by C. S. Harris
Sebastian said, “She is still relatively young.”
“She is, she is. And there’s no denying her mother took long enough to begin breeding.”
Sebastian kept his gaze on the soaring spires of the chapel before them. It was well-known that Marie Antoinette’s long delay in childbearing was due entirely to her husband the King’s failure to consummate their marriage for seven years. A number of rumors had circulated at the time, although most had eventually been laid to rest.
But the same rumors continued to swirl around the Comte de Provence’s own marriage. Some said his wife repulsed him, while others claimed he preferred his mistresses. And then were those who said that Louis Stanislas’s interest in women had always been tepid and had waned completely in his later years.
“Lovely, isn’t it?” said the uncrowned king, his head tilting back, good-humored pleasure suffusing his plump face as his gaze moved with obvious appreciation over the delicate tracery of the chapel’s arched windows.
But Sebastian was looking instead at the courtier, Ambrose LaChapelle.
The man was a bundle of contradictions. The tales of his courage as a volunteer in the Prince de Conde’s army of counterrevolutionary exiles were legendary. A superb horseman, expert marksman, and skilled swordsman, he had once supported himself as a fencing master.
But there were whispers of another side to the French nobleman. Some said the courtier was known to don women’s clothing and cruise the darkened arcades of Covent Garden and the Exchange, where he was known as “Serena Fox.” And Sebastian found himself thinking about the mysterious, unknown man and woman who had sought out Damion Pelletan on the night of his death.
And about the bloody footprint left by a woman’s shoe on a broken slat in the noisome passage where the physician had met his grisly end.
Chapter 13
“I ain’t ne’er seen nothin’ like them stables,” said Tom, his voice hollow with disgust. “They only got two ridin’ ’orses in there. Two! An’ one of ’em is reserved special fer the Princess. ’Alf the stalls ’ave been turned into rooms and ’ave people livin’ in ’em. There was some old woman kept tryin’ t’sell me a straw ’at she’d made, all the while claimin’ she was the Comtesse de somethin’eranother.”
“She probably was,” said Sebastian, turning his tired team toward the nearby village of Stoke Mandeville, where he intended to make his next change.
“Huh. Queer lot, if ye ask me, even fer foreigners. Most o’ them stableboys is French too. I ne’er seen such a close-mouthed set. Couldn’t get no one t’ give me the time o’ day.”
“Unfortunate, but probably predictable,” said Sebastian.
He couldn’t begin to understand how Marie-Thérèse’s consultation with Dr. Damion Pelletan might possibly have anything to do with the physician’s death. But neither could he get past the haunting coincidence that Pelletan’s murder had fallen on the anniversary of the execution of the last crowned King of France.
Tom said, “I thought this Marie-Thérèse is s’posed to be a princess?”
“She is. The only surviving child of Marie Antoinette and King Louis XVI of France.”
“So why’s she called a duchess?”
“Because she’s married to a duke, although at the moment he’s off with Wellington in Spain.”
“’E’s a duke, even though ’e’s the son of a count? And ’is da is a count, but also a prince—the son of a king?”
“I know it’s rather confusing. But that’s the way the French do it. They aren’t quite as tidy about titles and ranks as the English.”
“Makes no sense, if ye ask me,” said Tom. “No wonder they can’t even talk English proper-like.”
The near leader stumbled, and Sebastian steadied his horses. He could see the mossy gray roof of the medieval church of Stoke Mandeville soaring above the treetops in the distance. The road was narrow here, a copse of beech undergrown with hazel closing in around them as he nursed the tired team up the slope. And he felt it again: a sensation of being watched that came on suddenly and intensely.
He swept around a sharp bend to find the roadway blocked by a fallen limb. He reined in hard, the team of grays coming to a snorting standstill. Tom was about to jump down and run to their heads when Sebastian said in a low voice, “Don’t.”
A man stepped from behind a thick stand of brush. He wore greasy canvas trousers and a threadbare brown corduroy coat and had an ugly horse pistol thrust into his waistband. His gaunt face was unshaven, his accent that of the streets of London as he said, “’Avin’ a spot o’ trouble there, yer lordship?” He reached up to grasp the leaders’ reins above their bits. “’Ere, let me ’elp.”
Rather than being calmed by his presence, the grays whinnied and tossed their heads, nostrils flaring.
Sebastian’s hand tightened on his whip. “Stand back.”
“Now, is that any way to respond to my friend’s most generous offer of assistance?” asked a second man, this one mounted astride a showy chestnut that he nudged forward until he came to a halt some five or six feet from the curricle. He held a fine dueling pistol in his left hand; the gleaming wooden grip of its mate showed at his waist. Unlike his companion, this man wore buckskin breeches and an elegant riding coat, and his accent was pure Oxbridge. He had a rough wool scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, so that all Sebastian could see was his dark eyes, their lashes as thick and long as a young girl’s.
For a moment, his gaze met Sebastian’s. Then the horseman blinked and extended the muzzle of his pistol toward Sebastian’s face.
“Run!” Sebastian shouted at Tom. Surging to his feet, he sent the lash of his whip snaking out to flick the chestnut on its flanks.
The horse shied badly, its rider lurching in the saddle, the pistol exploding harmlessly into the treetops.
“You bastard,” swore the horseman, dragging his mount back around as he reached for the second pistol.
This time Sebastian’s lash struck the chestnut’s withers. The horse reared up just as its rider squeezed the trigger.
The shot sent Sebastian’s beaver hat tumbling end over end into the lane. “Bloody hell,” Sebastian swore, and jerked his own small double-barreled flintlock from his coat pocket.
The horseman’s eyes widened above the scarf, his hands tightening on his reins as he kicked the chestnut into a plunging gallop that carried him down the hill and around the bend, chevrons of mud flying up from the frenzied horse’s hooves.
With an ugly snarl, the brown-coated ruffian stepped back from Sebastian’s team and pulled the horse pistol from his waistband.
Sebastian thumbed back the hammer on his flintlock and shot him right between the eyes.
The man turned a slow, ungainly pirouette, then fell hard.
“Gor,” whispered Tom, creeping from behind a nearby clump of hazel to stare down at the man’s sprawled, still form. “Is he dead?”
“I told you to run,” said Sebastian as the tiger leapt to calm the now frantic, plunging horses. “You all right?”
“Aye,” said Tom, whispering soothing words that the grays seemed to understand. “Who ye reckon that lot were?”
“I don’t know.” Sebastian jumped down from the curricle’s high seat to drag both the dead assailant and the downed limb from the roadway. He hesitated a moment, then yanked off the dead man’s coat and threw it over his face in case someone with delicate sensibilities should happen to drive past before he made it back with the proper authorities. “But whoever sent them obviously wants me dead.”
Chapter 14
That 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 t
han 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.
Chapter 15
“And you 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 r
elated 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.”