Why Kings Confess

by C. S. Harris

  “Anima ejus, et animæ omnium fidelium defunctorum, per misericordiam . . .” The priest’s chanting was reaching a crescendo. Sebastian pushed the door open wider and walked into the chapel.

  “Dei requiescant in p—” The priest’s head turned, his voice trailing off into a high-pitched squeak as his eyes widened and his jaw sagged.

  At first, Giselle must have assumed Sebastian’s footsteps belonged to her cousin, for she turned slowly, her head coming up as she opened her eyes. Her reaction was more controlled than the priest’s.

  She stared at Sebastian for a moment, then said, “I take it that’s my cousin’s blood?”

  It was only then that Sebastian became aware of the spurt of dark blood across the front of his coat and waistcoat, and the bloody knife he still clenched in one hand. “It is.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “He is, yes.”

  He saw the flame of emotion in her eyes, fury mingled with careful calculation rather than grief.

  “Monsieur!” protested the priest. “You would bring a bloody weapon of murder into the house of the Lord?”

  “My apologies, Father.” Keeping his gaze on Lady Giselle, Sebastian carefully laid the knife at his feet, the metal hilt clinking against the stone paving.

  She said, “I am aware of what you must think, but you are wrong. The Chevalier did not kill Damion Pelletan.”

  “I know.” Sebastian continued walking toward her, his empty hands at his sides. “But you intended to kill him. That’s why you followed his hackney when he left the Gifford Arms that night, isn’t it?”

  “Perhaps. Yet in the end, what we intended is immaterial. If all those who wished ill of their fellow beings were held accountable, England would soon be very thin of company.”

  “So what did happen that night?”

  She shrugged. “When the hackney set Pelletan and the woman down at the entrance to Cat’s Hole, I told my coachman to pull up and sent the Chevalier to follow them on foot.”

  “To Hangman’s Court?”

  “If that is the name of that foul cesspit, then the answer is yes.”

  “And then what?”

  “While Armitz waited, he became aware of another man loitering in the shadows—a large, rather crude ruffian with dark curly hair.”

  “Sampson Bullock.”

  “Yes.”

  Sebastian studied her calm, flawlessly composed features. “How did you know his name?”

  “Does it matter? The point is, Armitz watched Bullock follow Pelletan as he left Hangman’s Court. At one point, the woman must have heard something because she started to turn. Bullock struck her in the head with a cosh and stabbed Damion Pelletan in the back. Armitz waited until the man left, then came to me.”

  “And you returned together to where Damion Pelletan and his sister lay?”

  She tilted her head to one side. “How did you—”

  “How did I know you were there, in the alley? I found the prints left by your shoes.”

  “But you could not possibly have known the shoe prints were mine.”

  “No,” he agreed, then said, “Why did you return with Armitz to Cat’s Hole?”

  Her hands moved possessively over the crystal urn in her hands. “I needed the heart.”

  Sebastian studied the proud lift of her chin, the gleam of self-confident righteousness in those deceptively soft blue eyes. “You cut out his heart yourself, didn’t you? That’s why you went back with Armitz. He couldn’t bring himself to do it. So you did.”

  “Yes.”

  He’d known it, and yet, hearing her calmly admit it made the fact seem somehow worse. He could not rid himself of the image of this delicate, ethereally beautiful woman surrounded by the refuse of a dark, foul alley as she savagely hacked Damion Pelletan’s heart from his still-warm flesh. He said, “You believed Pelletan the Lost Dauphin, the only surviving son of the martyred King of France; and yet you would have killed him, had someone else not done so first. Why?”

  She stared back at him. “He was not fit to rule. He was not raised as a prince, and his mind had been hopelessly corrupted by the influence of the Revolution. When the Bourbons are restored to the throne of France, it will not be through him.”

  “Yet you would see his heart given a place of honor amongst the royal tombs in Val-de-Grâce?”

  “He is still a son of St. Louis.”

  “Does Marie-Thérèse know? Does she know you would have killed the man she believed might be her brother?”

  Rather than answer him, Lady Giselle turned to the priest. “Please continue the service, Father.” To Sebastian, she said, “You may leave us now.”

