C. Harris - Why Kings Confess

“So then what happened?”

“I don’t know. I left.”

“You left? Why?”

“At first I’d planned to wait in the shadows until she went away, and then confront him. But the longer I stood there, the more I realized that would be a mistake.”

“Oh? Why?”

“Because I’m not a killer, whatever you may think. And I realized that if I approached him then, in the rage I was in, I might very well murder him. So I left. I won’t say I’m sorry the bastard is dead because I’m not. But he didn’t die at my hand.”

“Where did you go after you left York Street?”

“I don’t know. I wandered the streets for a while-I couldn’t say for how long. I ended up in a low tavern someplace in Westminster. At one point I got into a brawl with a drunk who drew my cork. Then I spent what was left of the night in a back room with a whore I wouldn’t even recognize if I saw her again.”

Sebastian studied Lord Peter’s haggard face. He’d said he had no mercy for men like Radcliff, but that wasn’t exactly true. If not mercy, then he at least acknowledged a measure of pity even though he knew it was probably misplaced. In his own way, Lord Peter was a victim. A victim of a society that valued show above substance, birth above real worth. A victim of a hereditary system that brought up younger sons in an indulgent, pampered atmosphere even as it tormented them with the knowledge that the vast estates and palatial homes they’d enjoyed as children would never be theirs. And he was a victim of his own weakness, the recognition of which led him to strike out in anger and frustration at his wife when what he really wanted more than anything else was to be admired and indulged and loved.

Sebastian said, “Listen to me carefully because I’m going to say this only once. Your wife is going to leave you, and you are going to let her.”

“ What? You’ve no right to-”

Radcliff made a strangling sound as Sebastian subtly shifted the broken edge of the bottle against his throat.

“If your debts are as pressing as I suspect they are, you might consider fleeing the country. I hear America is a good place for people looking to start over.”

Radcliff’s face contorted with revulsion. “America?”

“Frankly, I couldn’t care less where you go. But you will make no attempt to contact your wife or her son again. And if I ever hear of you laying a hand on her, I’ll kill you. It’s that simple. Do I make myself clear?”

“What does it matter to you, what happens to her?”

“It matters,” said Sebastian, and let him go.

Sebastian walked back down the stairs and out of the house, only dimly aware of the butler, two housemaids, and a footman peering at him wide-eyed from around the doorframes as he passed.

Outside, the air smelled of coal smoke and the coming rain. He paused on the footpath, his gaze on the jumble of rooftops and chimney stacks that jutted up dark against a gray sky. Was Radcliff lying? Sebastian doubted it. Men like Radcliff were basically cowards; they beat their wives because it gave them a sense of power and control so sorely lacking in other aspects of their lives. Sebastian couldn’t see a man like that somehow finding the courage to stalk a rival through the cold, dark alleys of St. Katharine’s and then cut out his heart in some twisted ritual of symbolism and revenge.

But what occupied Sebastian’s thoughts as he turned toward the home of the Comte d’Artois in South Audley Street was the vital piece of information Lord Peter had unknowingly provided. Sebastian had believed that Marie-Therese and Lady Giselle passed the night of Damion Pelletan’s murder closeted together in prayer for the martyred King Louis XVI. He’d thought their role in Pelletan’s death-if it existed at all-had been limited to directing their minions from afar.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

S ebastian wouldn’t have been surprised if Lady Giselle refused to see him. But he underestimated her. She sent word that she would be down in a few moments, although, instead of having him escorted to the drawing room, she met him in a small, book-lined chamber on the ground floor that looked as if it might be devoted to the use of a steward or man of business.

She wore a simple gown of dove gray wool trimmed with black ribbon. Her fair hair fell in gentle curls about her delicate face; a plain band of black velvet encircled her long, delicate neck. Her only jewelry was a small gold watch pinned to her breast, and a dainty pair of pearl earrings.

“Lord Devlin,” she said, holding out her hand to him, her smile one of warmth that hinted at a secret shared. “Forgive me for receiving you here, but Marie-Therese is in the drawing room. I fear the very mention of your name is still enough to send her into spasms.”

“Thank you for agreeing to see me-particularly under such circumstances.”

“Please, have a seat. Have you discovered something of interest?”

He took the seat she indicated, a red leather desk chair with worn wooden arms. “I have, actually. I was wondering: Where did you and Marie-Therese spend a week ago Thursday? I know you devoted the day to prayer for her father, the King. But were you here, in London, or at Hartwell House?”

A vague shadow passed her face. It was there and then gone so quickly he couldn’t identify it. Apprehension, perhaps? Calculation? Or simply remembered sorrow?

“Here,” she said. “We had come up to London several days before, so that Marie-Therese might consult with Dr. Pelletan. We left for Hartwell House again early Friday morning.”

“I should tell you that I now know why Marie-Therese was so anxious to consult with Damion Pelletan. It had nothing to do with his reputation as a physician and everything to do with the fact that his father first brought Damion home the very summer the little Dauphin died in the Temple Prison. I think the Princess knew about the rumors that he might be the Lost Dauphin, and she wanted to see him so that she could judge for herself whether or not he was her brother.”

There was a long pause, during which Lady Giselle’s face showed not a hint of consternation or alarm. She simply gave a small, sad smile and said, “You are right, of course. Marie-Therese has never given up hope that her brother might one day be found alive. You’ve no notion the number of pretenders she has interviewed over the years, each time working herself into a frenzy of anticipation, only to be cast down with disappointment at the realization that she has once more been deceived.”

“But Damion Pelletan never claimed to be the Lost Dauphin.”

“He did not, no. Which is one of the reasons she was particularly anxious to see him.”

“And what was her conclusion?”

“To be frank, she found him so much like her dead mother that she was overcome with emotion. It had been her intention to ask him a series of probing questions about his past, but she was so distraught that she found she could not. I had to take her away.”

“Is that why you went back to see Pelletan again on Thursday night?”

He expected her to deny it, but she was too clever for that. And he realized she’d probably guessed from the beginning what his questions were leading up to, and why.

She tilted her head to one side, her gaze intent on his face. “How did you know?”

“You were recognized.”

“Ah.”

When she remained silent, he said, “You told me you spent the day in prayer with Marie-Therese. Why not tell the truth?”

“It seemed best at the time. Now I realize it was a mistake. Forgive me.”

“Am I to understand that for the first time in eighteen years you deserted the Princess on the anniversary of her father’s death?”