Why Kings Confess (7 page)

T
hat afternoon, Hero went to visit her mother, Annabelle, Lady Jarvis.

Her affection for her mother ran deep, although the two women were little alike. Whereas Hero was tall, dark haired, and determinedly frank in her manner, Annabelle had in her youth been pretty and petite, with soft golden curls and melting blue eyes and a sweetly charming smile. Hero had a dim memory of that woman, vivacious and loving and far more intelligent than she ever allowed anyone—least of all her husband—to suspect. But an endless succession of miscarriages and stillbirths had gradually drained her energy and sapped her confidence and joy. And then, one dreadful night, her last brutal labor had ended with another dead child, and Annabelle had suffered an apoplectic fit that left her weak in both mind and body.

Yet even with her nerves shattered and her memory and reason a shadow of what they’d once been, Annabelle still somehow managed to hold her own in the glittering, often cutthroat world of the haut ton. And Hero knew she grasped far more about her husband’s clandestine affairs than Jarvis had ever realized.

The two women settled down for a cup of hot chocolate before a roaring fire in Annabelle’s dressing room and chatted for a time about the latest cut of sleeves and the newest rosewater tonic. Then Hero looked over at her mother and said, “I hear there’s a French peace delegation in town.”

Annabelle’s soft blue eyes clouded with wariness as she groped for her chocolate cup. “Where did you hear that, darling?”

Hero gave her mother a good-natured smile. “From Devlin.”

“Oh, dear. I fear Jarvis will not be happy to learn that he knows.”

“Devlin already confronted him about it. He denied it, of course.”

“Yes, it’s all very secretive.”

Not for the first time, Hero found herself wondering if her mother listened at keyholes or if Jarvis was so convinced of his wife’s idiocy that he no longer took care what he said around her.

“And it’s still quite preliminary, as well,” Annabelle said. “At least, that’s what I heard your father saying to someone the other night.”

“Yet it’s encouraging that the delegation is here at all.”

“It is, yes. It seems difficult these days to remember a time when we were not at war with the French.”

Hero said, “But surely the British and French positions are quite far apart? I mean, I can’t believe Napoléon will agree to abdicate.”

“Oh, no; he’s definitely not the type to slip quietly off the world stage, now, is he?”

“Would Britain agree to a peace that left Bonaparte as Emperor of France?”

“Well,
some
would be willing to see it happen.”

But not others.
The words, although unsaid, hung in the air.

Hero fiddled with her cup. “I would imagine the British position is somewhat conflicted, given the French royal family’s presence here as the Prince Regent’s personal guests. Obviously, Prinny would like to see the Bourbons restored to France—both because he feels for their situation as a fellow royal, and because deposed kings by their very existence tend to undermine the legitimacy of every royal still stubbornly clinging to his own crown. And yet, which is more of a threat to the English monarchy? The survival of Napoléon’s empire? Or the continuation of a long, expensive war that has lost the support of England’s hungry people and threatens to bankrupt the state?”

“Well, from what I understand, Prinny is certainly most vocal in his determination to see the Bourbons restored to the throne of France.”

“And Papa?”

An unexpectedly wise smile curled her mother’s lips. “Must you ask? As far as your father is concerned, a compromise now would be folly. He insists that we shall soon see Napoléon driven from Paris by force of arms and a full restoration of the old ways.”

“Yet Wellington is still many miles from France, let alone Paris.”

“He is, yes.”

“And I’m not convinced it would be either easy or wise to reimpose ‘the old ways’ on a people who have been rid of them for nearly twenty-five years. The French have overthrown the Bourbons once, which means they’ll know they could do it again should they be so inclined. Next time, they might be shrewd enough not to set up an emperor in their king’s place. And then we would once again have a republican government right across the Channel—as opposed to far across the Atlantic—inspiring all sorts of dangerous urgings amongst the downtrodden masses.”

Annabelle’s hand fluttered up to press against her lips. “Good heavens, Hero; don’t let your father hear you talk like that! He’ll take you for a radical.”

“But I am a radical,” said Hero, and laughed softly at the look of horror on her mother’s face. She sipped her chocolate in silence for a moment, then said, “So if Jarvis is convinced Napoléon can be defeated by force of arms, why entertain this peace delegation at all?”

“From what I gather, the Prime Minister and certain members of the cabinet are more interested in the peace proposals than your father would like.”

“Ah.” Hero set aside her empty cup. “In that case, I should think the delegation’s presence in London is causing a few nervous spasms out at Hartwell House.”

