by C. S. Harris
“Something the Emperor Napoléon seems to go through at an astonishing rate.”
Bondurant pursed his large mouth into a terse expression. “What has any of this to do with me?”
“You know of no one who would want to kill Pelletan?”
“I believe I already answered that question.” He tightened his scarf around his neck. “Now you must excuse me. You have interrupted my constitutional.”
And he strode off, arms swinging, head down, as if battling a strong wind or reading a book that was no longer there.
• • •
Sebastian’s next stop was the Sultan’s Rest, a coffeehouse on Dartmouth Street popular with the military men of the area.
He found the comfortable, oak-paneled room thick with tobacco smoke and filled with red-coated officers all talking and laughing at once.
The French colonel, Foucher, sat by himself in one corner, inconspicuous in his dark coat and modest cravat. His head was bent over a newspaper opened on the table before him; a cup of coffee rested at his elbow. But Sebastian knew by a certain subtle alertness about his person that the Frenchman’s attention was focused more on the conversations swirling around him than on the page before him.
Working his way across the crowded room, Sebastian pulled out the chair opposite the colonel. “Mind if I have a seat?”
The colonel looked up, his hazel eyes blinking several times. “Would it stop you if I did?” he asked, leaning back in his own chair as Sebastian sat down.
The Frenchman was tall and well built, although illness and injury had left him thin and his face sallow. Sebastian could see scattered strands of white in his sandy hair and thick mustache; lines dug deep by weather and endured pain fanned the skin beside his eyes.
Sebastian cast a significant glance around the crowded room. “Popular place.”
“It is, is it not?”
“I assume that’s why you come here?”
A slow gleam of amusement warmed the other man’s gaze. “I find I enjoy the company of military men, whatever their uniform.”
“I hear you were in Russia.”
“Yes.”
“There aren’t many who staggered out of that fiasco alive. With the exception of Napoléon himself, of course.”
“No.”
Sebastian rested his forearms on the tabletop and leaned into them. “Let’s get over rough ground as quickly as possible, shall we? I know why Vaundreuil is here. What I don’t know is why someone would stab Damion Pelletan in the back and cut out his heart. The most obvious reason would be to disrupt your mission. The mutilation of the corpse seems rather macabre, but it could be a subtle warning directed at Monsieur Vaundreuil, who I understand suffers from a heart condition.”
The colonel took a slow sip of his coffee and said nothing.
“Then again,” said Sebastian, “Pelletan could have been killed because he had in some way become a threat to the success of your mission.”
“Is that why you are here? Because you consider me a reasonable suspect?”
“You don’t think you should be?”
Foucher eased one thumb and forefinger down over his flaring mustache. “If he had simply been killed, I could see that, yes. But the very flamboyance of his murder tends to work against such an argument, does it not?”
“It does. Unless the killer were fueled by anger or the kind of bloodlust one sometimes sees on the battlefield.” Sebastian let his gaze drift around the noisy room. “We’ve both known men who enjoy mutilating the bodies of their fallen enemies.”
Again the colonel sipped his coffee and remained silent.
Sebastian said, “There is of course a third possibility: that Pelletan was killed for personal reasons. It’s unlikely, given that he was only in London for three weeks. But it is still an option.”
The French colonel reached for his cup again with a care that suggested his lingering injury might be to his right arm or shoulder. “You know about the woman, I assume?”
Sebastian watched the other man’s face, but Foucher was very good at giving nothing away. “What woman?”
“The wife of some duke—or perhaps it is the son of a duke.”
“You mean Lord Peter Radcliff?”
“Yes, that is it; his wife is very beautiful. So you do know her?”
“Yes.”
The Frenchman drained his coffee and set it aside. “The husbands of beautiful women are frequently subject to passionate fits of jealousy; jealousy and possessiveness. If you seek a personal motive, that might be a good place to start, yes? Particularly given the removal of Pelletan’s heart.”
“Did you know that Pelletan was killed on the twentieth anniversary of the execution of Louis XVI?”
“No, I did not. You believe that to be significant?”
“Rather a coincidence if it is not, wouldn’t you agree?”
The colonel wiped his mustache again and rose to his feet. “Life is full of coincidences.”
He started to turn.
Sebastian stopped him by saying, “Why do you think Ambrose LaChapelle attended Pelletan’s funeral mass?”
“Perhaps you should ask him,” said the colonel.
Then he pushed his way through the laughing, jostling crowd, a tall, erect man with the bearing of a military officer surrounded by his nation’s enemies.
Chapter 20
By the time Sebastian reached the Half Moon Street town house of Lord and Lady Peter Radcliff, thick white clouds were pressing down on the city, and he could smell a hint of snow in the frosty air.
He didn’t expect to find Radcliff at home, and in that he was not disappointed. Lady Peter, also, was out. But a friendly conversation with a young kitchen maid scrubbing the area steps, her hands red with cold, elicited the information that the mistress had taken her small brother and a friend to Green Park. Sebastian thanked the girl and turned his steps toward the park.
