Sebastian studied the Frenchman’s red face and thrusting jaw. He had no trouble believing Harmond Vaundreuil capable of killing two of his colleagues, if he thought it necessary to protect himself. But the conviction that something else-or at least something more-was going on here remained.
Sebastian said, “Did Damion Pelletan ever speak to you of his father? Specifically, of his father’s visits to the Temple Prison in the summer of 1795?”
The Frenchman looked confused, his mouth hanging open, so that he had to swallow before he answered. “What?”
“His father, Dr. Philippe-Jean Pelletan, visited the Temple Prison at least twice in the summer of 1795. He treated the little Dauphin before his death, and he may have seen Marie-Therese, as well. Damion Pelletan never said anything about it to you?”
“No. But. . surely you don’t think something that happened so long ago could have anything to do with the murders here in London today?”
“I don’t know. How much time did Pelletan spend with Colonel Foucher?”
Vaundreuil frowned. “Some. They would sit together of an evening, drinking brandy. Talking.”
“Talking about what?”
“Foucher’s time in the army. Women. Their hopes for the future. .” He shrugged. “What do young men speak of when they drink? I never paid much attention to them.”
“So Pelletan might have told Foucher of his father’s observations of the Orphans in the Temple?”
“I suppose so, yes. But. . what are you suggesting?”
Sebastian watched the ducks waddle away across the wet grass, quacking contentedly as their bulbous bodies lurched comically from side to side. What was he suggesting? That Marie-Therese had been brutally raped by her jailors in the Temple Prison? That she had been impregnated-or so badly injured that they’d summoned a physician to her? That the possibility of what had happened in the Temple-of what had really happened there-becoming known had so horrified her that she’d dispatched her minions to kill and kill again, in the hopes of keeping the truth quiet? Sebastian had no doubt she was capable of ordering the deaths of any number of men, if she thought it necessary to preserve what she saw as her divine family’s honor. But was she mad enough to order her henchmen to steal her first victim’s heart and gouge out the eyes of the second?
He wasn’t sure.
Vaundreuil said, “Are you suggesting these killings are somehow related to the death of the Dauphin? But. . that is madness!”
Sebastian met the Frenchman’s gaze and held it. “Cutting out a man’s heart is madness.”
Chapter 47
Claire Bisette came to see Hero shortly before eleven that morning.
The Frenchwoman was pale and wraithlike, with hazel eyes set deep in a gaunt face and dull, dark blond hair drawn back in a severe knot. Her old-fashioned dress was hopelessly faded and darned at the elbows, cuffs, and collar, although she’d obviously tried hard to present a clean, neat appearance. She looked as if she hadn’t eaten in a fortnight.
She brought with her the names of “respectable” people who could vouch for her integrity, honesty, and trustworthiness, although she admitted she had never held such a position as the one for which she was applying. Her only qualification was having cared for her own two children, both of whom were now dead.
Hero took the list of names, sent for tea and sandwiches, and slowly coaxed the anxious, stiff woman to talk. They spoke not only of children, but of Voltaire and Rousseau, of the concept of limited monarchy and the recent attempts to launch an expedition to the North Pole. After half an hour, Hero said, “I’ll have Morey show you to your room in the nurseries. You can make arrangements with him to have your things brought over.”
The woman’s eyes widened. “But. . you can’t mean to engage me without checking my references!”
“I will check them, of course. And if they tell me you are a charlatan, I shall let you go. Only, I hope I am not such a poor judge of character.”
Claire Bisette was surprised into a soft laugh. It was the first laugh Hero had heard from her. Then the woman cocked her head to one side and said, “The child is due when?”
Hero’s hand tightened around her cup, but she said calmly enough, “Soon.”
“There is a problem?”
When Hero simply stared at her, Claire Bisette hastened to say, “I beg your pardon, my lady; I should not have asked.”
Hero shook her head. “No. As it happens, you are right. The babe is lying breech.”
“Ah. My first child, Henri, was stubborn in that way. But a good friend of mine turned him in the womb.”
“Do you mean Madame Sauvage?”
“I do, yes.”
“And what she did worked?”
“It did, yes. I knew the instant he turned-it felt just like a giant fish flopping inside me.”
Hero set aside her teacup. “How long have you known her?”
“Madame Sauvage? We were children together, in Paris.”
“So you knew Damion Pelletan, as well?”
“No. My family had moved to Nice by the time Dr. Philippe-Jean brought Damion home.”
Hero shook her head, not understanding. “What do you mean, brought him home?”
“Damion Pelletan was Alexi’s half brother. She didn’t know he existed until she was nearly grown.”
“When was this?” Hero asked sharply-more sharply than she had intended.
Claire Bisette frowned with the effort of memory. “I do not recall precisely. It was sometime after the Terror. The summer of 1795, perhaps?”
Chapter 48
The Dowager Duchess of Claiborne was famous for never leaving her bedchamber before noon or one o’clock. She was still sipping her hot chocolate in bed when Sebastian walked into the chamber and tossed his hat and driving coat on a chair.
“Do I take it my useless excuse for a butler has simply abandoned all attempts to exclude you?” demanded Henrietta, sitting up straighter.
“Give the man credit; he tried.”
She put up a hand to adjust her bed cap. “What do you want now?”
Sebastian went to warm himself before the fire. “I want to know what you can tell me about Lady Giselle Edmondson.”
“Lady Giselle? Good heavens; whatever for?”
“Humor me.”
“Well, let’s see. .” She frowned thoughtfully. “Her father was the Third Earl of Bandor. Handsome man, but sadly emotional and far too taken with the works of the French philosophes. He moved to Paris shortly after he came down from Oxford, and refused to return home even when his father died and he inherited the title and estates.”
“He married a Frenchwoman?”
“He did. One of Marie Antoinette’s ladies. Giselle spent much of her early childhood at Versailles. She and Marie-Therese were essentially raised together.”
“And then came the Revolution.”
Henrietta set down her chocolate cup with a soft chink. “Yes. Foolish man. He could have left. So many did. But he was convinced he was witnessing something extraordinary.”
“And so he was. Only, not quite what he had anticipated. He and his countess were killed?”
“Yes. Giselle survived, of course, but no trace has ever been found of the two younger children. The boy-who would have been the fourth earl-was declared dead some years ago.”
“So who holds the title now?”
“A cousin.”
“Since the majority of Bandor’s wealth was safe in England, I assume Giselle’s portion survived the Revolution?”
“Oh, yes. She could have married at any time, had she wished.”
“So why didn’t she?”
Henrietta gave him a long, solemn look. “Really, Sebastian; use your imagination. You know what those days were like-the things that were done to gentlewomen. I hear there was even a child, although fortunately it died shortly after birth.”