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 Napoleon Bonaparte on the throne of France?”
“Damion was no royalist, if that is what you are suggesting.”
“Yet he agreed to consult with Marie-Therese.”
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-Therese 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, Noel, 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.
“Did Damion Pelletan seem at all. .” Sebastian paused, searching for the right word. “Troubled by his meetings with the Bourbons?”
She turned to face him. “He did, yes. He tried to laugh it off, but I was surprised he even mentioned them to me. I thought perhaps it was because of his father’s brief and rather tragic interaction with the family.”
“That the Bourbons consulted him? Or that he was troubled by his meeting with them?”
“I meant that his father’s history with the family was the reason the meeting troubled him, of course.” She looked puzzled. “Why would the Bourbons have decided to consult with Damion because of something his father did twenty years ago?”
If her imagination wasn’t that active, Sebastian wasn’t about to enlighten her. He said, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”
“Damion? Good heavens, no. He was a good, gentle, caring man who devoted his life to helping others. He’d only been in London a few weeks. Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“How did he get along with Harmond Vaundreuil?”
“Well enough, I suppose. After all, Vaundreuil chose him to come here, did he not? Damion had a knack for humoring the man-calming his fears, rather than fanning them, the way so many physicians are wont to do in order to make themselves more necessary to their patients.”
“And the others? Foucher and Bondurant? Did he have trouble with them?”
She frowned, as if considering the question. “I would say he was wary of both Colonel Foucher and the clerk, Bondurant. But I do not know if he ever quarreled with them.”
“What about someone he might have met in England?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t meet many people here in London. That was one of the main reasons the delegation hired that hotel in York Street, was it not? To avoid having to interact with many Englishmen?”
She paused, her lips parted as if with a sudden thought.
“What?” asked Sebastian, watching her.
“Last week-I think it was early Thursday morning-Noel and I were walking in Hyde Park. We saw Damion and another man there, near the Armoury. It was obvious their words were heated, so I stopped Noel when he would have run up to them.”
“Did Damion see you?”
“He did, yes. Noel called out ‘Bonjour!’ before I could hush him, so Damion glanced over at us. But I knew from the expression on his face that he wanted us to stay away.”
“What sort of expression? Annoyance?”
“Not annoyance. More like an odd mixture of anger and fear.”
“Do you know who the man was?”
“I don’t number him amongst my acquaintances, but I doubt there is anyone in the West End of London who would fail to recognize him. It was Kilmartin. Angus Kilmartin.”
Sebastian had a sudden clear recollection of having seen the small, bowlegged Scotsman descending the stairs from Jarvis’s apartments. “Do you have any idea why Damion would have been meeting him?”
“No; none at all.” She looked beyond him, to where the nursemaid was now trying to separate the two squabbling boys. “Truly, monsieur, I must go.”
He touched his hand to his hat and bowed his head. “Thank you for your assistance, Lady Peter. If you think of anything else that might be useful, you will let me know?”
“Yes, of course.”
She turned away, the wind gusting hard enough to snatch at the rim of her bonnet. She put up a hand to steady it, and the movement pulled at the sleeve of her pelisse, baring her forearm between the braided cuff and her kid gloves. Against her pale flesh, a row of four livid bruises showed quite clearly.
Bruises in the exact pattern left by an angry man closing his big, strong hand around a woman’s fragile wrist.
Chapter 21
Angus Kilmartin was seated alone at a small table near the fire in White’s somber, overheated dining room when Sebastian walked up and settled in the chair opposite.
“I don’t recall issuing an invitation for you to join me,” said the Scotsman, his voice pleasant, his face never losing its habitual expression of mild amusement.
“That’s quite all right,” said Sebastian. “I don’t intend to stay long.”
Kilmartin grunted and cut himself a slice of beefsteak.
Sebastian said, “I hear you’ve recently been awarded a new contract with the Navy.”
“Yes.”
“Congratulations.”
Kilmartin glanced up at him. “You say that as if you disagree in some way with the procedure.”
“Why would I?”
Just two decades before, Angus Kilmartin had been an obscure Glaswegian merchant. Today, there were few lucrative industries in which he was not invested. From his mills in Yorkshire rolled the cloth used to make uniforms for Britain’s soldiers and sailors. His foundries supplied them with cannon and firearms, while from his shipyards came an endless supply of the frigates and gunboats that helped Britannia rule the waves. Over the course of twenty years of war, as Britain’s artisans and craftsmen starved and sheep grazed amidst the ruined cottages of displaced Highland clansmen, Angus Kilmartin had prospered far beyond most men’s wildest dreams.
“Why, indeed?” he said, carefully buttering a piece of bread. “Is this why you are here? To discuss my business ventures?”
“Actually, I’m curious about how you came to know a French doctor named Damion Pelletan.”
Kilmartin chewed slowly and deliberately before swallowing. “You refer, I take it, to the young man recently set upon by footpads in St. Katharine’s?”
“He was certainly killed in St. Katharine’s, although I seriously doubt footpads had anything to do with it.”
“And what makes you imagine I knew him?”
“You were seen arguing with him last Thursday morning in the park. That’s the day he was killed, incidentally.”
Kilmartin only smiled faintly, his chin tucked, his eyes downcast as he worked to cut himself another slice of beef.
Sebastian watched him. “So you don’t deny it?”
The Scotsman paused with his fork halfway to his mouth, his eyes going wide. “Why should I? Pelletan was a physician. I consulted with him over a medical matter. I see no reason to furnish you with the particulars.”