C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

“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 Napoleon 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 Napoleon are to be found on this side of the Channel, not the other.”

“You mean the royalists?”

“The emigres, 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’Angouleme. It would be a mistake to dismiss Marie-Therese as half-mad. She is, after all, Marie Antoinette’s daughter. I have heard Napoleon himself say that Marie-Therese 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 Napoleon 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 Peter 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.