C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

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Sebastian was crossing the vestibule, headed toward the street, when he heard himself hailed by a mountain of a man being pushed in a wheeled chair by a flamboyantly dressed dandy.

“Sir,” said Sebastian, changing direction to walk up to him. “I didn’t expect to see you in London.”

The Comte de Provence smiled, his cheeks bunching with rosy good cheer. “Marie-Therese wanted to come into town for a few days-go to the theater, maybe buy a new hat-that sort of thing. And then there’s the Duchess of Claiborne’s soiree Tuesday night.” He gave Sebastian a studied look, as if trying to recall an elusive fact. “She’s some relative of yours, is she not?”

“My aunt.”

The small frown cleared. “Ah, thought so. Then perhaps we shall see you there.”

“Perhaps.”

Provence gave one of his belly-shaking laughs. “Not a fan of that sort of thing, are you?” His laugh turned into a cough. “Can’t say I blame you at your age.”

“Do I take it you’re staying in South Audley Street?”

“Indeed, indeed. Artois is up chasing some light-skirts around Scotland, so if he doesn’t like it, there’s not much he can do about it, now, is there?”

Sebastian glanced over at Ambrose LaChapelle. But the courtier turned his head and looked away, as if distrusting his ability to maintain a straight face.

“I’ve discovered something interesting about the young French doctor who was killed,” said Sebastian.

The uncrowned King of France let his eyes go wide in a clumsy pantomime of astonishment. “Oh?”

“It seems Damion Pelletan was the son of Dr. Philippe-Jean Pelletan-the same Dr. Pelletan who treated the young Dauphin in the Temple Prison.”

“Indeed? What an odd. . coincidence.”

Sebastian studied the Bourbon’s plump, self-indulgent face. One couldn’t exactly call a monarch-even an uncrowned one-a liar. “You mean to say you didn’t recognize the name?”

“Well, I recognized the similarity in the names, of course,” blustered the Bourbon. “But I’d no notion they were. . His son, you say? How very intriguing.”

“Not to mention coincidental.”

“Yes, yes; to be sure, to be sure.”

“I wonder: Would you happen to know why Damion Pelletan was in London?”

The Comte de Provence fixed Sebastian with an unexpectedly hard stare. And it occurred to Sebastian that however jovial his features or good-natured his demeanor, it would never do to forget that this man was the grandson of King Louis XV, or that he had grown to manhood surrounded by all the splendor and intrigue of the French court at Versailles. “Now, how would I know that?” he asked. “We don’t all have the network of informants and spies available to someone such as, say, your own father-in-law.”

Sebastian was aware of the courtier, LaChapelle, sucking the flesh of one inner cheek between his teeth. It was obvious that Ambrose LaChapelle realized, even if Provence himself did not, that he’d just inadvertently revealed he knew exactly why Damion Pelletan was in London.

Sebastian said, “Tell me about your nephew, the Dauphin.”

The shift in topic seemed to confuse the aging Bourbon. “My nephew? What is there to tell? He was a sweet boy. Just seven years old and the picture of health when he was thrown into prison.”

“What happened to him?

The old man sighed. “Nothing, at first. For some months after the execution of his father, the King, the boy was allowed to remain with his mother, aunt, and sister. But then one day the guards came and took him away. Seems the revolutionaries had ordered the jailors to remove all traces of what they called ‘arrogance’ and ‘royalty’ from him.” A pinched look came over his features. “They treated him. . very badly.”

“When did he die?”

“The eighth of June, 1795.”

“And Dr. Philippe-Jean Pelletan performed the autopsy?”

“He was one of the doctors present, yes.”

“There were others?”

“Two or three, I believe. Although Pelletan may have been the only one who had actually seen the boy just a day or two before, when he was brought to the prison to treat his illness.”

“Did he identify the body as belonging to the Dauphin?”

“Mon Dieu.” Angry, purple color suffused the normally placid royal’s plump features. “I hope to God you are not suggesting that those ridiculous old whispers are true?”

“Which whispers?”

“As if you do not know! The idea that the Dauphin did not die in the Temple-that he was spirited away from prison while the body of some other poor lad was left in his place.”

The persistence of the myth that the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette had not actually died in prison was an obvious source of embarrassment and chagrin to the two uncles and cousin who dreamt of someday occupying the dead Dauphin’s vacant throne. When Sebastian simply remained silent, Provence said, “Please to God you won’t say anything of this to my niece, Marie-Therese. You’ve no notion the distress these rumors cause her-or how many charlatans have presented themselves to her over the years, claiming to be her long-lost brother. I’ve seen her made ill for days by one of those encounters.”

Sebastian frowned. “She did not see the Dauphin’s body after his death?”

“No. Nor had she seen him for nearly two years before that. The boy was torn from his mother’s arms in the summer of ’ninety-three; Marie-Therese never saw him again.”

“Seems curious that the revolutionaries didn’t show the body to the boy’s sister-if for no other reason than to remove all doubt as to his fate, once and for all.”

“I wish they had,” grumbled Provence, shifting his considerable weight in his chair. “They would have saved us all a great deal of bother.”

“Are you certain the boy actually is dead?”

He expected the Bourbon to bluster and heatedly deny the very possibility of any suggestion the Dauphin might still live. Instead, he blinked, his eyes swimming with a sudden uprush of emotion, his skin looking mottled and prematurely old. “If by some miracle the boy did survive- I’m not saying I believe he did, mind you! But if by some miracle my poor nephew is truly alive out there, somewhere, he would not be fit to be king. What those animals did to him in that prison. . Let’s just say it would have destroyed him, both physically and mentally.”

“What did they do to him?” asked Sebastian.

To his surprise, it was the courtier, Ambrose LaChapelle, who answered him. “You don’t want to know,” he said softly. “Believe me; you don’t want to know.”

A sharp, bitter wind slapped into Sebastian’s face as he walked up St. James’s Street toward Piccadilly. Settling his hat more firmly on his head, he became aware of an elegant town carriage drawn by a beautifully matched team of dapple-grays slowing beside him. He heard the snap of the near window being let down, saw the crest of the House of Jarvis proudly emblazoned on the door panel.

He kept walking.

“I had a troubling conversation this morning with a certain overwrought and somewhat choleric Parisian,” said Charles, Lord Jarvis.

“Oh?” Sebastian turned onto Berkeley. The carriage rolled along beside him.

“You simply cannot leave well enough alone, can you?”

Sebastian gave a low, soft laugh. “No.”

His father-in-law was not amused. “With any other man, I might be tempted to hint at all sorts of dire consequences to life and limb-your life and limb. But in this case, I realize such tactics would be counterproductive. Shall I appeal instead to your better nature?”

Sebastian drew up and pivoted to face him. “My better nature? Do explain.”