by C. S. Harris
The East End of London was choked with men like Collot: raised in want and desperation, uneducated, angry, and long ago cut loose from the moral underpinnings that typically anchored those who looked askance at them. Most were English or Irish, but in their midst one also found many French, Danes, Spaniards, even Africans. Living precariously from day to day, subsisting largely on potatoes and bread and crammed as many as five or ten to a room, they wreaked their own kind of vengeance on a system that viewed them as a permanent “criminal class,” impervious to improvement and suitable only for containment. Those who didn’t die young or violently could generally look forward to being either hanged or transported to the nasty new penal colony at Botany Bay that had replaced the earlier hellholes in Georgia and Jamaica.
With each step he took, Sebastian allowed himself to sink deeper and deeper into a persona he had affected often during the war, when he’d served as an exploring officer in the hills of Iberia. It was Kat who’d first taught him, long ago, that there was more to carrying off an effective disguise than a dirtied face and old clothes; successful deception lay in recognizing and altering the subtle differences in movement and posture, mannerisms and attitude that distinguish us all. Gone were the upright carriage, the easy confidence and demeanor of the Earl’s son. Instead, he moved from one public house and gin shop to the next with the stooped shoulders, ducked head, and furtive sideways glances of a man who had never known command, who had been forced to claw and bluff his way through life, who could rarely be certain where his next meal would come from, and who always knew that the heavy hand of vengeful authority could fall upon him at any moment.
It was in a public house just off Great Earl Street that Sebastian finally spotted his quarry in earnest conversation with three cohorts huddled around a battered table. Ordering a pint of ale from a barmaid who couldn’t have been more than fourteen, Sebastian stood with his back to the counter, one knee bent so that the sole of his boot rested against the rough planking behind him. The close atmosphere smelled of spilled ale and tobacco and unwashed men. Narrowing his eyes against the smoke, he watched Collot nod to his cohorts and rise from the table to walk toward him.
Sebastian held himself very still.
But the Frenchman brushed past Sebastian without a flicker of either recognition or suspicion and pushed open the door. His companions remained at their table.
Setting aside his tankard, Sebastian followed Collot out into the dark coolness of the night.
He trailed the Frenchman down a crooked lane lit only by a rare torch flaring in a rusted sconce fastened high to the side of a crumbling wall, or by whatever dim light filtered through the thick, grimy panes of old glass in the windows of the occasional coffeehouse or gin shop. Quickening his pace, he caught up with Collot just as the Frenchman was passing a narrow alley between a pawnshop and a tallow-candle maker.
As if sensing the danger behind him, Collot half turned as Sebastian plowed into him.
“Mon Dieu!” he cried as the force of Sebastian’s momentum carried the two men deep into the fetid darkness of the alleyway.
Sebastian slammed the Frenchman face-first against a rough brick wall, one hand tightening around Collot’s right wrist to yank his arm behind his back and lever it up, effectively holding him pinned in place.
“Bete! Batard!” swore Collot, his gray-whiskered face twisted sideways, his hat askew, his one visible eye opened so wide Sebastian could clearly see the white rimming his dark, dilated iris as he struggled against Sebastian’s hold. “Put a hand on my purse, you whore’s son, and I’ll-”
“Shut up and listen to me very carefully,” hissed Sebastian, every affectation gone from his manner.
Collot stilled. “You?”
Sebastian drew his lips back into a smile. “Yes, me.”
“What is this? What do you want?”
“Two rules,” said Sebastian softly. “Rule number one: Don’t even think about lying to me again. Lies have a tendency to make me cranky, and I’m already not in the best of moods at the moment.”
“But I did not lie-”
“Rule number two,” said Sebastian, increasing the pressure on the Frenchman’s arm in a way that made him grimace. “Don’t waste my time. There’s an innocent man in Newgate who’s liable to hang for a murder he did not commit. Which means that when you waste my time, you’re helping to kill him.”
“Are you so certain, monsieur, that he is indeed innocent of what he is accused? Perhaps you-”
“You’re forgetting rule number two,” said Sebastian evenly.
Collot fell silent.
Sebastian said, “I learned something interesting today. It seems that, far from coming from a family of Parisian lapidaries, you are actually descended from a long line of Parisian thieves.”
Collot huffed a nervous laugh. “Jewel thieves, jewelers-is there such a difference?”
Sebastian was not amused. “Tell me about the theft of the French Crown Jewels from the Garde-Meuble in Paris.”
“But I never-”
Sebastian tightened his grip. “Now you’re forgetting both rule number one and rule number two. You told me you sold jewels to Daniel Eisler in Amsterdam in 1792. What I want to know is, was one of them the French Blue?”
Collot gave a snort of derision. “You think they would allow us to keep something as valuable as the Emblem of the Golden Fleece?”
“Who is ‘they’?”
“Danton.” Collot spit the word out as if it were a bite of tainted old mutton.
The name caught Sebastian by surprise. A coarse, physically ugly mountain of a man, Georges Danton had initially fled the Revolution, only to return and rise to prominence as one of the architects of the Revolutionary Tribunal and the Reign of Terror. “Danton? Not the Minister of the Interior, Roland?”
“They were both in on it-the two of them, Danton and Roland, working together.”
Sebastian said, “It was Danton who eventually sent Roland to the guillotine.”
“Eventually, yes. But in September of 1792, Danton and Roland were allies. Danton and Robespierre were also allies at one time; remember? Only, that didn’t save Danton’s head when Robespierre eventually decided to move against him, now, did it?”
