Sebastian frowned. “She did not see the Dauphin’s body after his death?”
“No. Nor had she seen him for nearly two years before that. The boy was torn from his mother’s arms in the summer of ’ninety-three; Marie-Therese never saw him again.”
“Seems curious that the revolutionaries didn’t show the body to the boy’s sister-if for no other reason than to remove all doubt as to his fate, once and for all.”
“I wish they had,” grumbled Provence, shifting his considerable weight in his chair. “They would have saved us all a great deal of bother.”
“Are you certain the boy actually is dead?”
He expected the Bourbon to bluster and heatedly deny the very possibility of any suggestion the Dauphin might still live. Instead, he blinked, his eyes swimming with a sudden uprush of emotion, his skin looking mottled and prematurely old. “If by some miracle the boy did survive- I’m not saying I believe he did, mind you! But if by some miracle my poor nephew is truly alive out there, somewhere, he would not be fit to be king. What those animals did to him in that prison. . Let’s just say it would have destroyed him, both physically and mentally.”
“What did they do to him?” asked Sebastian.
To his surprise, it was the courtier, Ambrose LaChapelle, who answered him. “You don’t want to know,” he said softly. “Believe me; you don’t want to know.”
Chapter 22
A sharp, bitter wind slapped into Sebastian’s face as he walked up St. James’s Street toward Piccadilly. Settling his hat more firmly on his head, he became aware of an elegant town carriage drawn by a beautifully matched team of dapple-grays slowing beside him. He heard the snap of the near window being let down, saw the crest of the House of Jarvis proudly emblazoned on the door panel.
He kept walking.
“I had a troubling conversation this morning with a certain overwrought and somewhat choleric Parisian,” said Charles, Lord Jarvis.
“Oh?” Sebastian turned onto Berkeley. The carriage rolled along beside him.
“You simply cannot leave well enough alone, can you?”
Sebastian gave a low, soft laugh. “No.”
His father-in-law was not amused. “With any other man, I might be tempted to hint at all sorts of dire consequences to life and limb-your life and limb. But in this case, I realize such tactics would be counterproductive. Shall I appeal instead to your better nature?”
Sebastian drew up and pivoted to face him. “My better nature? Do explain.”
The liveried coachman brought his horses to a standstill.
Jarvis chose his words carefully, obviously conscious of the listening servants. “I’ve no doubt that by now you know what’s at stake here. Given your oft-stated attitudes toward this war, I should think you would be anxious not to do anything that might interfere with a process that could save lives. Millions of lives.”
“Oh? And when have you ever cared about saving lives?”
Jarvis’s face lit up with what looked like a genuine smile. “Seldom. However, I am well aware of which arguments are most likely to appeal to you. And what is at stake here is real.”
Sebastian studied his father-in-law’s arrogant, self-satisfied face, the aquiline nose and brutally intelligent gray eyes that were so much like Hero’s. Sebastian knew of no one who was a more ardent supporter of the institution of hereditary monarchy than Jarvis. In Jarvis’s thinking, Napoleon Bonaparte was an upstart Corsican soldier of fortune whose ambition-fueled ascension to the throne of France threatened to undermine every foundation of civilization and the social order. All of which made it exceedingly difficult for Sebastian to believe that Jarvis would countenance any peace treaty that might result in Britain’s retirement from the field of battle, leaving Napoleon still enshrined as Emperor.
Sebastian said, “I fail to understand how my simple inquiries could possibly threaten even such a delicate process.”
“You don’t know everything.”
“Oh? So enlighten me.”
But Jarvis simply tightened his jaw and signaled his coachman to drive on, the horses’ hooves clattering over the paving stones, the body of the carriage swaying with well-sprung delicacy as the team picked up speed.
Chapter 23
Later that afternoon, when none of the older women Gibson typically hired to sit with his most critically ill patients was available for the approaching night, he had Alexandrie Sauvage wrapped in a blanket and carried next door to the inner chamber of his own house.
“You don’t need to do this,” she whispered hoarsely as he tucked his worn quilt around her.
“Yes, I do.”
She was showing hopeful signs of improvement, but her eyes were still dull with fever, her cheeks hollow, her flesh like hot, dry parchment to the touch. She let her lids flutter closed, and he thought she slept. Then she said, “My woman, Karmele, is a good nurse. You could send for her.”
“I will.” He started to move away, then barely bit back a gasp when, without warning, a burning jolt of agony shot up his leg, as brutal and real as if someone had thrust a red-hot poker into the sole of his left foot.
The foot that was no longer there.
She opened her eyes and fixed her gaze on his face. “You’re in pain. Why?”
He shook his head. “I’m fine.” And when he knew from the incredulity of her expression that she didn’t believe him, he said, “I sometimes get pains from my missing foot and leg. It will pass.”
“There is a way-”
“Hush,” he said, smoothing the covers over her. “Go to sleep.”
He didn’t expect her to listen to him, because he was learning that she was not the most cooperative of patients. But to his surprise, she did.
He went to settle in the chair beside the fire and carefully removed his peg leg. It did no good; the pain persisted, so intense now that if his left foot had still been attached to his body, he’d have been tempted to whack it off himself, just to end the agony. But you can’t amputate a limb that isn’t there.
He felt the sweat start on his face, and a fine trembling made his hand shake as he brought up one crooked arm to swipe his sleeve across his forehead. The urge to set his mind free from the pain, to escape into the sweetly hued dreams of laudanum, was damned near overwhelming. He had to grit his teeth, his hands clutching the arms of the chair, his gaze fixed on the fever-racked woman who lay in his bed.
And he found himself wondering if this was why he had brought her here, why he resisted sending for her woman. If he were only fooling himself, convincing himself that he was fighting to save her life when the truth was that by her very presence, she was saving him.
Chapter 24
“The problem, my lady, is that your humors are out of balance.”
Richard Croft, the most distinguished and respected accoucheur in Britain, stood with his back to the fire, his chin sunk deep into the folds of his snowy white cravat. In his early fifties, he was a slight man with wisps of fading pale hair that fell from a slightly receding hairline. Like his face, his nose was long, his chin pronounced, his lips thin and drawn, as if he were constantly tightening and sucking them in disapproval.
Hero sat in a nearby chair, her hands in her lap, her maid standing behind her. “I feel fine,” she said.
“Ah.” Croft tsked and shook his head with a deprecating smile that filled Hero with an undignified urge to box his ears. “You may feel fine, but unfortunately that does not mean that all is as it should be. What did you eat yesterday?”