk up the street toward Portman Square.

  Sebastian said, “Why did you attend Damion Pelletan’s funeral?”

  “I am not sure. Out of respect, I suppose.”

  “Is that all?”

  LaChapelle cast him a quick, sideways glance. “Eighteen years ago, the boy who was destined to be King Louis XVII of France died in a filthy prison cell at the age of ten. Yet even before his body was consigned to an anonymous grave in some forgotten churchyard, the rumors had already begun to fly. There is no denying that while the boy lived, there were several plots hatched to spirit the Dauphin away and replace him with another boy, a mute, dying of consumption. So after his death, it is inevitable that some would cling to the hope that one of those plots succeeded—that a switch was made, that the child who died in the Temple was an imposter, and that the Dauphin himself still lives.”

  “What does any of this have to do with Damion Pelletan?”

  “Few people alive today know the truth of what happened in the Temple Prison. Dr. Philippe-Jean Pelletan may be one of them. But the senior Pelletan is in France, beyond the Bourbons’ ability to question him. There was hope that Damion Pelletan, the son, might know some of the events of those dark days. But he claimed he did not.”

  “Did the Bourbons believe him?”

  “Frankly? I doubt it.”

  The two men walked on in silence for a moment. Then Sebastian said, “You do realize that, depending on where the truth lies, the House of Bourbon could conceivably have had two distinct motives for killing Damion Pelletan?”

  “Two?”

  “The first, obviously, would be to disrupt the delegation from Paris, thus putting an end to the possibility of any peace accord that would leave Napoléon Bonaparte as Emperor of France.”

  “Such a peace will never come to pass, with or without Pelletan’s murder.”

  “Perhaps. But why take the chance?”

  LaChapelle snorted. “To even suggest that the French royal family would stoop to murder is absurd.”

  “To recover their kingdom? What is one more man’s death when millions have already died?”

  The Frenchman’s jaw tightened. “And your second so-called motive?”

  “Revenge.”

  “Seriously? For what?”

  “Damion Pelletan’s father was brought to the Temple to treat the critically ill Dauphin. But the boy died anyway. One could conceivably fault the physician for his death.”

  “One would need to be brutal and cruel beyond measure to kill an innocent young man simply to avenge oneself on the man’s father.”

  “And to cut out his heart?” said Sebastian.

  They drew up at the edge of the square and Sebastian turned to face the courtier. But the Frenchman simply shook his head and shifted his gaze to the elliptical gardens at the center of the square, where children laughed and frolicked in the snow.

  Sebastian said, “What are the chances that a substitution was made in the prison? That the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette lives?”

  Ambrose LaChapelle shook his head. “There is no Lost Dauphin. I told you this tale to explain the interest of Provence and Marie-Thérèse in Dr. Pelletan. But there is no doubt in my mind that the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette is dead. He died eighteen years ago in prison and lies buried in a pauper’s grave in the churchyard of Ste. Marguerite. Believe me, monsieur: If you seek Damion Pelletan’s murderer, there is no need to delve so deeply into the events of the dark and distant past. There are plenty of motives to be found in the life the man was living here and now.”

  “Oh? Such as?”

  “You have heard, I assume, of the fighting within the delegation from Paris?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you never wondered why Damion Pelletan agreed to come to London as Harmond Vaundreuil’s personal physician? I have heard it was for love.”

  “For love?” repeated Sebastian.

  “Mmm. Vaundreuil’s daughter, Madame Madeline Quesnel, is a very attractive woman.”

  “She is with child. By her dead husband.”

  “She is, yes. But some women are never more beautiful than when they are with child. And she is, as you say, a widow.”

  “What precisely are you suggesting? That Pelletan was murdered by a rival for Madame Quesnel’s affections?”

  “You suggest that Damion Pelletan’s heart was removed because his father may once have removed the heart of the dead Dauphin. I find it more likely that he fell victim to a rival in an affaire de coeur.”