Sebastian shifted his grip to swing Collot around to face him. In the flickering light thrown by a distant torch, the Frenchman looked pale and slack-jawed, his wayward eye more noticeable than ever. “Why should I believe you?”
Collot turned his head and spat. “Why should I care whether you believe me or not? I am telling you, Danton and Roland wanted to sell the Crown Jewels because the government needed the money. Only, the other members of the government would not agree. So Danton arranged to have the jewels ‘stolen’ instead.”
“And the French Blue? What happened to it?”
A distant burst of laughter jerked Collot’s attention, for a moment, to the lane at the end of the alley. Then he brought his gaze back to Sebastian and smiled.
“You don’t know anything, do you? That was September of 1792, when the combined armies of Austria and Prussia were camped at Valmy, just a hundred miles from Paris. Together, they outnumbered the French troops facing them nearly two to one. If they had advanced on the city then-in the middle of September-they could have taken Paris. The Revolution would have been over. Finished. That’s what Danton was afraid of. He knew what his life would be worth if Louis were restored to the throne.”
“What are you suggesting? That Danton used the French Crown Jewels to bribe the Prussian and Austrian armies not to attack Paris?”
Collot gave a harsh, ringing laugh. “Not the Prussians and the Austrians; their commander.”
Sebastian’s eyes widened, for Collot’s words opened up an entirely new angle on Eisler’s murder. He took a step back and released Collot so suddenly the Frenchman sagged and almost fell.
For the man commanding the Prussian and Austrian armies at Valmy was none other than Carl Wilhelm Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick,
husband to George III’s sister, the English Princess Augusta, and father to Princess Caroline. .
The estranged wife of George, the Prince Regent.
Chapter 32
Finding himself unexpectedly free, Collot took off in a stumbling trot down the alley, his hands splayed out awkwardly at his sides, the tails of his tattered coat flying in the damp breeze.
Sebastian let him go.
He was remembering a dark carriage looming out of the night, a frightened young man running toward those whom he believed were his allies, the deadly spurt of flame from the end of a darkened rifle barrel. Who would do something like that?
The obvious answer was, people without conscience or scruples.
People who see their own agents as expendable.
People with far more at stake than a mere diamond, however big and rare.
Still turning Collot’s revelations over in his mind, Sebastian emerged from the alley into the raucous turmoil of the street beyond. Someone was scraping on a fiddle, and half a dozen Irishmen were dancing a jig, cheered on by a circle of laughing, ragged women. Beyond them, he could see a lithe, pockmarked man wearing a small-brimmed, dented hat and standing by himself on the far side of the street. He had one shoulder propped against a rough brick wall, his hands thrust in his pockets, his gaze seemingly directed toward a saucy redheaded bit o’ muslin who was smiling at him. But when Sebastian turned south, toward Covent Garden, the man readjusted his hat and pushed away from the wall to follow him.
As he wound his way up the crowded street, Sebastian was aware of the pockmarked man behind him. The man hung well back, always careful to keep some distance between them. But when Sebastian paused to gaze through the misted window of a coffeehouse, his shadow paused too. The man had a lean, sharp-boned face with a small nose, a pointed chin, and dark hair. His clothes were those of a day laborer or apprentice. .
Or someone considerably more unsavory.
Whistling softly, Sebastian continued on.
The pockmarked man fell into step behind him.
As they neared Long Acre, the crowds became more scattered, the neighborhood less depraved. Sebastian quickened his pace, his footsteps and those of his shadow echoing dully in the narrow streets. He turned right onto Long Acre, then immediately drew back into the darkened doorway of a button shop. The pockmarked man rounded the corner and continued past Sebastian some three or four paces before becoming aware that his quarry had suddenly vanished. He abruptly drew up.
Sebastian stepped from the doorway into the light of a street lamp and said, “Who are you and why the hell are you following me?”
The man whirled. Rather than dissembling or startling in any way, he whipped a nasty knife from beneath his coat and lunged forward to slash the blade across Sebastian’s stomach with enough force to have disemboweled him if the steel had cut flesh. Instead, the knife ripped through the covering of the bolster Sebastian had used to pad his torso. A cascade of white feathers spilled around them, fluttering in an airy flurry to the wet pavement.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” For one unguarded moment, the man stared at him, confused.
“You son of a bitch,” swore Sebastian, his boot lashing out to smash into his assailant’s wrist.
The impact sent the knife careening into the darkness. Sebastian followed the kick with a jab of his right fist that caught the man high on the cheekbone and spun him half around. A second blow glanced across his ear and knocked the dented hat flying.
With an angry roar, the assailant lowered his head and charged, fists flailing. But the feathers were slick underfoot, the soles of his shoes slipping, throwing him off balance. Sebastian landed another punch against his assailant’s temple. The man broke and ran.
Leaping off the flagway into the street, he nearly collided with a hackney drawn by a skittish chestnut. The horse reared, neighing in alarm as the man dashed down the narrow lane that led to St. Paul’s and Covent Garden Market.
Sebastian pelted after him.
They erupted out of the lane into the broad market square, its stalls now shuttered in the darkness. During the day, the piazza before St. Paul’s was the site of London’s largest produce market. But at night, it was given over to the city’s demimonde. Painted women in low-cut gowns hissed and whistled as the two men pelted across the square, sliding awkwardly on the mushy cabbage leaves and smashed rotten fruit underfoot.
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 Wolfenbuttel 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.
“Napoleon 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. “Napoleon 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?”
