C. Harris: Why Kings Confess

And yet. . And yet his imagination still balked at the image of Lady Giselle and her cousin the unknown Chevalier stalking Damion Pelletan through the mean streets of St. Katharine’s on one of the coldest nights of the year. Sebastian knew he was still missing something. The question was, What?

He kept coming back to the image of Damion Pelletan standing before the Gifford Arms, his head thrown back, his gaze on the cold night sky above. How many people knew Damion and Alexi Sauvage intended to visit Hangman’s Court that night? Lady Giselle? No; she was gone by the time Alexandrie arrived. Lord Peter? Possibly, if he had lingered longer than he claimed. Jarvis’s man? Again, possibly-if he had been close enough to overhear their conversation. Harmond Vaundreuil? Again, possibly.

Sampson Bullock?

Sebastian paused. The wind gusted up, cold and damp against his face and carrying with it all the smells of the city. Could Sampson Bullock have known that Alexi Sauvage and her brother were headed for Hangman’s Court that night? Yes. Bullock had been following and watching her for days. What if he learned of not only her plans to visit St. Katharine’s, but also her intent to ask her brother to accompany her?

Two things about this convoluted string of murders kept tripping Sebastian up: the bloody print left in the alley by a woman’s shoe, and the brutal murder of the Frenchman Foucher. Combined with the attack on Serena in Birdcage Walk, the latter seemed to suggest either the Bourbons or some other enemy of Napoleon’s peace proposals. Yet how could either be linked to the explosion in Golden Square? If Alexi Sauvage were able to identify her brother’s killer, she would have been murdered with him.

Yet an idea was forming in Sebastian’s mind, an explanation that accounted for these discrepancies and more.

It was time he had another talk with Mr. Mitt Peeples.

• • •

Sebastian arrived at the Gifford Arms to find a dray half-loaded with trunks drawn up outside the inn, its mules standing with legs splayed and heads dipped in the cold wind. Mitt Peebles, wearing his leather apron and at his most officious, was directing two workmen carrying a handsome campaign desk out the inn door.

“Careful there, now,” he called as one of the men bumped into the doorframe.

“What’s all this?” asked Sebastian, walking up to him.

“They’re leaving-what’s left of ’em, that is. Guess they figure they’d best get out while the getting is good. You heard another of ’em was found dead? Had his eyes gouged out. Who’d do something like that? Ain’t no Englishman, if you ask me.”

“Are you saying Harmond Vaundreuil is returning to France?”

“Well, can’t say I know for certain where he’s going. But I can guess, can’t I?”

Sebastian watched the workmen maneuver the desk into the back of the dray. “I wonder: Are you familiar with a cabinetmaker by the name of Sampson Bullock?”

“Bullock?” Mitt paused, his saggy-jowled face going blank as he pondered the question. “Don’t believe so, no.”

“He’s a giant of a man, tall and big boned, with curly black hair he wears long. Ever see him hanging around the inn?”

Mitt shook his head. “Not so’s I recall, no. Why? You think he may be the one doing all this?”

“At this point, I don’t really know.”

Mitt grunted, his protuberant eyes watering in the cold wind. “All I hope is that word don’t get out, linking these goings-on to the inn. Won’t do to have folks thinking the place is hexed. Won’t do at all.”

Sebastian watched the two porters head back into the hotel. “Is Monsieur Vaundreuil about?”

“Aye. In the coffee room, last I saw him.”

Sebastian walked into the coffee room to find Vaundreuil and his clerk, Bondurant, standing beside one of the tables near the front windows. They had a tan leather case open on the tabletop and appeared to be verifying the papers it contained. Bondurant glanced over at Sebastian, then silently thrust the last of the papers into the case, buckled it, and left the room.

“I hear you’re leaving,” said Sebastian, staring after the clerk.

Vaundreuil swiped one hand across his lower face. His eyes were red rimmed and puffy. “You blame me?”

“No. But what about the negotiations?”

The Frenchman shrugged. “They weren’t exactly going anywhere.”

Sebastian went to stand with his back to the fire. “When I saw you yesterday morning, you were determined to stay. What changed your mind?”

“My daughter. She insisted I needed some slippery elm for a sore throat I’ve been complaining of, and walked down to the apothecary’s yesterday afternoon to get it. Someone followed her.”

“Did she see him?”

“No. The fog was too thick. All she heard was footsteps, and then a man’s cough. But she had no doubt he was following her. He stopped when she stopped, then started up again when she moved on. She ran the rest of the way back to the inn.”

Sebastian studied the other man’s drawn face. “Who do you think is doing this?”

“The Bourbons, perhaps? Some industrialist or financier like that Scotsman, Kilmartin? Who can say? All I know is, I’ve had enough.”

“What about Jarvis? Any chance he could be behind the killings?”

“No.”

“So certain?”

Vaundreuil turned toward the window, his gaze on the workmen, who were now loading a pile of bandboxes into the wagon. “Am I certain? No, I suppose not,” he said after a moment. “There’s no denying that Jarvis plays a deep game-a deep and dangerous game. It’s reached the point I don’t trust anyone anymore.” He gave a humorless huff of laughter. “And pray don’t bother to point out the irony of my saying that because, believe me, I see it. The only person with nothing to be ashamed of in all this is Madeline. And I want her safely out of it.”

“When does your ship sail?”

“At ten this evening.”

“Then if you’ll take my advice, you will get your daughter aboard quickly and stay in your cabin until the ship has cleared Greenwich.”

The sound of a woman’s footsteps on the stairs drew Vaundreuil’s gaze to the entrance passage. “But why would anyone want to harm my daughter? Who would do such a thing?”

Madame Madeline Quesnel appeared at the entrance to the coffee room. She wore a black wool carriage gown and carried a traveling reticule in her hand. Her gaze went from her father to Sebastian.

Sebastian said, “When the destinies of nations are at stake, some men will stop at nothing.” Some men, and some women . He swept her a bow and smiled. “Have a safe voyage, madame .”

T he last of the light was leaching from the sky when Charles, Lord Jarvis, crossed the forecourt of Carlton House toward his waiting carriage.

He was feeling mildly pleased with the recent progression of events. There would be no peace negotiations with the impudent upstart, Napoleon; that avaricious little opportunist, Vaundreuil, was at that very moment scurrying toward home with his tail between his legs. The war in Europe would continue to its proper end, with a triumphant host of British troops marching down the Champs-Elysees and the forces of radicalism utterly crushed. Not for a century or more would any nation rise up to threaten Britain’s global dominance, nor would any populace again dare to overthrow their betters and proclaim the rights of the vulgar masses.

He paused while a footman hastened to open his carriage door and let down the steps. Settling comfortably on the plush seat, Jarvis was spreading the carriage robe across his lap when the door opened again and Viscount Devlin leapt up to take the seat opposite.