by C. S. Harris
The man was lithe and agile and amazingly fleet-footed. Rather than gaining on him, Sebastian soon found himself having a hard time keeping up. They raced between rows of shuttered stalls, leapt over piles of refuge, and dodged sleepy, ragged little boys who crawled out from beneath the dark counters to holler at them. On the far side of the square, an aged landau pulled by a mismatched team of bays dashed past, its gray-bearded coachman clad in worn livery, its sole passenger a turbaned dowager either too financially pressed or too cheap to employ a footman to ride up behind her. With a running jump, Sebastian’s assailant leapt up to catch hold of the rear bar, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the platform.
“God damn it,” huffed Sebastian as the landau bowled on up the street, carrying its uninvited hanger-on away with it. The pockmarked man pivoted agilely, one hand still grasping the bar, the other raised to his forehead in a mocking salute.
Sebastian sprinted after the landau for another two blocks. Then the carriage turned onto the Strand, picking up speed as it rolled away toward the west.
He gave it up.
Hunching over, he braced his hands against his thighs, his body shuddering as he drew air into his aching lungs. A few last feathers fluttered down around him like the downy flakes of winter’s first snow.
“So who was he?” asked Hero, pausing in the doorway to Sebastian’s dressing room.
The house was quiet around them, the room lit only by a brace of candles on the dressing table. He pulled the ruined shirt off over his head and unwound the bindings that held what was left of the padding around his waist. “I don’t know. But he was French.” He frowned down at the flesh revealed beneath the bindings. The tip of the man’s blade had cut through the padding enough to leave a long, angry weal across his lower abdomen.
“You’re acquiring an impressive collection of cuts on your torso,” said his wife, pushing away from the doorframe. “All you need now is a slice along the right side of your ribs and the symmetry will be complete.”
“Huh,” he grunted, and tossed the shredded padding at her.
She ducked, laughing, then went to uncork a flask of alcohol and liberally soak a folded cloth. “Whoever he was, he must have been watching Jacques Collot rather than you; otherwise, he would have known your protuberant belly began life as a feather pillow.”
“You’re probably right. In which case the question then becomes, who is watching Jacques Collot? And why?”
She came to press the alcohol-soaked pad to his cut. He sucked in his breath in an audible hiss.
“Stings, does it?” she said, her voice pleasant.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you of deriving some sort of fiendish delight from this.”
She grunted, her head bent as she focused on her task. “Tell me again what Collot said about the theft.”
He told her. He watched the way the flickering light from the nearby candles danced across her face, watched as she gripped her lower lip between her teeth while she worked.
He said, “Why do I get the distinct impression that none of this is exactly news to you?”
She set the pad aside and carefully recorked the flask. “How much do you know about Princess Caroline’s father, the Duke of Brunswick?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“He was a surprisingly accomplished and unusual man—very much a student of the Enlightenment. They used to call his court at Wolfenbüttel the ‘Versailles of the North.’ It was a center for poets and artists and men of letters, and filled with an exquisite collection of books, paintings, and fine furnishings.”
“Sounds like Daniel Eisler would have loved it,” said Sebastian.
“Napoléon certainly did.”
“He ransacked it?”
“I think ‘stripped it’ would be a more accurate term.” She perched on the edge of the bench while he poured warm water in the basin. “Napoléon had something of a grudge against the Duke. You see, in addition to being the brother-in-law of the King of England, father-in-law to the Prince of Wales, and a patron of artists and scholars, he was also considered one of Europe’s best generals. When the American colonists revolted against us, good ole King George actually asked Brunswick to lead Britain’s forces. He refused.”
Sebastian looked over at her. “Any particular reason?”
“Some say it was because he wanted King George to fail—that he was sympathetic to the Americans’ cause.”
“Was he?”
“I suspect he was. In 1792, the French revolutionary government in their turn approached Brunswick and asked him to take command of their army. He refused them as well, but not without expressing his support for the reforms they were enacting.”
Sebastian scrubbed at his face and hair, rinsing away the ashes and grease. “So why did he agree to take command of the combined armies of Austria and Prussia instead?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they gave him no real choice. But his distrust of the Austrians was well-known, as was his belief that the Prussian King—also his cousin, by the way—was a fool.”
Sebastian reached for a towel. “According to Collot, Brunswick’s army was within a hundred miles of Paris at the time of the theft of the French Crown Jewels.”
She nodded. “That’s right, at Valmy. It’s well-known that the revolutionary government tried to negotiate with Brunswick—to persuade him to withdraw. A meeting was actually held.”
“And?”
“Supposedly, the negotiations failed.”
Sebastian frowned. “But Brunswick still didn’t attack Paris.”
“No, he didn’t. And every day he held off was one more day the French were able to use to build up their own forces. Did you know that Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was with the Prussian Army at Valmy?”
“I did not.”
“His account of those days makes interesting reading. He was convinced some sort of treachery was afoot. He says there was no conceivable reason why an attack on Paris wasn’t launched immediately.”
“But there was eventually a battle.”