  Sebastian expelled his breath in a low, humorless huff. “Not without Damion Pelletan’s heart. It’s up to his sister to decide what’s to be done with it.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “His name was not Damion Pelletan, and the woman who accompanied him was not his sister.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Sebastian, advancing on her.

  He could probably never prove that the Chevalier d’Armitz had killed both Colonel Foucher and the molly, James Farragut, just as there was no way to prove that the Chevalier had acted under this woman’s orders. But he’d be damned if he’d let her enshrine Damion Pelletan’s heart in a monument dedicated to a dynasty that the man had hated.

  “Give me the heart,” he said.

  “Monsieur,” protested the priest, attempting to step between them.

  “Father—,” Sebastian began, just as Lady Giselle gave the priest a violent shove that sent him staggering into Sebastian.

  “Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian, reaching out to steady the old man as Giselle whirled and ran for the front of the chapel.

  She had the heavy skirts of her gown fisted one hand, the urn clutched tight against her side. She’d almost reached the doors when she obviously remembered they were locked. She hesitated only an instant, then veered off, intent on circling back toward the sacristy. But Sebastian was already setting the bleating priest aside and moving to cut her off. For one intense moment, her furious gaze met his. Then she turned and dashed up the narrow wooden stairs of the west gallery.

  He pelted after her, taking the steep steps two at a time. He erupted onto the creaky gallery to find her backed against the wooden balustrade, the urn raised like a weapon.

  “Don’t come any closer to me,” she said with awful calm.

  He drew up abruptly. “I won’t hurt you. Just give me the heart.”

  She shook her head. “You asked how I happened to know the identity of the cabinetmaker, Bullock. Well, I’ll tell you. I made it my business to know. I realized he might prove a useful distraction, if it looked as if you were becoming more than a nuisance—as you have. Which is why, before he came to meet me here, my cousin stopped by Tichborne Street to make certain Bullock knows about the child. He’s very angry with you, you know. He’s sworn he’ll take his revenge against both you and Alexi Sauvage.”

  “Damion Pelletan’s son is safe.” Sebastian took a step closer, then another. “Bullock will never get to him.”

  She gave a high, ringing laugh that echoed around the small chapel. The rain drummed on the roof and the gusting wind drove the torrent against the windows in waves. “I’m not talking about Noël Durant, you fool. What interest have I in a prince’s bastard? I’m talking about your child. Your unborn child.”

  Sebastian drew up abruptly, a cold prickling running across his scalp.

  “Bullock is going to kill it,” she said with cold triumph. “The child and its mother both.”

  Sebastian took another step toward her. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Then that is the greatest revenge of all, is it not?” she said, and slammed the heavy urn against his head.

  The sharp edge of a silver handle sliced into his scalp, sending hot blood coursing down the side of his face. He put up an arm to fend her off, but she swung the urn at him again, her features distorted with rage and hatred an
d blind determination.

  He flung her off, the blood in his eyes now. She stumbled back, off-balance, careening hard against the gallery’s wooden balustrade. Sebastian heard the crack of breaking wood, saw the horror of comprehension flood her face.

  The old railing gave way, the banister shattering. She scrabbled one-handed to catch herself. If she had let go of the urn, she might have saved herself. But she held on to it, falling backward into space with a cry of rage, her black skirts billowing around her.

  “Mon Dieu!” screamed the priest as she slammed into the pavement with a bone-breaking smack.

  The impact knocked the urn from her grasp, the rock crystal shattering against the pavement in a shower of clear, glittering fragments, the torn heart coming to rest just inches from her outflung hand. She stared up at the chapel ceiling with wide, sightless eyes. But Sebastian didn’t even pause to make certain she was dead.

  He was already running for the door.

  Chapter 57

  Paul Gibson sat with his back propped against the edge of the kitchen table, a smile crinkling his eyes as he watched Alexi fill the teakettle and set it on the trivet.

  “I didn’t offer you a place to stay to turn you into some one-legged Irishman’s cook and housekeeper.”

