C. Harris: Why Kings Confess

“And you returned together to where Damion Pelletan and his sister lay?”

She tilted her head to one side. “How did you-”

“How did I know you were there, in the alley? I found the prints left by your shoes.”

“But you could not possibly have known the shoe prints were mine.”

“No,” he agreed, then said, “Why did you return with Armitz to Cat’s Hole?”

Her hands moved possessively over the crystal urn in her hands. “I needed the heart.”

Sebastian studied the proud lift of her chin, the gleam of self-confident righteousness in those deceptively soft blue eyes. “You cut out his heart yourself, didn’t you? That’s why you went back with Armitz. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. So you did.”

“Yes.”

He’d known it, and yet, hearing her calmly admit it made the fact seem somehow worse. He could not rid himself of the image of this delicate, ethereally beautiful woman surrounded by the refuse of a dark, foul alley as she savagely hacked Damion Pelletan’s heart from his still-warm flesh. He said, “You believed Pelletan the Lost Dauphin, the only surviving son of the martyred King of France; and yet you would have killed him, had someone else not done so first. Why?”

She stared back at him. “He was not fit to rule. He was not raised as a prince, and his mind had been hopelessly corrupted by the influence of the Revolution. When the Bourbons are restored to the throne of France, it will not be through him.”

“Yet you would see his heart given a place of honor amongst the royal tombs in Val-de-Grace?”

“He is still a son of St. Louis.”

“Does Marie-Therese know? Does she know you would have killed the man she believed might be her brother?”

Rather than answer him, Lady Giselle turned to the priest. “Please continue the service, Father.” To Sebastian, she said, “You may leave us now.”

Sebastian expelled his breath in a low, humorless huff. “Not without Damion Pelletan’s heart. It’s up to his sister to decide what’s to be done with it.”

“No.” She shook her head. “His name was not Damion Pelletan, and the woman who accompanied him was not his sister.”

“You’re wrong,” said Sebastian, advancing on her.

He could probably never prove that the Chevalier d’Armitz had killed both Colonel Foucher and the molly, James Farragut, just as there was no way to prove that the Chevalier had acted under this woman’s orders. But he’d be damned if he’d let her enshrine Damion Pelletan’s heart in a monument dedicated to a dynasty that the man had hated.

“Give me the heart,” he said.

“Monsieur,” protested the priest, attempting to step between them.

“Father-,” Sebastian began, just as Lady Giselle gave the priest a violent shove that sent him staggering into Sebastian.

“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian, reaching out to steady the old man as Giselle whirled and ran for the front of the chapel.

She had the heavy skirts of her gown fisted one hand, the urn clutched tight against her side. She’d almost reached the doors when she obviously remembered they were locked. She hesitated only an instant, then veered off, intent on circling back toward the sacristy. But Sebastian was already setting the bleating priest aside and moving to cut her off. For one intense moment, her furious gaze met his. Then she turned and dashed up the narrow wooden stairs of the west gallery.

He pelted after her, taking the steep steps two at a time. He erupted onto the creaky gallery to find her backed against the wooden balustrade, the urn raised like a weapon.

“Don’t come any closer to me,” she said with awful calm.

He drew up abruptly. “I won’t hurt you. Just give me the heart.”

She shook her head. “You asked how I happened to know the identity of the cabinetmaker, Bullock. Well, I’ll tell you. I made it my business to know. I realized he might prove a useful distraction, if it looked as if you were becoming more than a nuisance-as you have. Which is why, before he came to meet me here, my cousin stopped by Tichborne Street to make certain Bullock knows about the child. He’s very angry with you, you know. He’s sworn he’ll take his revenge against both you and Alexi Sauvage.”

“Damion Pelletan’s son is safe.” Sebastian took a step closer, then another. “Bullock will never get to him.”

She gave a high, ringing laugh that echoed around the small chapel. The rain drummed on the roof and the gusting wind drove the torrent against the windows in waves. “I’m not talking about Noel Durant, you fool. What interest have I in a prince’s bastard? I’m talking about your child. Your unborn child.”

Sebastian drew up abruptly, a cold prickling running across his scalp.

“Bullock is going to kill it,” she said with cold triumph. “The child and its mother both.”

Sebastian took another step toward her. “I don’t believe you.”

“Then that is the greatest revenge of all, is it not?” she said, and slammed the heavy urn against his head.

The sharp edge of a silver handle sliced into his scalp, sending hot blood coursing down the side of his face. He put up an arm to fend her off, but she swung the urn at him again, her features distorted with rage and hatred and blind determination.

He flung her off, the blood in his eyes now. She stumbled back, off-balance, careening hard against the gallery’s wooden balustrade. Sebastian heard the crack of breaking wood, saw the horror of comprehension flood her face.

The old railing gave way, the banister shattering. She scrabbled one-handed to catch herself. If she had let go of the urn, she might have saved herself. But she held on to it, falling backward into space with a cry of rage, her black skirts billowing around her.

“Mon Dieu!” screamed the priest as she slammed into the pavement with a bone-breaking smack.

The impact knocked the urn from her grasp, the rock crystal shattering against the pavement in a shower of clear, glittering fragments, the torn heart coming to rest just inches from her outflung hand. She stared up at the chapel ceiling with wide, sightless eyes. But Sebastian didn’t even pause to make certain she was dead.

He was already running for the door.

P aul Gibson sat with his back propped against the edge of the kitchen table, a smile crinkling his eyes as he watched Alexi fill the teakettle and set it on the trivet.

“I didn’t offer you a place to stay to turn you into some one-legged Irishman’s cook and housekeeper.”

She looked up at him. The firelight gleamed through the glorious cascade of her hair in a way that made him think of misty sunrises and the first turning leaves of autumn. “Mrs. Federico will be back, just as soon as she feels she’s made her point.” She straightened and came to stand between his spread thighs, her hands on his shoulders, her gaze locked with his as she mimicked his brogue. “And what’s wrong with a one-legged Irishman, then? Hmm?”

He rested his hands on her hips, still awed by the realization that she desired him, that she saw something of worth in him. He was desperately afraid she’d eventually realize he wasn’t worthy of her, that she was driven more by a combination of gratitude and pity than by a recognition of deep affinity and the kind of loving respect that could endure.

“Alexi-,” he began, only to break off at the sound of a knock on the front door.

“Well, go on,” she said, moving away with a laugh when he hesitated.

He pushed regretfully to his feet. “That’ll be Devlin, come for the results of the autopsy on that Haymarket jeweler.”

Snagging a brace of candles, he limped down the passage to open the front door. Only it wasn’t Devlin; it was Lord Jarvis’s tall, intimidating daughter, a footman at her side holding an umbrella. A fine rain had begun to fall, driven in stinging eddies by a growing wind.