C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

Closing the door quietly behind him, Sebastian paused to glance down the short, central aisle to where a dark oaken casket draped in blue velvet stood open before the altar. He did not approach the coffin, but slipped sideways to stand against the rear wall, deep in the shadows thrown by the rickety wooden west gallery overhead.

A heavy, oppressive silence filled the church, punctuated by an occasional cough. There were only three mourners, scattered widely across the short rows of pews separated by a central aisle. He recognized Harmond Vaundreuil in the second row. The colonel, Andre Foucher, had taken a seat three rows back and far off to one side. As Sebastian watched, Foucher slipped his watch from his pocket and frowned down at the time. The third man, thin and bony faced, with a red nose and straight black hair, occupied the last row. Sebastian didn’t recognize him, but he had his head bent over a book, his shoulders hunched against the cold. This, surely, was the clerk, Camille Bondurant.

The minutes ticked past. Sebastian crossed his arms at his chest and ignored the damp chill that seeped up through the soles of his boots as he watched the surviving members of the French delegation: three men who knew one another and lived together, attending the funeral of one of their own, yet all ignoring one another. Mitt Peebles obviously knew what he was talking about when he said they didn’t like one another much.

The sound of the door opening drew Sebastian’s attention to the entrance.

A slim, chestnut-haired, flamboyantly dressed man entered and paused just inside the door to remove his hat and dip his fingers in the holy water to make an absentminded sign of the cross. Sebastian stared at him. It was Ambrose LaChapelle.

What the devil is he doing here? thought Sebastian.

Intrigued, Sebastian watched the courtier slide into the pew opposite the clerk, slip to his knees, make the sign of the cross again, and bow his head in prayer. It occurred to Sebastian, watching him, that LaChapelle was the only man in the church praying.

The church bells of the city had long ago struck seven. Colonel Foucher frowned and once again checked his watch. Sebastian could hear whispers and a flutter of movement from the sacristy, suggesting that the priest was finally preparing to begin his solemn procession. Then the street door opened again with a noisy jerk and another man entered the chapel.

Of average height and build, he was some thirty-five years of age, with bored gray eyes and thick, honey-colored hair worn fashionably disarranged. His exquisitely cut coat came from one of London’s best tailors, but his buckskin breeches were more suited to a ride in the park than to a funeral, and rather than a cravat, he wore a neckcloth knotted rakishly at his throat. He neither removed his high-crowned beaver hat nor bowed his head, but strode swiftly down the center aisle to draw up abruptly at the head of the open coffin.

Sebastian watched him with interest. The newcomer’s name was Lord Peter Radcliff; he was the younger son of the late Duke of Linford and brother to the current Duke. To Sebastian’s knowledge, he had no interest in either government or commerce, but devoted himself to a hedonistic lifestyle that revolved largely around the opera, the turf, and the kind of ruinous gaming hells popularized by the Prince Regent and his set.

So why was he here?

He stood beside the coffin for perhaps half a minute, his shoulders stiff, the fingers of his hands alternately opening and closing into fists at his sides as he stared at the dead man’s pallid face. Then he turned and left the church, just as the door from the sacristy opened.

A bent, wizened priest dressed in a white alb and vested in a black stole embroidered with gold crosses tottered into the nave, accompanied by two altar boys and a waft of incense. With muted coughs and throat clearings, the assembled mourners rose to their feet.

Moving quietly, Sebastian slipped out the main entrance. But by the time he reached the footpath, Radcliff’s barouche was already bowling away up George Street, its lanterns swinging wildly with the sway of the well-sprung carriage.

Sebastian was still staring thoughtfully after it when Harmond Vaundreuil walked out of the chapel behind him.

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?”