  She looked up at him. The firelight gleamed through the glorious cascade of her hair in a way that made him think of misty sunrises and the first turning leaves of autumn. “Mrs. Federico will be back, just as soon as she feels she’s made her point.” She straightened and came to stand between his spread thighs, her hands on his shoulders, her gaze locked with his as she mimicked his brogue. “And what’s wrong with a one-legged Irishman, then? Hmm?”

  He rested his hands on her hips, still awed by the realization that she desired him, that she saw something of worth in him. He was desperately afraid she’d eventually realize he wasn’t worthy of her, that she was driven more by a combination of gratitude and pity than by a recognition of deep affinity and the kind of loving respect that could endure.

  “Alexi—,” he began, only to break off at the sound of a knock on the front door.

  “Well, go on,” she said, moving away with a laugh when he hesitated.

  He pushed regretfully to his feet. “That’ll be Devlin, come for the results of the autopsy on that Haymarket jeweler.”

  Snagging a brace of candles, he limped down the passage to open the front door. Only it wasn’t Devlin; it was Lord Jarvis’s tall, intimidating daughter, a footman at her side holding an umbrella. A fine rain had begun to fall, driven in stinging eddies by a growing wind.

  “Good God, Lady Devlin.” Gibson took a quick step back. “Come in, please. Is something wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she said, giving her wet skirts a shake as she entered the narrow passage. She nodded to the footman, who closed the umbrella and darted back toward the waiting carriage. “I’d like to speak to Alexi Sauvage. Is she here?”

  “I am.”

  Gibson looked over his shoulder to find Alexi standing with her head held high, her arms folded tight against her waist. The two women’s gazes met, clashed.

  “I won’t keep you,” said the Viscountess. “I’ve come to apologize for my rudeness. I accused you of the basest of motives, when your sole intent was to try to save the life of my child, and for that I am sorry.”

  Alexi came up beside him, her lips parted in surprise. “It worked? The babe turned?”

  A strange smile played about the Viscountess’s lips, and Gibson thought he’d never seen her look more approachable—or more likeable. “Yes. I don’t know how to thank you, except to say . . . I’m sorry.”

  She turned to leave, but Alexi put out a hand, stopping her. “I was just making tea. Please say you’ll join us.”

  The Viscountess shook her head. “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “At least stay ’til the storm eases up a bit,” said Gibson as the rain pelted down harder.

  She hesitated, then gave a slow smile. “All right. Thank you.”

  He led the way to the parlor while Alexi disappeared into the kitchen. “When I heard your knock,” he said, setting the candlestick on the chest near the door, “I thought it might be Devlin coming about Farragut’s autopsy.”

  She went to stand before the fire, her hands extended toward the blaze. “Did you discover anything?”

  “Just this, which I’ll admit has nothing to do with the poor man’s murder.” He picked up one of the heavy, alcohol-filled specimen jars that lined the mantel. “It’s a wee bit hard to see, I’ll admit.”

  “What it is? It looks like a—”

  She broke off, the color draining from her face as she stared beyond him, toward the doorway.

  Breathing in a sudden stench of wet wool and fresh wood shavings and rank male sweat, Gibson turned, feeling as if he were helplessly caught in a dream spinning into an irrevocable nightmare.

  Sampson Bullock filled the doorway, his hat and shoulders dark with rain, his features twisted into a triumphant sneer. He held Alexi before him, a hank of her fiery hair wrapped around his meaty fist, the blade of a butcher knife laid flat against her cheek. Her face was alabaster white, her throat working violently as she fought to swallow.

  She was so small the top of her head didn’t even come up to the massive cabinetmaker’s shoulder, and Gibson felt his heart thump against his ribs, heard a strange roaring in his ears. His gaze locked with Alexi’s and he took an unconscious step forward. “What the bloody—”

  “Come any closer and the lady doctor here loses an eye,” warned Bullock, increasing the pressure on the flat of the blade until it pressed into Alexi’s face, distorting her features and drawing a trickle of blood high on her cheek.

  Gibson drew up, his hands gripping the specimen jar so hard they hurt. He was suddenly, hideously aware of the rasp of his breath sucking in and out, the violent flickering of the candle flames eddied by a cold draft he realized must be coming from the open kitchen door.