“I don’t believe the Bourbons have been told of the delegation. Although of course that doesn’t mean they’re necessarily ignorant of its presence.” Lady Jarvis set aside her own cup and reached to take her daughter’s hand. “Now, enough of this boring nonsense. I want to hear how you are feeling.”

“I’m fine, Mama. Although I swear I am getting big enough to be carrying an elephant.”

She regretted the words as soon as she saw the look of anxiety flit across her mother’s face. “I’ll be fine, Mama.”

“I can’t help but worry. You are my daughter.”

Hero tightened her hold on her mother’s hand. “Mama. I’m a good foot taller than you and quite sturdily built. I’ll be fine.”

“When do you see Richard Croft again?”

Hero pulled a face. “Tomorrow.”

Annabelle’s forehead puckered with new concern. “I know you don’t care for the man, dear. But there’s no denying he’s the best accoucheur in Britain. Why, they say that the Regent has already secured Croft’s promise that when Charlotte marries and is with child, he’ll manage her confinement.”

“Pity poor Princess Charlotte.”

“Hero—”

“Mama.”
Hero laughed again and leaned forward to kiss her mother’s cheek. “I swear, you are worse than Devlin. I am not only as big as an elephant, but as healthy as one too. You must stop worrying!”

Annabelle tilted her head as she searched Hero’s face. “Are you happy, darling?”

“Yes, very.”

Annabelle patted her hand. “I’m so glad for you.”

But the troubled frown remained.

“A
nd y
ou simply left the body there, in the wood?” asked Sir Henry Lovejoy, his voice squeaky with shock.

The two men were walking down Bow Street toward the Brown Bear, an ancient tavern that served as a kind of extension of the legendary public office across the street.

Sebastian glanced over at him. “What would you have had me do? Drive into Stoke Mandeville with a dead man propped up on the curricle seat beside me?”

Sir Henry’s eyes widened. “Goodness gracious, no. I must admit, I hadn’t thought of that.”

Sebastian turned his laugh into a credible cough. “I did alert the village magistrate. Unfortunately, during the time it took old Squire John to round up a couple of constables and a wagon in order to return with me to the scene, someone spirited away the corpse. I fear the worthy squire is more than half-convinced I made the whole thing up.”

“For your own amusement?”

“Something like that.” It had also made Sebastian damned late returning to London. He’d rushed back to Brook Street in an agony of apprehension and guilt, only to be told that Hero was spending the afternoon with her mother.

“I suppose it could have been highwaymen,” said Sir Henry. “Times are hard.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Aylesbury Vale isn’t exactly Finchley Common. Apart from which, the gentleman on the chestnut did not exactly look like he was in severe financial straits.”

The magistrate pursed his lips as he stared out over the crush of carts and wagons filling the narrow street. “The alternative possibility—that this attack is related to your involvement in the murder of Damion Pelletan—is troubling. Most troubling.” He glanced over at Sebastian. “How many people knew you were planning to drive out to Hartwell House today?”

“My entire household, for starters. But I suspect it’s more likely I was overheard making arrangements to hire a team from the livery stables in Boyle Street.”

Sir Henry frowned. “You think someone followed you?”

“Yes.”

“Dear me. I’ll have one of the lads pop around there and see if anyone came in after you, asking questions.”

Sebastian shook his head. “It might be better if I sent Tom. I wouldn’t want you to fall afoul of the chief magistrate.”

Sir Henry gave him a rare, tight smile. “My lads can be very discreet, when so inclined.” He cleared his throat. “They made some inquiries into the gentlemen staying at the Gifford Arms, by the way.”

“Oh?”

“The clerk is a man by the name of Camille Bondurant. He’s trained in the law and is said to be a rather taciturn man who generally keeps to himself. He takes a constitutional every morning up and down the Mall, at precisely ten o’clock.”

“And the colonel?”

“Colonel André Foucher. He was with Napoléon in Russia.”

“Now, that’s interesting.”

“Mmm. I thought so, as well. I’m told he’s fond of the Sultan’s Rest—a coffeehouse near the Armoury.” The magistrate started to turn into the Brown Bear, then paused to look back and say, “Did you know Pelletan’s funeral has been scheduled for this evening?”

“So soon? Where?”

“The French chapel near Portman Square. At seven o’clock.”