He knew something of Lady Peter’s story. She’d been born Julia Durant, in the dying days of the Ancien Régime. Her father, the younger son of a minor Rhône Valley nobleman, had trained as an artillery officer at the prestigious École Militaire in Paris. When the people of Paris rose up and overthrew the Bourbons, Georges Durant did not flee France. Rather than join the forces of the counterrevolutionaries, he remained loyal to the land of his birth, eventually becoming a trusted general, first under the National Convention, then under the Directory.
But General Durant never had much use for a certain cocky young Corsican named Napoléon Bonaparte. When Napoléon declared himself emperor in 1804, Georges Durant tried to stop him—and only narrowly escaped with his life.
Fortunately, he’d had the forethought to send his wife and children out of the country first. And before he died, the old French general managed to marry his beautiful daughter, Julia, to the younger son of an English duke.
When Sebastian walked up to her, Lady Peter was seated on an iron bench near the Lodge. She wore a thick dusky pink pelisse and a close bonnet trimmed with a delicate bunch of velvet and silk flowers and was smiling faintly as she watched her orphaned eight-year-old brother toss a ball to his friend. Then she saw Sebastian, and her smile faded.
“No, don’t run away,” he said as she surged to her feet, eyes wide, one hand clenching in the fine velvet cloth of her pelisse. “I take it you know why I wish to speak with you?”
She was nearly a decade younger than her husband, in her mid-twenties now, with luminous green eyes and rich brown hair that curled softly around a heart-shaped face. Her nose was small and delicately molded, her lips full, her bone structure as flawless as one of Fra Filippo Lippi’s madonnas. But her eyes were red rimmed and swollen, and Sebastian had no doubt that she’d been crying. For Damion Pelletan? he wondered. Or for some other reason entirely?
He watched as a succession of conflicting emotions flitted across her lovely face, a lifetime of carefully inculcated good manners at war with an instinctive urge to snatch up her little brother and run
.
Good manners won.
“Lord Devlin,” she said, graciously inclining her head, although the agitation of her breathing was obvious in the rapid rise and fall of her shoulders.
“Walk with me a ways, Lady Peter?” Sebastian suggested.
She threw a quick, uncertain glance toward the two little boys and their attendant nursemaid.
“We won’t go far. I’m told you knew Damion Pelletan as a child, in Paris.”
“I did, yes.” The native French inflections were still a soft purr in her gently modulated voice. “We grew up next door to each other. But . . . that was years ago. How could those days possibly have anything to do with Damion’s death?”
“I don’t know that they do. At the moment, I’m simply attempting to find out anything that might help explain what happened to him.”
She turned to walk with him along the graveled path, the flounced hem of her walking dress brushing the clipped rosemary hedge that grew beside it. “What would you like to know?”
“When did you last see Dr. Pelletan?”
She hesitated a moment too long, and he had the distinct impression she was tempted to deny having seen Pelletan recently at all.
Sebastian said, “Your husband told me he saw Dr. Pelletan a week or so ago. I assume you did, as well?”
“Yes. As I said, we were old friends. He contacted me shortly after he arrived in London, and Lord Peter invited him to dinner one evening.”
“When was this?”
“As my husband said: a week or so ago.”
“And that was the only time you saw him?”
“No. He paid us several afternoon visits as well.”
Sebastian noted her emphasis of the word “us” but decided not to press it. “Did he tell you why he was here, in London?”
She cast him a hooded sideways glance, obviously hesitant to betray her childhood friend’s confidences, even after his death. “Do you know?” she asked.
“About the delegation? Yes.”
She nodded, a soft breath of relief escaping her parted lips. “I don’t want you to think Damion told me about the peace initiatives himself, because he did not. But my father knew Harmond Vaundreuil, in Paris. He has always been Bonaparte’s creature. So when I heard Damion was here with Vaundreuil . . .” She shrugged. “It was supposed to be a secret, but the truth is often not difficult to guess.”
“Why was Pelletan included in the delegation?”
“Vaundreuil has a delicate heart. He worries obsessively about his health, fretting over each and every lump and pain, and is in constant need of reassurance. They thought it best that he travel with his own physician. And then of course there is Vaundreuil’s daughter.”
“Madeline, isn’t it?”
“Yes. You know about her?”
Sebastian shook his head.
“She was married to a young cavalry captain, François Quesnel. He was killed last December, in Spain, leaving her with child.”
“Ah,” said Sebastian.
They turned to walk back toward the Lodge, their gazes on the two boys, who had lost interest in the ball and now appeared to be vying to see who could hop the farthest on one foot, their shouts and laughter echoing across the park. Unlike his sister, Noël Durant was surprisingly fair headed. But he had his sister’s heart-shaped face and large green eyes.
Sebastian said, “How old is your brother?”
She gave a soft smile. “He is eight.”
“He lives with you?”
“He does, yes. Our mother died less than a year after his birth—not long before our father.”
“I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult for you, to be left alone in a strange country.”
“It was difficult, yes. But Lord Peter and I were married by then.”
She had been married many years, yet had conceived no children of her own. And Sebastian found himself thinking of another childless Frenchwoman, likewise living in exile in England.
He said, “I understand Damion Pelletan’s father is also a physician.”
“He is, yes.”