“Eventually. Although it was more in the nature of a small skirmish. And after that, Brunswick simply . . . withdrew. The next day, the National Convention abolished the monarchy and declared France a republic. And barely four months after that, Louis XVI was beheaded.”
“You’re saying Collot was right—that Brunswick was bribed?”
“According to the rumors, his price was five million livres.”
“With part of the payment being delivered in the form of the French Blue?”
“That’s the rumor.”
He looked over at her. “And is the rumor true?”
“I’ve never been told.”
Which did not, he realized, exactly answer his question.
Their gazes met. And he knew it again, that awareness that no matter how close they might become, Jarvis’s shadow—and Hero’s loyalty to her father—would always be between them.
She said, “After everything you’ve learned about Eisler—the blackmail, the financial exploitation, the sexual debauchery—you still think the mystery surrounding this blue diamond is somehow involved in his death?”
“Somehow, yes.”
She nodded as if coming to a decision and rose to her feet. “Then you might find it useful to speak to a certain colonel in the Black Brunswickers named Otto von Riedesel. He was in Spain with Wellington up until a few months ago, when he was wounded. But before that he served the old Duke of Brunswick.”
Sebastian swiped the towel at a drop of water running down his cheek, then tossed it aside. A corps of volunteers raised by the current Duke of Brunswick to fight against Napoléon, the Black Brunswickers were known for their brutality.
And for their fierce desire for revenge.
Chapter 33
Wednesday, 23 September
A
t dawn the next morning, Colonel Otto von Riedesel was exercising a magnificent black Hanoverian on the Row in Hyde Park when Sebastia
n brought his own Arab mare in beside him.
The colonel glanced over at Sebastian, then looked away, his jaw set hard. A big man with a full ruddy face, small brown eyes, and a swooping mustache, he wore the uniform of the Black Brunswickers—or the Black Horde, as they were sometimes called. As a symbol of their state of mourning for the occupied Duchy of Brunswick—now under the control of Napoléon—the corps’ entire uniform was black: black boots, black trousers, black dolman, black shako. The only touches of color came from the blue of his dolman’s collar and the Brunswicker silver death’s-head on his black shako.
The two men trotted along in a strained silence filled with the creak of saddle leather, the pounding of their horses’ hooves on the wet earth, the chorus of birdsong rising from the sparrows waking in the misty elms lining the path. At last, as if goaded beyond endurance, the Brunswicker exclaimed, “Vhat the hell do you vant from me?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
Von Riedesel gave a loud snort.
Sebastian said, “When Daniel Eisler was murdered, he had in his possession a large blue diamond. I’m told that diamond was previously held by the late Duke Carl Wilhelm of Brunswick.”
“I am a simple soldier. Vhat makes you think I know of such things?”
“The diamond in question is in all probability a recut version of a stone that once formed part of the French Crown Jewels.”
The colonel reined in hard, the red of his cheeks darkening to an angry hue, his horse chafing at the bit. “If you mean to suggest that the present Duke’s father allowed himself to be bribed into—”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” said Sebastian calmly. “I frankly couldn’t care less how the Duke came into possession of the French Blue. I want to know what happened to the gem between the time it was acquired by Carl Wilhelm and when it showed up in the possession of Daniel Eisler.”
“I told you; I know nothing of this.” Von Riedesel set his spurs to his horse’s sides, and the black Hanoverian leapt forward.
Sebastian kept pace with him. “You’re quite certain of that, are you?”
“Yes!”
“I suppose you’re right; I should have directed my questions to the Prince Regent. As the Duke’s son-in-law and executor of his will, Prinny would surely know what happened to the diamond after the Duke’s death.” Sebastian showed his teeth in a smile. “Sorry to have troubled you, Colonel. Good day.”
He was turning his horse’s head toward the gate when von Riedesel stopped him. “Wait!”
Sebastian paused, one eyebrow raised in inquiry.
“Ride on vith me a moment,” snapped the Brunswicker.
Sebastian fell in beside him again.
Von Riedesel said, “Vhat I have to tell you is in the strictest confidence.”
“Of course.”
The Brunswicker set his jaw. “Six years ago, vhen it became obvious that Napoléon was liable to overrun Brunswick, Duke Carl Wilhelm decided to send his jewel collection to his daughter for safekeeping.”
“You mean to Princess Caroline.”
“Yes.”
Sebastian studied the Colonel’s tight red face. “He entrusted you to bring it here, did he?”
Von Riedesel nodded. “I carried it in my personal luggage. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long after I arrived in London that word reached us of the Duke’s death in battle. His vidowed Duchess—your own English Princess Augusta—fled to London and sought refuge with her daughter.” He hesitated, then said, “This was in 1806. You know of the shameful straits under which the Prince forced his wife to live?”
“I know,” said Sebastian.
It was in 1806 that the Prince first instituted a governmental inquiry against Caroline in an attempt to rid himself of the wife he’d loathed at first sight. He accused her of everything from witchcraft to adultery, but in the end the “delicate investigation” failed in its objective. In retaliation, the Prince—spoiled, petulant, and endlessly indulgent of himself and his string of mistresses—cut off virtually all funds to his wife’s household, leaving her in near poverty.
