C. Harris: Why Kings Confess

“I did, yes.”

“I am French.”

He smiled. “I had noticed.”

To his surprise, the flesh beside her eyes crinkled with amusement. Then the smile, faint as it was, faded. Her gaze drifted about the room, as if searching for something or someone. “I remember hearing another man’s voice. Someone talking to you.”

“The constables, perhaps.”

“No; this was an educated voice.”

“Ah. That would have been Lord Devlin.”

“Devlin?”

“He’s a friend of mine.”

She was silent for a moment, lost in her own dark thoughts. Then she said, “You did not tell me what is wrong with my head.”

“I suspect you were either hit, or you struck the side of your head when you fell.”

“How badly am I injured?”

“I don’t think the skull is fractured. But I’m worried about concussion.”

“Are my pupils dilated?”

“No.” The question revealed a depth of medical understanding he wouldn’t have expected. “Was your father a doctor?”

Something flared in her eyes, only to be quickly hidden by the downward sweep of her lashes. “He is, yes. In Paris.”

“Is there someone I should let know you’re safe? I-” He decided the personal pronoun sounded too familiar and changed it. “ We don’t even know your name.”

Again she studied his face, as if assessing him. “My name is Alexandrie Sauvage. I live alone, with only a servant. But Karmele is a good woman and is doubtless concerned about what has become of me.”

“I’ll see she knows you are safe.”

She gave him directions to her rooms in Golden Square. Then she fell silent, her eyes drifting half-closed. But she was still alert-tense, even. And Gibson suspected her thoughts had returned to the man whose corpse lay in the outbuilding at the base of the yard.

Gibson said, “Do you remember why you were in Cat’s Hole last night?”

Her gaze refocused on his face. “Yes, of course; Damion had agreed to go with me to see the child.”

“Child? What child?”

“There is a Frenchwoman-Madame Claire Bisette-who lives in Hangman’s Court. Her little girl, Cecile, is gravely ill.”

“And did Pelletan see her?”

“He did, yes. But he was as baffled by her condition as I. I fear she is dying.” Her head moved restlessly against the pillow. “I promised I would be back this morning to see her. I-”

Gibson put his hand on her shoulder, stilling her. “Don’t distress yourself. I’ll visit her, if you’d like.”

Beneath his hand, her flesh was soft and warm. She stared up at him. “She has no money to pay you.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just tell me-”

He broke off, his gaze meeting hers, her eyes wide with a new leap of fear as loud voices sounded in the street outside and a heavy fist pounded on the front door.

I n addition to extensive estates in the country, Charles, Lord Jarvis, owned a large town house on Berkeley Square that he shared with his invalid wife and his aged mother. Since his contempt for the former was matched only by his profound dislike of the latter, he spent as little time at home as possible. When in London, he could generally be found either at his clubs or in the chambers reserved for his use here, at Carlton House, by the Prince Regent.

For thirty years, he had served the House of Hanover, dedicating his prodigious intellect and unerring talents to the preservation and exaltation of his country and its monarchy. Acknowledged by all as the real power behind the Prince’s fragile regency, he had steered Britain safely through decades of war and the perils of social unrest that could all too easily have consumed her.

Now he stood at the window overlooking Pall Mall, his attention seemingly divided between the forecourt below and the slight, freckle-faced Scotsman who lounged with his back to the fire, the tails of his exquisitely tailored coat lifted up and to the sides so as to better warm his backside.

Angus Kilmartin had a small bony face with oversized features and a halo of frizzy, copper-colored hair that combined to give him an almost comical appearance. But in the Scotsman’s case, appearances were definitely deceptive. Kilmartin was shrewd and venal and utterly amoral. By heavily investing in well-selected war-related manufactories, he had risen in the space of twenty years to become one of the wealthiest men in Britain.

“The question is,” said Kilmartin, “does his death mean anything?”

Jarvis reached for his snuffbox and flicked open the box’s filigree and enamel lid with one agile fingertip. “It undoubtedly means something to someone. Whether it should concern us or not, however, remains to be seen.”

“Does it?”

The silence in the room was suddenly, dangerously strained. “Are you questioning my analysis or my veracity?” asked Jarvis with deceptive calm.

A dull red stain tinged the other man’s cheeks. “I’m. . Surely you understand my concern?”

“Your concern is unnecessary.” Jarvis lifted a pinch of snuff to one nostril and sniffed. “Was there something else?”

Kilmartin’s fingers tightened around the brim of the hat he held in his hands. “No. Good day, sir.”

He swept a precisely calculated bow, turned on his heel, and left.

Jarvis was still standing at the window, snuffbox in hand, when he heard an odd yelp from his clerk in the anteroom; an instant later, Viscount Devlin strode into the chamber without bothering to knock.

“Do come in,” said Jarvis dryly.

A hard smile touched the younger man’s lips. “Thank you.”

He was thirty years old now, tall and lean, with a vaguely menacing bearing that reminded one of the time he’d spent as a cavalry officer. Two years ago, Jarvis had sought to have the man killed. Jarvis little realized at the time how much he would eventually come to regret that rare failure.

He slipped his snuffbox into his coat pocket and frowned. “How does my daughter?”

“She is well.”

Jarvis grunted. His wife, Annabelle, had exhibited numerous shortcomings over the years of their marriage, but by far her most grievous failure was her inability to provide Jarvis with a healthy male heir. Despite numerous miscarriages and stillbirths, she had succeeded in presenting him with only two children: a disappointingly sickly and idealistic son named David, who’d gone to a watery grave at the bottom of the sea, and Hero.

Tall, strong, and brutally brilliant, Hero was exactly the sort of child who might have delighted Jarvis- if she’d been born a boy. As a daughter, however, she was far from satisfactory. Strong willed, unapologetically bookish, and dangerously radical in her thinking, she had sworn off marriage at an early age and dedicated herself to a succession of appalling projects, only to allow herself to be impregnated by this bastard. Jarvis had never understood exactly what happened, but he uncharacteristically had no desire to know more about it than he already did.

Now the two men faced each other across the width of the room, the air crackling with their mutual animosity.

Devlin said, “What can you tell me about Harmond Vaundreuil? And don’t even think of trying to pretend you don’t know him. I saw you together.”

Jarvis went to settle comfortably in the Louis XIV-style chair behind his desk. He stretched out his legs, crossed his ankles, rested his folded hands on his rather large stomach, and heaved an exaggerated sigh. “You’ve involved yourself in the death of that young French doctor, have you? What was his name again?”

“Damion Pelletan.”

“Mmm. Somehow, when I heard a certain Irish surgeon had been so unfortunate as to discover the body, I knew you would feel compelled to interfere.”