  “Who are you?” demanded the Viscountess.

  “Don’t ye know?” The cabinetmaker gave a jeering laugh that held no real humor. “Ye mean to say your husband, the high and mighty Viscount Devlin, didn’t tell ye ’bout me?”

  “His name is Sampson Bullock,” said Alexi, her voice awe-inspiringly calm, “and he’s here because he holds me responsible for his brother’s death.”

  Bullock tightened his hold on her hair hard enough to make her wince as he pulled her head back at an unnatural angle. “Ye are responsible, ye bloody bitch. I told ye I’d make ye sorry ye ever stuck that Frenchie nose of yers where it don’t belong. Ye sorry now, hmm? Thanks to you, yer brother’s dead, and that woman of yers too. Now it’s yer turn.” He slid the knife away from her cheek to point it at Hero Devlin. “And hers.”

  Gibson took a slow, careful step forward, then another, the specimen jar still gripped in his hands. He was shaking so badly he nearly dropped it, his gait an awkward hobble.

  “Damn ye; I told ye not to move,” swore Bullock. He nodded to the specimen in Gibson’s hands. “Wot the bloody hell is that?”

  “This?” Gibson held up the jar. “It’s a heart.” His gaze locked with Alexi’s. He tried desperately to convey to her what he intended to do even as he acknowledged that was impossible. He hoped that at least she understood to expect something.

  He eased the cork from the jar’s wide top. “It’s quite oddly shaped. Want to see?” he asked, and dashed the contents in the cabinetmaker’s face.

  Bullock roared and reared back as the alcohol stung his eyes. He held on to the knife but let go of Alexi to swipe his big hand across his face.

  Ducking beneath his arm, she snatched up the brace of candles from the nearby chest and thrust their flames against his coat.

  The alcohol-soaked cloth caught with a whoosh, the flames leaping up to light his long black hair.

  “Alexi!” screamed Gibson, terrified the flames would ignite the alcohol that had inevitably also splashe
d over her head and shoulders.

  Bullock let out another bellow, turning blindly this way and that, sending his battered hat flying as he beat at his head and tried to tear off his flaming coat. “I’ll kill ye!” he screamed. “I’ll kill ye all.”

  Devlin’s wife whirled toward the fireplace. It wasn’t until she seized the poker with both hands that Gibson realized what she was about. Throwing all her weight behind it, she took a step forward and swung the poker at the cabinetmaker’s head.

  The solid iron bar smashed into the side of Bullock’s skull with an ugly, bone-crunching thwunk. He went down hard, knocking over the end table as he fell, the flames leaping from his coat and hair to catch the tattered, alcohol-soaked carpet.

  “Quick,” shouted Gibson, stumbling and almost falling as he lurched toward the windows. “The drapes!”

  Alexi got there first, yanking down the worn, heavy cloth in a cloud of dust and cobwebs. Hero Devlin tore off her cape, smoke billowing as she beat at the flames that were already crackling toward the door.

  “Here!” shouted Alexi, flinging the drapes at the fire.

  Together they beat and stomped until the last of the flames had died and the cabinetmaker lay in the midst of a black, charred carpet, his head a pulpy mess.

  “I trust he’s dead,” said the Viscountess.

  “Yes,” said Alexi.

  Their breath coming hard and fast, their faces flushed with heat and triumph, the three exchanged exultant glances that required no words to clarify their meaning.

  Then a distant shout and the crash of the front door brought them around.

  Devlin catapulted into the parlor, only to draw up short, his gaze jerking from his wife, to Gibson and Alexi, to the bloody, blackened corpse at their feet.

  “What the hell?”

  The Viscountess wore a strange, stunned expression that puzzled Gibson until he noticed the wet stain that soaked her skirts and spread across the carpet at her feet—a stain that had nothing to do with the alcohol he had thrown.

  “Well,” said Gibson with a laugh driven by giddy relief. “You may be a wee bit late to help take care of Mr. Bullock here. But at least you’re in time to escort your wife home—quickly, I should think. From the looks of things, your babe has decided that now is a grand time to be putting in its appearance.”