C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

A man like Bullock could easily have killed both Alexi Sauvage’s brother and her aging, faithful servant as part of a twisted plan to avenge himself on the woman he held responsible for his own brother’s death. For the same reason, Bullock was also more than capable of cutting out a man’s heart. Sebastian had no evidence to suggest that Bullock knew about the relationship between the young French doctor and the woman Bullock hated, but it was certainly possible that in the process of following and watching her, Bullock had somehow learned of the connection. And yet. .

Why would Bullock also kill and mutilate Colonel Andre Foucher- or try to kill Ambrose LaChapelle? That implied a connection to the Bourbons or an interest in the peace negotiations that Bullock lacked. The connection between LaChapelle and the peace delegation was tenuous, but there.

Still thoughtful, Sebastian turned his steps toward the Gifford Arms.

• • •

Monsieur Harmond Vaundreuil was feeding the ducks beside the Ornamental Water in St. James’s Park when Sebastian walked up to him.

“There was another murder last night. Just over there, on Birdcage Walk,” Sebastian said. “Did you know?”

The Frenchman scattered a handful of bread crumbs, his attention seemingly all for the ducks quacking and jostling around him. “According to what I am hearing, the attack was on one of the mollies who frequent the walk. What could it possibly have to do with me?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Perhaps you see connections where none exist.”

“I don’t think so.”

The Frenchman smiled faintly and scattered more bread crumbs.

Sebastian said, “I’ve been listening to some interesting whispers. Whispers that tell me Damion Pelletan discovered you’re playing a double game; that while you pretend to serve the interests of France, you’re actually cooperating with Lord Jarvis to ensure that the peace negotiations come to naught.”

Vaundreuil puffed out his chest and lowered his heavy dark brows with an admirable display of moral outrage. “That’s preposterous! Why would I do such a thing?”

“Material reward is the most typical reason. That, and revenge. For some previous slight, perhaps? Then again, there’s always the possibility of securing a prestigious position in the restoration government-although if that is your motive, you can’t be aware of Marie-Therese’s scathing opinion of you.”

Vaundreuil threw away the last of the bread crumbs in a swift, angry gesture. “What are you suggesting? That I killed Damion Pelletan because he discovered I’m an English agent of influence? What about Andre Foucher? Am I to have done away with him for the same reason? And why, precisely, would I steal their hearts and eyes? As grisly mementos of their past faithfulness and service?” He swiped one hand through the air before him as if brushing away an annoying fly. “Bah! This is ridiculous!”

Sebastian studied the Frenchman’s red face and thrusting jaw. He had no trouble believing Harmond Vaundreuil capable of killing two of his colleagues, if he thought it necessary to protect himself. But the conviction that something else-or at least something more-was going on here remained.

Sebastian said, “Did Damion Pelletan ever speak to you of his father? Specifically, of his father’s visits to the Temple Prison in the summer of 1795?”

The Frenchman looked confused, his mouth hanging open, so that he had to swallow before he answered. “What?”

“His father, Dr. Philippe-Jean Pelletan, visited the Temple Prison at least twice in the summer of 1795. He treated the little Dauphin before his death, and he may have seen Marie-Therese, as well. Damion Pelletan never said anything about it to you?”

“No. But. . surely you don’t think something that happened so long ago could have anything to do with the murders here in London today?”

“I don’t know. How much time did Pelletan spend with Colonel Foucher?”

Vaundreuil frowned. “Some. They would sit together of an evening, drinking brandy. Talking.”

“Talking about what?”

“Foucher’s time in the army. Women. Their hopes for the future. .” He shrugged. “What do young men speak of when they drink? I never paid much attention to them.”

“So Pelletan might have told Foucher of his father’s observations of the Orphans in the Temple?”

“I suppose so, yes. But. . what are you suggesting?”

Sebastian watched the ducks waddle away across the wet grass, quacking contentedly as their bulbous bodies lurched comically from side to side. What was he suggesting? That Marie-Therese had been brutally raped by her jailors in the Temple Prison? That she had been impregnated-or so badly injured that they’d summoned a physician to her? That the possibility of what had happened in the Temple-of what had really happened there-becoming known had so horrified her that she’d dispatched her minions to kill and kill again, in the hopes of keeping the truth quiet? Sebastian had no doubt she was capable of ordering the deaths of any number of men, if she thought it necessary to preserve what she saw as her divine family’s honor. But was she mad enough to order her henchmen to steal her first victim’s heart and gouge out the eyes of the second?

He wasn’t sure.

Vaundreuil said, “Are you suggesting these killings are somehow related to the death of the Dauphin? But. . that is madness!”

Sebastian met the Frenchman’s gaze and held it. “Cutting out a man’s heart is madness.”

C laire Bisette came to see Hero shortly before eleven that morning.

The Frenchwoman was pale and wraithlike, with hazel eyes set deep in a gaunt face and dull, dark blond hair drawn back in a severe knot. Her old-fashioned dress was hopelessly faded and darned at the elbows, cuffs, and collar, although she’d obviously tried hard to present a clean, neat appearance. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten in a fortnight.

She brought with her the names of “respectable” people who could vouch for her integrity, honesty, and trustworthiness, although she admitted she had never held such a position as the one for which she was applying. Her only qualification was having cared for her own two children, both of whom were now dead.

Hero took the list of names, sent for tea and sandwiches, and slowly coaxed the anxious, stiff woman to talk. They spoke not only of children, but of Voltaire and Rousseau, of the concept of limited monarchy and the recent attempts to launch an expedition to the North Pole. After half an hour, Hero said, “I’ll have Morey show you to your room in the nurseries. You can make arrangements with him to have your things brought over.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “But. . you can’t mean to engage me without checking my references!”

“I will check them, of course. And if they tell me you are a charlatan, I shall let you go. Only, I hope I am not such a poor judge of character.”

Claire Bisette was surprised into a soft laugh. It was the first laugh Hero had heard from her. Then the woman cocked her head to one side and said, “The child is due when?”

Hero’s hand tightened around her cup, but she said calmly enough, “Soon.”

“There is a problem?”

When Hero simply stared at her, Claire Bisette hastened to say, “I beg your pardon, my lady; I should not have asked.”

Hero shook her head. “No. As it happens, you are right. The babe is lying breech.”

“Ah. My first child, Henri, was stubborn in that way. But a good friend of mine turned him in the womb.”

“Do you mean Madame Sauvage?”

“I do, yes.”

“And what she did worked?”

“It did, yes. I knew the instant he turned-it felt just like a giant fish flopping inside me.”