C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

Hendon cleared his throat. “Heard about that, have you?”

“Yes.”

Hendon pushed to his feet and went to where his pipe and tobacco rested on a table near the hearth. “I expected you might, once you started looking into the death of that French physician-what was his name?”

“Pelletan.”

“That’s right; Pelletan.” He fussed with his pipe, filling the bowl with tobacco and tamping it down with the pad of his thumb. Then he cast Sebastian a sideways glance. “You know I can’t discuss the progress of the negotiations with you.”

“I realize that. What I’m interested in is the attitude of various individuals toward the possibility of peace. I’m told Jarvis favors continuing the war until our troops are in Paris and Napoleon is ousted from the throne.”

“I’d say that about sums it up, yes.”

“And Liverpool?”

“Ah. Well, the Prime Minister’s attitude is slightly different. He’d like to see Boney gone as much as anyone. But he’s also sensitive to the economic and political costs of the war. I suspect that if France would agree to withdraw to its original borders, Liverpool could find a way to live with the Corsican upstart. After all, Napoleon is now married to the sister of the Emperor of Austria; there’s something to be said for viewing their young child as a living union of the traditional with the modern. A reconciliation, of sorts.”

“True,” said Sebastian. He knew without being told where Hendon stood on the issue. As much as Hendon hated radicalism and republicanism, he’d been growing increasingly troubled by the toll that twenty years of war was taking on Britain and her people. “In other words, you and Liverpool are receptive to the negotiations, whereas Jarvis wants them to fail.”

“You said it; I didn’t.”

Sebastian watched the Earl light a taper and apply it to his pipe. “In my experience, Jarvis usually achieves what he wants.”

Hendon looked up, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked on his pipe, their gazes meeting through the haze of blue smoke. “Yes.”

“Any chance Jarvis could be actively working to ensure that the negotiations fail?”

“By literally butchering the members of the delegation, you mean?” Hendon sucked some more on his pipe, his eyes narrowing with thought. “Bit ghoulish, even for Jarvis, wouldn’t you say?”

“Perhaps. What about the possibility that Jarvis has suborned Vaundreuil himself?”

“To be honest, I’ve wondered about that. I’ve no proof, mind you; it’s just a feeling I have.”

Sebastian nodded and started to turn away. “Thank you.”

“Devlin?”

He glanced back at the Earl.

Hendon’s teeth clamped down on the stem of his pipe. “How does Lady Devlin?”

“She is well.”

“And my grandson? When is he expected to make his appearance?”

The child would be no true grandchild to Alistair St. Cyr. But if a boy, he would someday become, in turn, Viscount Devlin and eventually Earl of Hendon. “Soon,” said Sebastian after only a moment’s hesitation.

Hendon nodded, his lips relaxing into a faint smile. And Sebastian knew again the whisper of an old emotion he did not want, a sensation all tangled up with every painful and joyous memory of a childhood he had no desire to revisit.

“You’ll let me know?” Hendon asked gruffly.

“Yes.”

And then, because there was nothing more to say, Sebastian left.

• • •

The night was cold, the fog a thick, foul presence that seemed to press down on the city. Sebastian walked through empty streets, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the moisture-laden air. He was trying to sort through a tangle of evidence and explanations surrounding this baffling series of murders. But his thoughts kept returning, unbidden, to a lonely old man standing beside his hearth, his pipe in his hand, his startlingly blue eyes clouded with a host of contradictory emotions that Sebastian suspected the Earl himself never completely understood.

He was about to turn and climb the steps to his house when he became aware of someone running behind him.

He whirled, his hand going to the dagger in his boot just as a breathless voice exclaimed, “My lord Devlin?”

One of Lovejoy’s constables appeared out of the fog, his open mouth sucking air painfully, his somewhat ponderous stomach jiggling with his half trot.

Sebastian relaxed. “Yes; what is it?”

The constable drew up, his full, florid face slick with sweat despite the cold, his hands on his knees as he hunched over and sought to even his breathing. “Begging your lordship’s pardon, but there’s been a murder. Sir Henry thought you might like to know.”

“What’s happened?”

“A gentleman’s been murdered in Birdcage Walk.” The constable straightened, his breath still coming in panting gasps. “Leastways, the lady-er-gentleman with her-er, him-says it’s a gentleman. A gentleman dressed up like a lady, it is. Never seen nothing like it in all my born days!”

T he promenade known as Birdcage Walk ran along the south side of St. James’s Park. A broad carriageway lined with rows of elm and lime, it was open to commoners traversing it on foot. Only members of the royal family were allowed to drive down Birdcage Walk. It wasn’t a privilege they exercised often, but the prerogative remained exclusively theirs, nonetheless.

Over the past fifty or more years, the walk had become notorious as a popular “molly market,” or cruising ground. The area’s proximity to the nearby barracks meant that handsome young guardsmen eager to earn an extra guinea or two could inevitably be found here. As Sebastian walked beneath the fog-shrouded branches of the winter-bared trees, he wondered if that was why Ambrose LaChapelle had come here.

But as he approached the huddle of greatcoated men near the eastern end of the walk, he was surprised to see the tall, chestnut-haired Serena sitting hunched on a bench off to one side. She had her head down, her hands thrust between her knees in a posture that would have made more sense if she had been wearing breeches. Her green silk gown was torn, the black lace that had once trimmed the neckline ripped so that it dangled off one shoulder.

“Ah, Lord Devlin,” called Sir Henry Lovejoy, separating himself from the knot of constables beside what Sebastian could now see was the sprawled body of another woman-or in all probability a man in a woman’s red velvet gown, topped by a short white fur cape stained dark with blood. “I thought you might want to see this.”

Sebastian glanced again at Serena. The French courtier did not look up.

“What happened?” Sebastian asked the magistrate.

“Her name is Angel Face. Or at least, that’s what she called herself when she was wearing skirts. In breeches, he was James Farragut, a jeweler who keeps-kept-a shop in the Haymarket. According to the-” Sir Henry paused, as if trying to settle on an appropriate noun. “-the person who was with her-him, they were simply walking along the carriageway when an unknown man came up behind them, stabbed Farragut in the back, and then ran off.”

“Farragut is dead?”

“Oh, yes. I gather he died almost instantly.”

Sebastian went to hunker down beside the dead man. Of medium height and slim, he had softly curling dark hair and a delicately boned face ending in a strong jawline. Sebastian had never seen him before. “How did you know I might be interested?”

“The. . person. . who was walking with the victim suggested it.”

Sebastian pushed to his feet and went to where LaChapelle still sat. The French courtier might have fought bravely against the forces of the Revolution, but the murder of his friend had obviously affected him profoundly. “You all right?”