Why Kings Confess

Chapter 5

Paul Gibson sat in a wooden chair drawn up to the unknown woman’s bedside, his gaze on her face. She was so pale, her closed eyelids fragile and nearly translucent, the skin drawn tight over the exquisitely molded bones of her face. And if she didn’t awaken soon, she probably never would.

He pushed to his feet and went to stare out the narrow window overlooking the ancient medieval street beyond. The sun was high enough to begin burning off the fog, but there was little warmth in it. Rows of icicles glistened from the eaves, and he could feel the bitter cold radiating off the glass. Turning, he went to stoop beside the hearth and throw more coal on the fire. He was about to straighten when he became aware of the sensation of being watched.

Glancing over at the bed, he found himself staring into a pair of dark brown eyes. “Good morning,” he said, lurching awkwardly as he straightened.

Her tongue flicked out to wet her dry lips, her chest jerking as if with fear.

He said, “You needn’t worry. I’m a friend.”

“I remember you.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, her English accented but distinct. “You are the one who-” Her eyes darkened as if with a resurgence of remembered grief. “Is Damion truly dead?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

She blinked rapidly several times and turned her face away, her glorious, flame-colored hair fanning out over the pillow.

“He was your friend?” Gibson asked quietly.

Rather than answer, she put her hand to her head, the long, fine fingers exploring the bandage she found there. “What happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No.”

He walked up to the side of the bed again. “It may eventually come back to you. Memory is a funny thing.”

She looked at him again. “Where am I?”

“This is my surgery.”

“You are a surgeon?”

“I am.” He sketched an awkward bow. “Paul Gibson, late of His Majesty’s Twenty-fifth Light Dragoons.”

She let her gaze drift over him, making him wish he’d taken the time to wash and shave and maybe change his clothes.

She said, “You lost your leg fighting the French?”

“I did, yes.”

“I am French.”

He smiled. “I had noticed.”

To his surprise, the flesh beside her eyes crinkled with amusement. Then the smile, faint as it was, faded. Her gaze drifted about the room, as if searching for something or someone. “I remember hearing another man’s voice. Someone talking to you.”

“The constables, perhaps.”

“No; this was an educated voice.”

“Ah. That would have been Lord Devlin.”

“Devlin?”

“He’s a friend of mine.”

She was silent for a moment, lost in her own dark thoughts. Then she said, “You did not tell me what is wrong with my head.”

“I suspect you were either hit, or you struck the side of your head when you fell.”

“How badly am I injured?”

“I don’t think the skull is fractured. But I’m worried about concussion.”

“Are my pupils dilated?”

“No.” The question revealed a depth of medical understanding he wouldn’t have expected. “Was your father a doctor?”

Something flared in her eyes, only to be quickly hidden by the downward sweep of her lashes. “He is, yes. In Paris.”

“Is there someone I should let know you’re safe? I-” He decided the personal pronoun sounded too familiar and changed it. “We don’t even know your name.”

Again she studied his face, as if assessing him. “My name is Alexandrie Sauvage. I live alone, with only a servant. But Karmele is a good woman and is doubtless concerned about what has become of me.”

“I’ll see she knows you are safe.”

She gave him directions to her rooms in Golden Square. Then she fell silent, her eyes drifting half-closed. But she was still alert-tense, even. And Gibson suspected her thoughts had returned to the man whose corpse lay in the outbuilding at the base of the yard.

Gibson said, “Do you remember why you were in Cat’s Hole last night?”

Her gaze refocused on his face. “Yes, of course; Damion had agreed to go with me to see the child.”

“Child? What child?”

“There is a Frenchwoman-Madame Claire Bisette-who lives in Hangman’s Court. Her little girl, Cecile, is gravely ill.”

“And did Pelletan see her?”

“He did, yes. But he was as baffled by her condition as I. I fear she is dying.” Her head moved restlessly against the pillow. “I promised I would be back this morning to see her. I-”

Gibson put his hand on her shoulder, stilling her. “Don’t distress yourself. I’ll visit her, if you’d like.”

Beneath his hand, her flesh was soft and warm. She stared up at him. “She has no money to pay you.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Just tell me-”

He broke off, his gaze meeting hers, her eyes wide with a new leap of fear as loud voices sounded in the street outside and a heavy fist pounded on the front door.