  Sebastian studied the courtier’s long, delicate face. The faint traces of last night’s rouge were still visible in the pores of his skin. “Why should I believe you?”

  LaChapelle shrugged, as if whether Sebastian believed him or not was a matter of supreme indifference to him. “Look into it. I think you might be surprised by what you learn.”

  Then he turned and walked away, his furled umbrella twirling around and around as he softly hummed a familiar tune. It took Sebastian a moment to place the song.

  It was the Marseillaise.

  Chapter 29

  Mitt Peebles was sweeping the melting snow from the footpath before the Gifford Arms when Sebastian walked up to him.

  “You again,” said Mitt, wagging a finger at Sebastian. “I know who you are now. And I know why you was asking me all them questions.”

  “Oh? Who told you?”

  “Nobody told me!” He tapped his finger against his forehead, his head cocked sideways as if pondering a great philosophical problem. “Done figured it out all by meself, I did.”

  “Impressive.” Sebastian lifted his gaze to the inn’s symmetrical facade.

  “If you’re looking for Harmond Vaundreuil, he ain’t here. Went off with the other two early this morning, he did. Most likely won’t be back before midafternoon.”

  “What about Monsieur Vaundreuil’s daughter, Madame Quesnel?”

  “Oh, she’s here, all right.” Mitt jerked his head toward the rear of the inn. “There’s a private garden out the back; gate’s by the stables. That’s where you can usually find her. She likes to walk more’n anybody I ever did see, and it don’t matter the weather.”

  “Thank you,” said Sebastian, passing the man a coin.

  Mitt’s face split into a huge grin. “Anytime, your lordship. Anytime.”

  Tucked away between the row houses of York Street and the Recruit House that faced onto Birdcage Walk, the garden was irregular in shape, with its western end divided into four sections by paths that met at a wooden arbor covered with the thick, bare branches of an old wisteria. He found her there, one hand resting on the weathered wood beside her as she stared off over closely planted beds still blanketed white by last night’s fall of wet snow. She stood utterly still, and he had the impression her thoughts were far, far away, in both time and place.

  She wore a heavy black wool cloak that swelled gently over her rounded belly, and a close bonnet with a black velvet poke shielding her face. But at the sound of his approach, she turned, her features registering surprise but not alarm.

  “Madame Quesnel?” he asked, bowing. “My apologies for intruding. My name is Devlin.”

  She couldn’t have been more than twenty-three or twenty-four, with milky white skin and pretty, even features. “I know who you are,” she said in a softly lilting accent. “My father pointed you out to me the other day. He says you are looking into the death of Damion Pelletan. Is that true?”

  “I am, yes.”

  “Good.”

  “Somehow I get the impression your father doesn’t exactly share your sentiments.”

  “No; of course he does not. If anything, he is furious with Dr. Pelletan for getting himself killed—as if he did it deliberately to sabotage Father’s mission.”

  Something of his reaction must have shown on her face, because she gave a wry smile and said, “You are surprised that I would men
tion Father’s mission? I see no point in continuing a fiction when you already know the truth.”

  “Thank you for that, at least.”

  They turned to walk along a brick path that led toward the distant park. “How long had you known Dr. Pelletan?” Sebastian asked.

  “Two—perhaps three years. Father began seeing him shortly after he developed heart problems. He credits Dr. Pelletan with keeping him alive, so he is taking this death quite personally.”

  “But not so personally as to try to help catch his physician’s killer?”

  “My father’s priorities are . . . elsewhere.”

  Sebastian studied her half-averted profile. “What manner of man was he?”

  “Damion Pelletan? I doubt you will find anyone with anything harsh to say about him. He was everything you could wish for in a physician, and more. Gentle, kind . . .”

  Her words were admiring. But he could detect nothing of the attitude of the lover in her manner.

  “Do you know anything of his family, in Paris?” Sebastian asked. “Does he leave a wife?”

  She shook her head. “No. He never married.”

