Why Kings Confess

Chapter 16

Harmond Vaundreuil drew up in the shadow of the chapel’s modest portico. He was built small and rotund, with fat fingers and a short neck swathed in a voluminous white cravat. He had full cheeks and the kind of eyes that practically disappeared into his round pink face when he smiled, so that the effect was one of cordial good cheer. It was an effect that Sebastian knew, even without being told, was deceptive. One did not achieve Vaundreuil’s position without a ruthless opportunism and the kind of brutal self-interest that gave no quarter and took no prisoners.

“I know who you are,” he said. “You’re that earl’s son-the one with a peculiar obsession with murder and justice. Devlin, isn’t it? I saw you standing at the back of the church.”

Sebastian turned to face him. “Decided not to stay for the funeral mass?”

The Frenchman gave a soft laugh. “I was trained for the priesthood, as a boy. Needless to say, the choice of a vocation was not mine. In my family, second sons joined the army and third sons became priests. If for no other reason, I shall forever be grateful to the Revolution for sparing me a life of hypocrisy and unutterable ennui. Believe me, Damion Pelletan would have known better than to expect me to sit through his funeral mass.”

“You knew Pelletan well?”

“He was my personal physician. I have a troublesome heart, you see.”

“That doesn’t exactly answer my question.”

“No?” Vaundreuil slowly descended the last step, an odd, tight smile crinkling the flesh beside his eyes as he drew up on the footpath. “Be wise, my lord, and leave well enough alone, hmm? Believe me, it is better for all concerned if Damion Pelletan is thought to have been killed by footpads.”

“Better for you, for me, or for Damion Pelletan?”

Vaundreuil’s smile widened. “For everyone.”

“Someone tried to kill me today, on the road from Hartwell House. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Vaundreuil laughed out loud with what sounded like genuine amusement. “They are a murderous lot, the Bourbons. And you have no idea what you are meddling in.”

“Not exactly,” agreed Sebastian. “But I have a very fertile imagination-plus a healthy appreciation for what the loss of half a million men in six months can do to popular perception of an upstart leader’s legitimacy.”

The Frenchman was no longer smiling.

Sebastian said, “Given that a member of your delegation has been-”

“Delegation? What nonsense is this?”

“-has been murdered, one might expect you to cooperate with any attempt to find his killer. Yet you appear to have no interest. Why is that?”

“But we are cooperating-with Bow Street. And Bow Street assures us that Pelletan was killed by footpads. Why try to make his death out to be something more than it was?”

“Damion Pelletan was not killed by footpads, and you know it.”

“So certain, my lord?”

“What kind of footpad steals a man’s heart and leaves his purse?”

Vaundreuil’s face went utterly slack with what looked very much like horror. “What did you say?”

“You heard me.” Sebastian studied the other man’s pale, suddenly haggard features. “Would you have me believe you didn’t know?”

The Frenchman swiped a shaky hand across his mouth. “No. I was not told the details. I mean, I saw the body at that dreadful surgery near the Tower. I knew the chest was- But. . the heart? Taken?” He swallowed hard. “You are certain?”

“You find the knowledge unsettling. Why?”

“Good God; who would not find it unsettling? I mean. . to steal a man’s heart! It is barbaric. It is the work of madness. What a violent, dangerous place this London of yours is.”

“True. Yet it’s considerably more salubrious than Paris in, say, 1793. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Vaundreuil’s jaw hardened. “Those dark days are twenty years in our past.”

“Twenty years is not so long ago.”

The wind gusted up, scuttling a loose playbill down the street and bringing them the voice of the priest with sudden, unexpected clarity. “Ambulabo coram Domino, in regione vivorum. .”

Sebastian said, “Who would want to put an end to the possibility of peace talks between Napoleon Bonaparte and the British government?”

“I never said-”

“Very well; in honor of your exquisite sensitivity to the finer points of language, I’ll rephrase the question: If preliminary peace talks were to be held between Paris and London, who would have an interest in seeing them brought to an untimely end?”

“Truly, monsieur? The list is endless. In my experience, those for whom war is lucrative are rarely satiated. For them, war is opportunity, not hardship or sorrow. After all, it is rarely their sons who lie in unmarked graves on foreign soil.”

Sebastian studied the fat, successful bureaucrat before him. Vaundreuil himself had obviously profited handsomely from the Revolution and the endless wars that followed it. But all Sebastian said was, “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”

The Frenchman gave a tight-lipped smile. “Surely you know those in England who profit from war better than I, yes?”

“And the French?”

Vaundreuil shook his head. “In France, even those who once grew rich off the empire know that the efforts of the last two decades are no longer sustainable. I suspect you’ll find that those French most fervently opposed to the idea of peace between England and Napoleon are to be found on this side of the Channel, not the other.”

“You mean the royalists?”

“The emigres, the royalists, the Bourbons. There are tens of thousands of my former compatriots here. Most dream of someday returning to France. And of revenge.”

“Do the Bourbons know of your presence here in London?”

“Officially? No. But there are few involved in this conflict who do not have their own spies.”

“Any chance the Comte de Provence could be behind Pelletan’s death?”

“Provence?” Vaundreuil crinkled his nose in a way that turned down the corners of his mouth. “The soi-disant Louis XVIII is ill, childless, and old before his time. In my opinion, the one who bears watching is the younger brother, the Comte d’Artois. Artois, and his niece, the Duchesse d’Angouleme. It would be a mistake to dismiss Marie-Therese as half-mad. She is, after all, Marie Antoinette’s daughter. I have heard Napoleon himself say that Marie-Therese is the only real man in her family.”

“He fears her?”

“I would not go so far as to say he fears her. But he watches her, yes. He definitely watches her.” Vaundreuil touched his hand to his hat and inclined his head. “Monsieur.”

He was turning away when Sebastian asked, “Are you by chance acquainted with Lord Peter Radcliff?”

The Frenchman pivoted slowly to face him again. “I know the man well enough to have recognized him, if that’s what you mean.” An unexpected gleam of amusement lit Vaundreuil’s small, dark eyes. “I assume you noticed that he, likewise, did not stay for Pelletan’s funeral mass?”

“Why would a son of the Duke of Linford attend the funeral of a French physician who arrived in London only three weeks ago?”

“I believe Radcliff is married to a young Frenchwoman. Someone Pelletan knew in Paris many years ago.”

Sebastian was familiar with the young Lady Peter, for her beauty was legendary. She had come to England nine years before, when her father-a highly respected general in the Grand Army-had a falling-out with Napoleon that forced the family to flee France. But she had not arrived in London penniless, for the general had managed to accumulate a small fortune that he kept safely abroad. And he had settled nearly half of his wealth on his beautiful daughter.

An unpleasant gleam shone in Vaundreuil’s eyes. “Perhaps you seek too complicated a motive for this murder, monsieur. Perhaps what we are dealing with is a simple-if somewhat ghoulish-affaire de coeur. It would explain much, yes?”

“Was Pelletan in love with Lady Peter?”

“Once, perhaps; who knows? Damion Pelletan was my physician, not my friend or confidant.” Vaundreuil bowed again. “And now you really must excuse me, my lord.”

Sebastian watched him stroll away toward Portman Square, the cold wind flapping the tails of his black coat, while from inside the church came a low, mournful chant.

“Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem. Amen.”