She held herself stiffly. “I’d no notion you were so radical in your thinking, my lord.” Somehow, she managed to turn the ‘my lord’ into a mockery-which he supposed in a way it was, although she didn’t know that. “What do you believe in, then? The Rights of Man?”
“Actually, there’s very little I believe in.”
He had been deliberately trying to provoke her, and he had succeeded far better than he had anticipated. But now she seemed to become aware of the extent to which she had betrayed herself. She blinked, and the steely moral certainty that had inspired the likes of Cotton Mather, Oliver Cromwell, and Maximilien Robespierre slid behind the careful assumption of calm good humor that typically characterized her.
She said, “I think you believe in far more than you give yourself credit for, my lord.”
“Perhaps.”
She walked with him to the entrance hall, nodding quietly to the butler, who moved to open the front door.
“Tell me, my lord,” she said, pausing beside him. “Are you any closer to discovering who is behind these dreadful murders?”
“I believe I may be, yes.”
“Indeed? Then hopefully soon we may all sleep better in our beds.”
“Have you been afraid?” he asked, his gaze on her face.
“Fear has been our constant companion for many years.”
“I don’t think you need worry about this.”
“Yet you will let us know if you discover anything more?”
“Of course.”
A woman’s voice floated down from upstairs. “Giselle? Ou es-tu?”
“You must excuse me, my lord.” She gave a slight bow. “And thank you again.”
He watched her move away, her tranquil self-possession once more firmly in place. He did not for an instant believe that she was losing sleep due to fear of some brutal murderer prowling the streets of London. But he could believe she was worried.
For a very different reason entirely.
Chapter 54
Sebastian walked the cold, rain-washed streets of Mayfair and tried to think. Would a woman who believed in the divine right of kings plot to kill a young man she thought might be the only surviving son of Louis XVI of France? On the surface, the answer seemed to be no. And yet, this was a woman who had dedicated her life to the restoration of the Bourbon dynasty, not to the restoration of a certain frail young prince who may or may not have died in the Temple Prison. If she considered Damion Pelletan a threat to the eventual accession of Marie-Therese and her husband to the throne of France, would Lady Giselle kill him?
Sebastian believed she would.
What had Alexi Sauvage said about her brother? Damion despised the Bourbons. Had he expressed those sentiments to Lady Giselle? If he had, it might well have led to his death.
The family trees of Europe’s royal houses were littered with kings who had fallen victim to a usurper’s hand. Fathers murdered by sons, nephews by uncles, cousins by cousins. How did Lady Giselle explain such irregularities, he wondered? As the divine wisdom of Providence working in mysterious ways? Probably. Those who believed God was on their side all too often found it easy to kill in His name, secure in the comfortable certitude of their own righteousness.
And yet. . And yet his imagination still balked at the image of Lady Giselle and her cousin the unknown Chevalier stalking Damion Pelletan through the mean streets of St. Katharine’s on one of the coldest nights of the year. Sebastian knew he was still missing something. The question was, What?
He kept coming back to the image of Damion Pelletan standing before the Gifford Arms, his head thrown back, his gaze on the cold night sky above. How many people knew Damion and Alexi Sauvage intended to visit Hangman’s Court that night? Lady Giselle? No; she was gone by the time Alexandrie arrived. Lord Peter? Possibly, if he had lingered longer than he claimed. Jarvis’s man? Again, possibly-if he had been close enough to overhear their conversation. Harmond Vaundreuil? Again, possibly.
Sampson Bullock?
Sebastian paused. The wind gusted up, cold and damp against his face and carrying with it all the smells of the city. Could Sampson Bullock have known that Alexi Sauvage and her brother were headed for Hangman’s Court that night? Yes. Bullock had been following and watching her for days. What if he learned of not only her plans to visit St. Katharine’s, but also her intent to ask her brother to accompany her?
Two things about this convoluted string of murders kept tripping Sebastian up: the bloody print left in the alley by a woman’s shoe, and the brutal murder of the Frenchman Foucher. Combined with the attack on Serena in Birdcage Walk, the latter seemed to suggest either the Bourbons or some other enemy of Napoleon’s peace proposals. Yet how could either be linked to the explosion in Golden Square? If Alexi Sauvage were able to identify her brother’s killer, she would have been murdered with him.
Yet an idea was forming in Sebastian’s mind, an explanation that accounted for these discrepancies and more.
It was time he had another talk with Mr. Mitt Peeples.
• • •
Sebastian arrived at the Gifford Arms to find a dray half-loaded with trunks drawn up outside the inn, its mules standing with legs splayed and heads dipped in the cold wind. Mitt Peebles, wearing his leather apron and at his most officious, was directing two workmen carrying a handsome campaign desk out the inn door.
“Careful there, now,” he called as one of the men bumped into the doorframe.
“What’s all this?” asked Sebastian, walking up to him.
“They’re leaving-what’s left of ’em, that is. Guess they figure they’d best get out while the getting is good. You heard another of ’em was found dead? Had his eyes gouged out. Who’d do something like that? Ain’t no Englishman, if you ask me.”
“Are you saying Harmond Vaundreuil is returning to France?”
“Well, can’t say I know for certain where he’s going. But I can guess, can’t I?”
Sebastian watched the workmen maneuver the desk into the back of the dray. “I wonder: Are you familiar with a cabinetmaker by the name of Sampson Bullock?”
“Bullock?” Mitt paused, his saggy-jowled face going blank as he pondered the question. “Don’t believe so, no.”
“He’s a giant of a man, tall and big boned, with curly black hair he wears long. Ever see him hanging around the inn?”
Mitt shook his head. “Not so’s I recall, no. Why? You think he may be the one doing all this?”
“At this point, I don’t really know.”
Mitt grunted, his protuberant eyes watering in the cold wind. “All I hope is that word don’t get out, linking these goings-on to the inn. Won’t do to have folks thinking the place is hexed. Won’t do at all.”
Sebastian watched the two porters head back into the hotel. “Is Monsieur Vaundreuil about?”
“Aye. In the coffee room, last I saw him.”
Sebastian walked into the coffee room to find Vaundreuil and his clerk, Bondurant, standing beside one of the tables near the front windows. They had a tan leather case open on the tabletop and appeared to be verifying the papers it contained. Bondurant glanced over at Sebastian, then silently thrust the last of the papers into the case, buckled it, and left the room.
“I hear you’re leaving,” said Sebastian, staring after the clerk.
Vaundreuil swiped one hand across his lower face. His eyes were red rimmed and puffy. “You blame me?”
“No. But what about the negotiations?”
The Frenchman shrugged. “They weren’t exactly going anywhere.”
Sebastian went to stand with his back to the fire. “When I saw you yesterday morning, you were determined to stay. What changed your mind?”