C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

“Well, from what I understand, Prinny is certainly most vocal in his determination to see the Bourbons restored to the throne of France.”

“And Papa?”

An unexpectedly wise smile curled her mother’s lips. “Must you ask? As far as your father is concerned, a compromise now would be folly. He insists that we shall soon see Napoleon driven from Paris by force of arms and a full restoration of the old ways.”

“Yet Wellington is still many miles from France, let alone Paris.”

“He is, yes.”

“And I’m not convinced it would be either easy or wise to reimpose ‘the old ways’ on a people who have been rid of them for nearly twenty-five years. The French have overthrown the Bourbons once, which means they’ll know they could do it again should they be so inclined. Next time, they might be shrewd enough not to set up an emperor in their king’s place. And then we would once again have a republican government right across the Channel-as opposed to far across the Atlantic-inspiring all sorts of dangerous urgings amongst the downtrodden masses.”

Annabelle’s hand fluttered up to press against her lips. “Good heavens, Hero; don’t let your father hear you talk like that! He’ll take you for a radical.”

“But I am a radical,” said Hero, and laughed softly at the look of horror on her mother’s face. She sipped her chocolate in silence for a moment, then said, “So if Jarvis is convinced Napoleon can be defeated by force of arms, why entertain this peace delegation at all?”

“From what I gather, the Prime Minister and certain members of the cabinet are more interested in the peace proposals than your father would like.”

“Ah.” Hero set aside her empty cup. “In that case, I should think the delegation’s presence in London is causing a few nervous spasms out at Hartwell House.”

“I don’t believe the Bourbons have been told of the delegation. Although of course that doesn’t mean they’re necessarily ignorant of its presence.” Lady Jarvis set aside her own cup and reached to take her daughter’s hand. “Now, enough of this boring nonsense. I want to hear how you are feeling.”

“I’m fine, Mama. Although I swear I am getting big enough to be carrying an elephant.”

She regretted the words as soon as she saw the look of anxiety flit across her mother’s face. “I’ll be fine, Mama.”

“I can’t help but worry. You are my daughter.”

Hero tightened her hold on her mother’s hand. “Mama. I’m a good foot taller than you and quite sturdily built. I’ll be fine.”

“When do you see Richard Croft again?”

Hero pulled a face. “Tomorrow.”

Annabelle’s forehead puckered with new concern. “I know you don’t care for the man, dear. But there’s no denying he’s the best accoucheur in Britain. Why, they say that the Regent has already secured Croft’s promise that when Charlotte marries and is with child, he’ll manage her confinement.”

“Pity poor Princess Charlotte.”

“Hero-”

“Mama.” Hero laughed again and leaned forward to kiss her mother’s cheek. “I swear, you are worse than Devlin. I am not only as big as an elephant, but as healthy as one too. You must stop worrying!”

Annabelle tilted her head as she searched Hero’s face. “Are you happy, darling?”

“Yes, very.”

Annabelle patted her hand. “I’m so glad for you.”

But the troubled frown remained.

“A nd you simply left the body there, in the wood?” asked Sir Henry Lovejoy, his voice squeaky with shock.

The two men were walking down Bow Street toward the Brown Bear, an ancient tavern that served as a kind of extension of the legendary public office across the street.

Sebastian glanced over at him. “What would you have had me do? Drive into Stoke Mandeville with a dead man propped up on the curricle seat beside me?”

Sir Henry’s eyes widened. “Goodness gracious, no. I must admit, I hadn’t thought of that.”

Sebastian turned his laugh into a credible cough. “I did alert the village magistrate. Unfortunately, during the time it took old Squire John to round up a couple of constables and a wagon in order to return with me to the scene, someone spirited away the corpse. I fear the worthy squire is more than half-convinced I made the whole thing up.”

“For your own amusement?”

“Something like that.” It had also made Sebastian damned late returning to London. He’d rushed back to Brook Street in an agony of apprehension and guilt, only to be told that Hero was spending the afternoon with her mother.

“I suppose it could have been highwaymen,” said Sir Henry. “Times are hard.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Aylesbury Vale isn’t exactly Finchley Common. Apart from which, the gentleman on the chestnut did not exactly look like he was in severe financial straits.”

The magistrate pursed his lips as he stared out over the crush of carts and wagons filling the narrow street. “The alternative possibility-that this attack is related to your involvement in the murder of Damion Pelletan-is troubling. Most troubling.” He glanced over at Sebastian. “How many people knew you were planning to drive out to Hartwell House today?”

“My entire household, for starters. But I suspect it’s more likely I was overheard making arrangements to hire a team from the livery stables in Boyle Street.”

Sir Henry frowned. “You think someone followed you?”

“Yes.”

“Dear me. I’ll have one of the lads pop around there and see if anyone came in after you, asking questions.”

Sebastian shook his head. “It might be better if I sent Tom. I wouldn’t want you to fall afoul of the chief magistrate.”

Sir Henry gave him a rare, tight smile. “My lads can be very discreet, when so inclined.” He cleared his throat. “They made some inquiries into the gentlemen staying at the Gifford Arms, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“The clerk is a man by the name of Camille Bondurant. He’s trained in the law and is said to be a rather taciturn man who generally keeps to himself. He takes a constitutional every morning up and down the Mall, at precisely ten o’clock.”

“And the colonel?”

“Colonel Andre Foucher. He was with Napoleon in Russia.”

“Now, that’s interesting.”

“Mmm. I thought so, as well. I’m told he’s fond of the Sultan’s Rest-a coffeehouse near the Armoury.” The magistrate started to turn into the Brown Bear, then paused to look back and say, “Did you know Pelletan’s funeral has been scheduled for this evening?”

“So soon? Where?”

“The French chapel near Portman Square. At seven o’clock.”

• • •

Sebastian found the chapel in Little George Street hung with black crepe and lit with branches of flaring beeswax candles. A row of high, plain windows showed black against the night sky, and a lingering memory of old incense mingled with the scents of hot wax and cold, dank stone.

The small Catholic church had been established late in the previous century by nonjuring priests fleeing the French Revolution. Its interior was plain to the point of being primitive, with only the Stations of the Cross and a scattering of wall-mounted tombs relieving the starkness. A prominently placed high-backed chair served as the “throne” of the uncrowned King of France whenever he chose to honor the congregation with his presence. If Damion Pelletan had indeed come to London as part of a delegation sent by Napoleon- as Hero’s conversation with her mother that afternoon certainly suggested-then the choice of this chapel as the site of his funeral struck Sebastian as mildly ironic. But then, it would never do to forget that Napoleon had managed to have himself crowned emperor by Pope Pius VII.