C. Harris: Why Kings Confess

Over the next several years, Hero’s critical assessment of society had continued unabated. She read Mary Wollstonecraft and the Marquis de Condorcet. She refused to allow her revulsion at the excesses of the French Revolution to diminish her admiration for its fundamental principles. And she began to write, using her research skills and reasoning abilities to work to change the numerous injustices she observed around her daily.

Now in her mid-twenties, Hero’s radical opinions remained intact. But her determination never to marry had fallen victim to a certain dark-haired, golden-eyed viscount with a mysterious past and a powerful passion of his own.

She felt the baby kick again, hard enough this time to take her breath, and she set aside the new article she was writing on London’s working poor to go stand at the drawing room window overlooking the street below. A thin white mist drifted between the tall houses, dulling the rising sun to a glowing red ball and muffling the sounds of the waking city. It was just the kind of morning for a good gallop. Unfortunately, one did not gallop in Hyde Park-especially when one was nine months heavy with child.

She fought down an uncharacteristic upwelling of impatience and frustration. She had borne most of her pregnancy with ease, continuing her normal activities here and in the country, and sallying forth frequently to conduct interviews for her series of articles. But over the past few days the baby seemed to have settled. Even sitting was becoming difficult, sleep nearly impossible. And she found herself filled with a restlessness that was becoming increasingly difficult to stifle.

She was about to turn back to her article when she heard the front door open and Devlin’s quick tread on the stairs. He drew up in the entrance to the drawing room to swing off his greatcoat and set aside the broken slat of wood he carried.

“I was hoping you’d lie in this morning,” he said, coming to catch her to him and give her a long, lingering kiss that made her breath quicken-even now, big with his child. “You aren’t sleeping much these days.”

He smelled of wood smoke and frosty air and all the invigorating scents of early morning, and before she could stop herself, she said, “What I’d really like to do is go for a walk-a real walk, in the park.”

He laughed, his hands tightening on hers. “Then let’s go.”

She shook her head. “Dr. Croft warns me that I may take a brief turn around the garden, once in the morning and again in the evening, but no more.”

Richard Croft was London’s most respected accoucheur, a pompous and self-important little man utterly convinced of the efficacy of what he called his Lowering System for the Treatment of Ladies Facing Confinement. He had tut-tutted in horror when Hero and Devlin finally returned to London after spending three months at Devlin’s estate down in Hampshire, going for long walks in the bracing rural air and enjoying the countryside’s abundant fresh foods. In Croft’s professional opinion, anything more than a severely restricted diet and ladylike, restrained exercise could be disastrous for the safe outcome of a confinement.

“Is that before or after you have the bowl of thin gruel he allows you?” asked Devlin.

“Oh, definitely before. To exercise after taking sustenance can be fatal, you know-if you call walking in the garden exercise and thin bouillon sustenance.”

He laughed again, his smile fading slowly as his gaze searched her face. “How are you feeling? Truly?”

“Truly? I’m hungry, uncomfortable, and beyond cranky. But never mind that. I want to hear about Gibson.”

Another man might have sought to spare his pregnant wife the more macabre aspects of Damion Pelletan’s murder. Devlin knew better. As she listened to him describe his search of Cat’s Hole and the passageway where the body was found, she went to pick up the broken slat.

“A woman’s shoe? Are you certain?”

“Have you ever seen a man’s shoe with that kind of heel?”

She stared down at the clear imprint of mingled mud and blood. “No; you’re right. This was definitely left by a woman’s shoe.” She looked up at him. “How difficult is it to remove a heart, anyway?”

“I honestly don’t know. I’ll need to ask Gibson.”

The clang of a milkmaid’s pails drew Hero’s gaze, again, to the street. The fog was beginning to burn off, the white sky filling with seagulls wheeling above the rooftops, their haunting cries beckoning her like a siren’s call. The urge welled within her again, to feel the cold mist on her face and let the wind catch at her hair and be done with this interminable waiting.

As if aware of the drift of her thoughts, Devlin said, “How about if I order the carriage and take my wife for an illicit early-morning walk in the park? We won’t tell Dr. Croft, and between the fog and your heaviest pelisse, not even London’s nosiest busybodies will be able to tell that my bride of six months is only weeks away from delivering my daughter.”

She smiled. “Your son. I keep telling you it’s a boy.” Then she shook her head. “No. You need to visit the Gifford Arms Hotel and see what they can tell you about this Frenchman.”

He came to bracket her cheeks with his palms and kiss her on the mouth, a long, slow kiss that reminded her they hadn’t made love since the previous October, when the esteemed Dr. Richard Croft had sternly warned that she must carefully avoid any “animalistic appetites.”

He said, “The Gifford Arms will wait an hour.”

• • •

A small but eminently respectable hotel built of neatly squared sandstone blocks, the Gifford Arms lay on the south side of St. James’s Park, not far from the intersection of James and York streets. Dating to late in the previous century, it had tidy rows of sashed windows flanking a central door that led to a short, flagged stairwell. As was typical of inns of that period, the coffee room opened off the passage to the right, with a dining parlor to the left. Closing the door against the damp cold, Sebastian breathed in the warm, welcoming scents of roasting lamb and beeswax and hearty ale. But both the entrance passage and the rooms opening off it were deserted.

“Hello,” he called.

Silence.

Stepping into the oak-paneled coffee room, he turned a slow circle, his gaze drifting over the scattering of empty tables and chairs. “Hello?”

He heard a quick step, and a droopy-jowled, lanky man in a leather apron appeared in a far doorway. “May I help you, sir?” He had straight fair hair just beginning to turn gray and protuberant, widely set eyes that gave him somewhat the look of a startled mackerel.

“I’m here about Dr. Damion Pelletan,” said Sebastian, choosing his words carefully.

The man’s face puckered. “Oh, dear. Are you a friend of Dr. Pelletan’s, sir?”

“Not exactly.”

“Ah. Well, the thing is, you see, we’ve had the constables here. They’re saying Dr. Pelletan is dead.” The man edged closer and dropped his voice to a confidential whisper. “ Murdered. In St. Katharine’s, just last night. Footpads.”

“How long had Dr. Pelletan been staying here?”

“’Bout three weeks, I’d say. Same as the rest of ’em.”

“The rest of them?” prompted Sebastian.

“Aye. They rented the entire inn, you know. They’re the only ones staying here now.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“Mmm. Frenchmen. ” He said the word as if it were enough to explain any eccentricity. “Even brought in their own cook and servants, they did. I’m the only regular left.”

“Are all their servants French as well?”

“Oh, aye. The lot of ’em.”

“Emigres, I assume?”

The man tweaked the top of one ear and screwed up his face. “We-ell, they say they are.”