“In other words,” said Sebastian, staring off toward the river, where the early morning mist was beginning to lift as the sun rose higher into a soft blue sky, “Caroline began selling her father’s gem collection to pay for her and her mother’s living expenses.”
“Discreetly, of course.”
“She must have been very discreet, if Prinny never caught wind of it.”
Von Riedesel gave a slight bow. “Just so.”
It suddenly struck Sebastian as deliciously ironic that the rare blue diamond now reportedly coveted by the Crown Prince had been previously sold behind his back by his own wife. “And the French Blue?”
“I never said Duke Carl Wilhelm possessed the French Blue. He did, however, have in his collection a large diamond of the darkest sapphire.”
Sebastian ducked his head to hide his smile. “Who bought this large blue diamond from Caroline?”
“You don’t seriously expect me to tell you that, do you?”
“No. But you can tell me if I’m wrong. It was Hope, wasn’t it? Not Henry Philip Hope, but Thomas.”
Wordlessly, the Black Brunswicker kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, his body rising and falling in tireless synchronicity with his horse’s motion.
Hero was standing in the entry hall, her head bowed as she worked at buttoning her gloves, when Sebastian walked in the house.
“Another crossing sweep interview?” he asked, handing his rid-
ing crop, hat, and gloves to Morey.
She wore a white cambric walking dress with a high-collared spencer of blue silk ruched down the front. “Yes,” she said, her attention all for her buttons, which were extensive. “I’m particularly looking forward to this one. It’s a little girl.” She looked up, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face. And he found himself wondering again, unpleasantly, just how much—and what—she knew that she wasn’t telling him. She said, “Discovered something interesting, have you?”
He cast a significant glance toward the library, and she walked ahead of him into the room, going to stand beside the empty hearth while he quietly closed the door.
He said, “How did you know that the late Duke of Brunswick sent his jewel collection to his daughter the Princess of Wales for safekeeping?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
He studied her flawlessly composed face. The problem was that the most obvious explanation—that she had heard it from her father—made no sense. Jarvis had always served the King and the Crown Prince; yet von Riedesel and Caroline had maneuvered behind the Prince on this. So why had Jarvis kept their secret?
She said, “Was von Riedesel able to tell you who bought the French Blue?”
“He claims the big blue diamond from the Duke’s collection did not come from the French Crown Jewels. But the gem in question was indeed purchased by Thomas Hope.”
“So Collot told you the truth?”
“He did. The problem is, I don’t understand how Collot could have come to have that interesting piece of information. I’m also puzzled as to why Hope would be selling the stone now. He told me himself that this is not a good time to be selling gems. So why is he putting one of the most famous diamonds in the world on the market?”
“There are rumors. . . .”
“Yes?” he prompted when she hesitated.
“The wars are putting an increasing strain on both international merchants and the old-style banking companies. The disruption of trade has simply been too extensive and gone on far too long.”
“Are you saying Hope and Company is in financial trouble?”
She nodded. “I understand things have reached such a pass that they may soon be forced to sell to the Barings. They’re trying to hold off, but I suspect it’s only a matter of time.”
“The sale of a large, rare diamond might conceivably raise enough to keep the company afloat.”
“It might
. . . if the value of gems weren’t so sadly depressed at the moment.”
Sebastian went to lean one hip against the edge of his desk, his arms crossed at his chest.
“What?” asked Hero, watching him.
“Now, there’s a motive for murder I hadn’t considered.”
Hero shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
“Eisler was more than just a diamond merchant; he was a wealthy man in his own right. What if he was unable to sell the diamond for the price Hope wanted? Hope might have decided to kill Eisler and steal his own gem so that he could claim the estimated value of the stone from Eisler’s estate and still keep the diamond.”
She huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Thomas Hope? You can’t be serious.”
“You’d be surprised at the things men will do when they get desperate.”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t believe it. He’s not that kind of man.”
“I must admit it seems an unlikely explanation to me, although for a different reason.”
“What’s that?”
Sebastian pushed away from the desk. In his mind’s eye, he again saw a desperate figure running down a muddy alley, heard the crack of a rifle, felt the spill of warm blood over his hands as he raised a dying boy into his arms.
“The shooter in the carriage.”
Chapter 34
T
homas Hope was supervising a couple of workmen repairing the skylight in his fifty-foot-long picture gallery when Sebastian paid a call on the banker’s Duchess Street mansion.
“I ask you,” exclaimed the little man in disgust, his mouth puckering furiously, “how difficult can it be to construct a skylight that doesn’t leak?”
Sebastian squinted up at the ornately plastered ceiling, its lavish, pale-blue-and-white-swagged medallions marred by an ugly brown stain. “I suppose that depends on how much it rains.”
Hope grunted. “Fortunately, the gallery is wide enough that none of the paintings were damaged. But look at what it’s done to the upholstery of the banquettes! And I only just had them recovered in this lovely pale blue fabric.”