  “What about a fiancée? Was he betrothed?”

  “No.” A faint smile touched her eyes, then slowly faded, as if the memory his words had provoked was too sad to hold. “He told me once that he fell in love at the age of eleven and swore never to love another.”

  “As did many of us,” said Sebastian. “It seldom endures.”

  “Perhaps. Although in Dr. Pelletan’s case, he actually did remain faithful.”

  “What happened to the object of his love? Did she die?”

  “No. Her father was forced to flee France, and she had to go with him. She swore she would wait for Damion. But she did not.”

  Sebastian stared out over the snow-covered garden, its careful plantings invisible beneath the anonymous hollows and bumps of the blanketing white. “I take it she married someone else?”

  “Yes. Some years ago.”

  “And yet he loved her still?”

  “He did. Always.”

  Sebastian kept his voice level. “Do you know the woman’s name?”

  “Only her first name. He called her ‘Julia.’”

  The gate slammed behind them, a sharp clang of metal against metal. Sebastian turned to see Harmond Vaundreuil striding toward them, his gloved hands curled into fists that swung at his sides, his feet splayed out to keep from slipping on the slushy path.

  “You!” he shouted, his voice booming out when he was still some twenty or more feet away, one pointed finger coming up to punch the air between them. “What are you doing here? You stay away from my daughter, you hear? You stay away from her!”

  Sebastian touched his hat and bowed to the young widow. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  He saw no shadow of fear in her eyes. Vaundreuil’s noisy bluster obviously did not frighten her. “I’d like to help in any way I can,” she said quietly. “I want Damion Pelletan’s killer brought to justice.”

  Harmond Vaundreuil’s voice cut across the snow-filled garden. “Why are you here? What do you think my daughter can tell you that could possibly be of any use to you? Pelletan was set upon by footpads; you want to find his killers, go search for them in the stews and gutters of London. Not here!”

  Sebastian touched his hat again. “Monsieur.”

  The Frenchman drew up, his puffy face red, his breath coming in wheezy gasps that billowed white around him as he glared silently back at Sebastian.

  Sebastian brushed past him on his way to the gate.

  “You stay away from my daughter!” Vaundreuil shouted after him. “You hear? Do you hear me?”

  Sebastian pivoted to face him again. “You’re afraid of something. What is it?”

  But Vaundreuil only clenched his jaw, his eyes bulging like those of a man who has just seen his worst nightmare come true.

  • • •

  “So Lady Peter lied to you,” said Hero, one hand tucked through the crook of Sebastian’s arm. It was just before noon, and they had come here, to Hyde Park, for the kind of brisk walk Richard Croft frowned upon. What with the cold and the wet snow and the unfashionable hour, they essentially had the park to themselves. But the pathways were slippery enough that she was being very careful where she put her feet. “Damion Pelletan and his Julia were considerably more than mere childhood friends.”

  “They were indeed. Although it’s always possible she didn’t realize just how deeply his affections were engaged.”

  “She knew. She promised to wait for him.”

  “True. But that was long ago. She may not have known that he was still in love with her. It’s been nine years since her family was forced to leave France. That’s a long time.”

  “Not for some men,” Hero said quietly, and Sebastian felt his face grow hot, for he had loved Kat Boleyn for eight long years and more, and Hero knew it.

  After a moment, she said, “You think that is why Pelletan decided to come to London? To see her again?”

  “I’d say it’s a strong possibility. Although it doesn’t reflect well on him, given that she’s been happily married for some years now.”

  “You don’t know that she’s happily married.”

  Sebastian thought about the bruises he’d seen on her arm, the black and blue imprints of an angry man’s punishing fingers. “You’re right; I don’t know. In fact, given what I know of Lord Peter Radcliff, I suspect she’s been unhappily married for most of those years.”

  Hero looked over at him. “I wonder if Damion Pelletan knew that?”

  Sebastian met her gaze. “That’s a question I intend to ask her.”

