C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

“Yes.” Serena thrust out her jaw and blew a long breath up over her face. “Oh, God; it’s my fault. Angel is dead because of me.”

Sebastian sat on the bench beside her. “What were you doing here?”

A ghost of a smile touched the courtier’s painted lips. “Caterwauling, of course. There are some grand guardsmen to be found along here.”

Caterwauling. Sebastian had heard they also called it “picking up trade” or finding someone to “endorse.” He said, “Bit chilly, isn’t it?”

Serena shrugged. “The cold tends to discourage the bastards working for the Society for the Suppression of Vice.”

Sebastian stared off across the fog-shrouded park. “Why do you say you’re responsible for Angel Face’s death?”

Serena kept her gaze on the sprawled body of her friend. “She was cold. I lent her my fur cape. It’s very distinctive-I’m known for it. I think whoever killed her saw it and thought she was me.”

Sebastian studied the dead Haymarket jeweler. In the darkness and fog, she could easily have been mistaken for the French courtier. And yet. .

“You can’t know that for certain,” said Sebastian.

“What? You think this is a coincidence?”

Sebastian shook his head. “What can you tell me about the man who stabbed her?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. It all happened too fast. At first, I thought he’d simply run up behind us and pushed Angel, to be rude. People do that sometimes, you know. But then she coughed and staggered against me, grabbing my dress to try and stay upright, so that I had to catch her. By the time I realized she’d been stabbed, the man who’d done it was gone.”

Sebastian studied the rows of limes along the border of the carriageway. Just to the south of the park lay the Recruit House and, beyond that, the gardens at the rear of the Gifford Arms Hotel. Until now, everyone killed had been either a member of the French delegation or connected to it in some way. So why the hell had LaChapelle been attacked?

Aloud, he said, “Who would want to kill you? Not just any random molly, but you?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Sebastian brought his gaze back to the courtier’s painted face. “Did you tell the magistrates who you are-I mean who you really are?”

Serena rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Do you truly think I would? There will be an inquest, remember. What would you suggest as my choice of attire for the occasion? Should I go as Serena Fox, or as Ambrose LaChapelle, the gentleman who was cruising Birdcage Walk dressed as a lady? Either way, what do you imagine my reception would be?”

“I wouldn’t think you’d care.”

“Do you know how many mollies have been beaten to death by London mobs?”

“No. But I would imagine it’s a fair number.”

“It is.”

Sebastian watched the mist drift between the dark trunks of the trees. He could smell the damp grass and the wet stones of the walk and the spilled blood of the murdered man. “If you’re not going to tell me who you think did this, then why the bloody hell did you have the magistrates alert me to what happened?”

An unexpected smile flashed across the molly’s somber features. “It was amazing the effect your name had on the local constabulary. One minute they were all set to hustle me off to the nearest roundhouse. Then I chanced to utter your name, and it was like a magic talisman. I’d tried asking them to contact Provence, but they seemed to find it difficult to believe that the uncrowned King of France would consort with one of my kind.” She paused. “You obviously consort with all kinds.”

Sebastian suspected chance had nothing to do with it. But he simply rose and said, “I suggest you avoid dark parks and arcades for a while-or else, if you must, carry a muff gun and keep your wits about you. If you should suddenly think of someone with an interest in doing away with you, you know where to find me.”

He was turning toward Sir Henry when he recalled something Lady Giselle had said to him the previous night, at the Duchess of Claiborne’s soiree. He paused. “What can you tell me about the ‘Dark Countess’?”

Serena leaned back against the bench’s rails. “Good God; what has she to do with anything?”

“I have no idea. Who is she?”

“No one knows, actually. That’s one of the reasons why she’s called the ‘Dark Countess.’ She lives in a castle in Thuringia and has never been seen in daylight-only glimpsed in the shadowy interiors of carriages. When she walks the castle’s grounds, she is always veiled, and she dresses only in black-black gown, black gloves, black veil. She has a man with her-a count, although they say he is neither her husband nor her lover. Speculation has it that he may be a courtier. Or her keeper.”

“Her keeper?”

“Mmm. Those who serve her are kept carefully guarded. But rumors have naturally circulated. They say she’s in her mid-thirties and is as blond and blue-eyed as our own dear Marie-Therese was as a child. Oh, and she has a fondness for the fleur-de-lis.”

The stylized lily or iris had been associated with the royal family of France for a thousand years. Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Only that one can understand how certain speculation might have arisen. The journey of Marie-Therese from Paris to Vienna in 1795 was cloaked in secrecy, as were her years in the Temple. Some believe she was raped while in prison, that she was pregnant when released by the revolutionaries and had to be hidden away. Others suggest that her experiences overturned the balance of her mind, so that after her release she was either unable or unwilling to take up the kind of prominent role required of the only surviving child of the martyred King and Queen of France.”

“The theory being that an imposter was put in her place, while the real Marie-Therese lives out her life in seclusion in a castle in Germany?”

“That is the theory, yes. Although anyone with any sense knows that it is pure myth.”

“Why is that?”

Ambrose LaChapelle met his gaze. “Because anyone undertaking to arrange such a dangerous substitution would be certain to select an imposter with a strong mental fortitude and unshakable balance. Whereas the Marie-Therese the world has seen these past eighteen years. .” He shrugged and shook his head, as if unwilling to put the rest of his thoughts into words.

“Is she mad?” Sebastian asked quietly.

The courtier thrust the splayed fingers of one hand through his hair in a typically masculine gesture. “She is damaged. No one can deny that. You’ve noticed her voice? They like to say it is the result of her refusal to speak to her jailors-that she found it difficult to make sounds once she finally began to speak again. Yet she also likes to boast of her proud responses to the revolutionaries’ taunts and questions, and she frequently recites her rosary aloud.”

“So what did happen to her voice?”

“I have heard that severe emotional trauma can permanently affect one’s vocal cords, although there are also those who suggest she screamed so long and so loud that it damaged her voice.”

“Was she raped in prison?”

“If she was, she would never admit it. But when one thinks of what was done to her brother. .” Again, that silent, suggestive lifting of the shoulders. “I’ve heard her say she used to sit up all night, dressed, in a chair because she was afraid to undress and go to bed. Why do that unless something had happened to make her afraid? Can you really imagine that the men who did such vile things to the boy Prince would spare the Princess? An attractive but despised young woman, alone and utterly in their power?”

Sebastian shifted his gaze to the gravel carriageway. The men from the nearest deadhouse had arrived and were shifting the jeweler’s body onto their shell. He watched them lift the burden between them with a grunt.