“I’m told he was involved in some way with the French royal family, when they were in the Temple Prison. Do you know anything about that?”
He watched in fascination as the color drained from her cheeks, her voice ragged as she said, “You don’t know?”
“Know what?”
“Damion’s father—Philippe-Jean Pelletan—was asked by the National Convention to treat the young Dauphin.”
“The son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette?”
“Yes.”
“Dauphin de France” was the title traditionally given to the heir apparent to the French throne. Few people today could recall the actual name of Marie-Thérèse’s tragic little brother; most remembered him simply as “the Lost Dauphin.” He was called “lost” not so much because of his early death as because considerable mystery surrounded his ultimate fate. Thrown into prison in 1792 with his parents, his aunt Elisabeth, and his sister Marie-Thérèse, he was said to have died alone in a cold, dark cell. But within days of the announcement of his death, rumors were already flying—fantastic tales of substitutions and imposters and miraculous escapes.
“He was just ten years old at the time,” said Lady Peter, nodding to her brother, who was now examining the gravel of the walkway with the intensity of a lapidary studying a new array of specimens. “Not much older than Noël is now.”
“When was this?”
“Sometime in 1795. Late May or perhaps early June; I don’t recall precisely.”
“And?”
“The boy was very ill. By that time he had been in prison for more than two years, and he had been treated abominably.” She shook her head, her lips pressed tightly together. “Half-starved, beaten, left to lie in his own filth in a dark cell. Damion’s father did what he could, but it was too late. Just a few days later, the Prince died.”
“Did the elder Dr. Pelletan see Marie-Thérèse at that time, as well?”
“I don’t know. But I do know that after the Dauphin’s death, Philippe-Jean Pelletan was brought back to the Temple and asked to perform an autopsy on the boy’s body.”
“And did he?”
“Yes.”
Sebastian stared off across the park, a gust of wind sending dry leaves scuttling down the path before them. The skin of his face felt suddenly cold and uncomfortably tight.
“But surely—” She broke off, then tried again. “Surely you don’t think that events from so long ago could have something to do with Damion’s death?”
“Probably not,” he said, to reassure her more than anything else. “When you saw Damion Pelletan last week, how did he seem?”
“What do you mean?”
“I have the impression that relations between the various members of the delegation are not exactly what you might call harmonious.”
A faint gleam of amusement lit up her soft eyes. “No. But then, it’s not surprising, is it? They were all chosen to spy on each other.”
“Oh?”
“Harmond Vaundreuil might be Bonaparte’s tool, but that does not mean the Emperor trusts him. Napoléon trusts no one, especially now. You know of the conspiracy to overthrow him, last December?”
Sebastian nodded.
“The colonel who is with them—Foucher—was the Emperor’s selection, not Vaundreuil’s.”
“And the clerk?”
“Camille Bondurant is not nearly as meek-mannered or self-effacing as he would appear. I remember Damion saying once that if Bondurant had been born two hundred years earlier, in Spain, he’d have enjoyed a brilliant career as a torturer for the Inquisition.”
“And Damion Pelletan himself? Why was he selected?”
“Damion is the only one who was Harmond Vaundreuil’s personal choice. He was here as a physician; he had no role in the negotiations.”
“Yet he agreed to come. Do you know why?”
“Lord Peter asked him that. Damio
n only smiled and said it’s not often a man is offered the opportunity to be a part of history.”
A coal wagon rolled down the street, heavily laden and pulled by a team of shires leaning into their collars, their breath misting white in the cold air.
Sebastian said, “Did Damion ever serve in the French army as a doctor?”
She shook her head. “No. He suffered from an illness in his youth that left his limbs weakened. Perhaps that is why he agreed to accompany Vaundreuil. I think it bothered him, that he remained in Paris while others fought and died.”
“He was a supporter of the Emperor?”
Her chin came up in an unexpected gesture of pride. “He was a supporter of France.”
“And did he approve of the delegation’s objective?”
“You mean, peace? After twenty years of war, who amongst us does not long for peace?”
“Even a peace that leaves Napoléon Bonaparte on the throne of France?”
“Damion was no royalist, if that is what you are suggesting.”
“Yet he agreed to consult with Marie-Thérèse.”
A shadow of worry passed over her features. “You know about that?”
Sebastian said, “The Princess has been childless for years. What made her think Damion Pelletan could help her?”
“One of Damion’s passions was the study of ancient herbs, both those that have fallen out of favor here in Europe and those with long traditions amongst the natives of the Americas and India. He published a number of articles on the subject.”
“Somehow, I find it difficult to picture Marie-Thérèse perusing complicated medical studies. So how did she come to hear of him?”
“I believe it was her uncle who recommended Damion to her.”
Sebastian watched the boy, Noël, shove his playmate, the boys’ angry voices mingling with the shrieks of the maid. “Which uncle?”
“Louis Stanislas. The Comte de Provence. The soi-disant Louis XVIII. However you care to style him. He saw Damion himself, you know, just a few days before the Princess.”
“No; I didn’t know.” Somehow, Louis Stanislas had neglected to mention that little fact.
The boys were locked together now, rolling over and over in the winter-browned grass beneath a spreading elm.