•   •   •

Sebastian found the chapel in Little George Street hung with black crepe and lit with branches of flaring beeswax candles. A row of high, plain windows showed black against the night sky, and a lingering memory of old incense mingled with the scents of hot wax and cold, dank stone.

The small Catholic church had been established late in the previous century by nonjuring priests fleeing the French Revolution. Its interior was plain to the point of being primitive, with only the Stations of the Cross and a scattering of wall-mounted tombs relieving the starkness. A prominently placed high-backed chair served as the “throne” of the uncrowned King of France whenever he chose to honor the congregation with his presence. If Damion Pelletan had indeed come to London as part of a delegation sent by Napoléon— as Hero’s conversation with her mother that afternoon certainly suggested—then the choice of this chapel as the site of his funeral struck Sebastian as mildly ironic. But then, it would never do to forget that Napoléon had managed to have himself crowned emperor by Pope Pius VII.

Closing the door quietly behind him, Sebastian paused to glance down the short, central aisle to where a dark oaken casket draped in blue velvet stood open before the altar. He did not approach the coffin, but slipped sideways to stand against the rear wall, deep in the shadows thrown by the rickety wooden west gallery overhead.

A heavy, oppressive silence filled the church, punctuated by an occasional cough. There were only three mourners, scattered widely across the short rows of pews separated by a central aisle. He recognized Harmond Vaundreuil in the second row. The colonel, André Foucher, had taken a seat three rows back and far off to one side. As Sebastian watched, Foucher slipped his watch from his pocket and frowned down at the time. The third man, thin and bony faced, with a red nose and straight black hair, occupied the last row. Sebastian didn’t recognize him, but he had his head bent over a book, his shoulders hunched against the cold. This, surely, was the clerk, Camille Bondurant.

The minutes ticked past. Sebastian crossed his arms at his chest and ignored the damp chill that seeped up through the soles of his boots as he watched the surviving members of the French delegation: three men who knew one another and lived together, attending the funeral of one of their own, yet all ignoring one another. Mitt Peebles obviously knew what he was talking about when he said they didn’t like one another much.

The sound of the door opening drew Sebastian’s attention to the entrance.

A slim, chestnut-haired, flamboyantly dressed man entered and paused just inside the door to remove his hat and dip his fingers in the holy water to make an absentminded sign of the cross. Sebastian stared at him. It was Ambrose LaChapelle.

What the devil is he doing here?
thought Sebastian.

Intrigued, Sebastian watched the courtier slide into the pew opposite the clerk, slip to his knees, make the sign of the cross again, and bow his head in prayer. It occurred to Sebastian, watching him, that LaChapelle was the only man in the church praying.

The church bells of the city had long ago struck seven. Colonel Foucher frowned and once again checked his watch. Sebastian could hear whispers and a flutter of movement from the sacristy, suggesting that the priest was finally preparing to begin his solemn procession. Then the street door opened again with a noisy jerk and another man entered the chapel.

Of average height and build, he was some thirty-five years of age, with bored gray eyes and thick, honey-colored hair worn fashionably disarranged. His exquisitely cut coat came from one of London’s best tailors, but his buckskin breeches were more suited to a ride in the park than to a funeral, and rather than a cravat, he wore a neckcloth knotted rakishly at his throat. He neither removed his high-crowned beaver hat nor bowed his head, but strode swiftly down the center aisle to draw up abruptly at the head of the open coffin.

Sebastian watched him with interest. The newcomer’s name was Lord Peter Radcliff; he was the younger son of the late Duke of Linford and brother to the current Duke. To Sebastian’s knowledge, he had no interest in either government or commerce, but devoted himself to a hedonistic lifestyle that revolved largely around the opera, the turf, and the kind of ruinous gaming hells popularized by the Prince Regent and his set.

So why was he here?

He stood beside the coffin for perhaps half a minute, his shoulders stiff, the fingers of his hands alternately opening and closing into fists at his sides as he stared at the dead man’s pallid face. Then he turned and left the church, just as the door from the sacristy opened.

A bent, wizened priest dressed in a white alb and vested in a black stole embroidered with gold crosses tottered into the nave, accompanied by two altar boys and a waft of incense. With muted coughs and throat clearings, the assembled mourners rose to their feet.

Moving quietly, Sebastian slipped out the main entrance. But by the time he reached the footpath, Radcliff’s barouche was already bowling away up George Street, its lanterns swinging wildly with the sway of the well-sprung carriage.

Sebastian was still staring thoughtfully after it when Harmond Vaundreuil walked out of the chapel behind him.