  • • •

  Lady Peter Radcliff was in Clifford’s Lending Library in the Strand, reaching to put a slim blue volume back up on a high shelf, when Sebastian took it from her and slipped it into place.

  “Allow me,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She twisted her gloved hands around the strings of her reticule, her lovely eyes darting this way and that, as if in fear that they might be observed.

  Today she wore an elegant walking dress of jaconet muslin, with three piped flounces and a purple velvet spencer. But the gown was not quite in the latest style, and it occurred to Sebastian, looking at her, that Lord Peter’s finances might not be in the best of order.

  He said quietly, “I’ve discovered you haven’t been truthful with me, Lady Peter.”

  Her lips parted with a quickly indrawn breath. “I don’t know what you could possibly mean.”

  “Damion Pelletan wasn’t simply your childhood friend. He was once in love with you, as you were with him. When you left Paris, you promised to wait for him. Forever.”

  He expected her to deny it. Instead, she dropped her gaze to her hands and sank her teeth into her lower lip. “Forever is a long time,” she said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. “Especially for a woman.”

  “Did you know he was still in love with you?”

  She shook her head slowly back and forth. But he saw the telltale flush deepening in her cheeks and knew it for a lie.

  He said, “I’m told Damion Pelletan came to London because of a woman. It was you, wasn’t it?”

  “No! Please,” she said hoarsely, her gaze lifting to his, pleading. “If my husband hears I’ve been seen talking to you, he’ll—”

  “Beat you?”

  All color drained from her face. “No!”

  “Damion Pelletan came to London to see a woman. If not you, then who was it?” he pressed.

  She backed away from him, her head still shaking from side to side. “His sister,” she whispered. “He came here to see his sister.”

  “His sister? What sister?”

  She stared at him as if his lack of knowledge took her by surprise. “Alexi.”

  Sebastian could feel his pulse pounding in his throat. “Are you telling me that Alexandrie Sauvage is Damion Pelletan’s sister?”

  “Didn’
t you know?”

  “No. No, I did not.”

  Chapter 30

  Sebastian’s loud knock at the surgery on Tower Hill was met with silence.

  Smothering an oath, he pounded on the house next door, expecting Gibson’s housekeeper, Mrs. Federico, to answer. Instead, Gibson’s door was opened by Alexi Sauvage herself.

  She stood with one hand on the latch, her face set in hostile lines, so that he thought for a moment that she might slam the door in his face.

  He said, “Where is Gibson?”

  “At St. Bartholomew’s.”

  He let his gaze rove over her. She wore the same worn gray walking dress from the night of her attack, although someone had obviously made an effort to clean the stains from its cloth. “You appear to be much better.”

  “I am. I told Gibson this morning that I am well enough to go home.”

  “Yet you’re still here,” he said, pushing past her into the passageway.

  She closed the door with a snap and swung to face him. “He disagrees.”

  Sebastian searched her face, the delicate, cinnamon-dusted nose, the dark brown eyes, the high cheekbones, looking for some resemblance to the man he’d seen so briefly on Gibson’s slab.

  He couldn’t find it.

  She put one hand on her hip, “I understand you consider Paul Gibson your friend.”

  “He is my friend, yes. Why?”

  “Do you know your friend is an opium eater?”

  This was not the conversation Sebastian had come here intending to have. “I know he takes laudanum from time to time.”

  “He has moved far beyond that.”

  When Sebastian remained silent, she said, “You knew, yet you’ve done nothing?”

  “What would you have me do? He’s in pain—severe, soul-corroding pain. As a physician, you of all people should understand that. Opium is how he deals with it.”

  “It’s killing him.”

  “The pain would kill him.”

  “There are things that can be done to help.”

  “With the pain, or with his opium ad—” He started to say “addiction” and changed it to “—problem.”

  “Both.”

  “I didn’t come here to talk about Gibson. I want to know why the bloody hell you didn’t tell us that Damion Pelletan was your brother.”