Why Kings Confess

Chapter 32

Paul Gibson trudged up the hill toward home, his gaze on the somber bulk of the Tower looming before him. The light was fading rapidly from the sky, leaving the ancient battlements silhouetted against the darkening clouds. He could feel the temperature dropping with each step, the icy wind chafing his cheeks and freezing his nostrils as he sucked in air. But that didn’t stop a thin layer of sweat from forming on his forehead. The sense of unease that had dogged him for blocks was growing ever-more oppressive with each step. It was as if he could feel someone behind him, their eyes boring into his back.

Finally, when he could bear it no longer, he whipped around. “Who’s there?” he cried to the nearly empty street, only to feel more than a wee bit foolish as he looked into the beady eyes of a dirty white hen that stopped midpeck to raise her head and stare at him.

Straightening his shoulders, he self-consciously adjusted the set of his coat and continued up the hill, his peg leg tap-tapping hollowly with each step. He tried to tell himself he was tired, worn down by the events of the last several days, and bedeviled by the wispy remnants of last night’s laudanum.

Yet the feeling of being watched remained.

It was with a sigh of relief that he saw the golden glow of candlelight shining through the front windows of his house. He pushed open his front door and breathed in the rich aroma of a hearty stew. Leaning back against the closed door, he squeezed his eyes shut and tried to still the heavy pounding of his heart. Alexi Sauvage was right, he thought; those damned poppies were going to kill him at the rate he was going. Kill him, or steal what was left of his mind.

The sound of a soft step on the worn flagging of the passage made him open his eyes. She stood before him, a slim, fiery-haired woman dressed in a gown of mossy green he’d never seen before.

“You should be resting,” he said.

She shook her head. “I am tired of resting. I’m better. Truly, I am. Besides, someone needed to fix your supper.”

“My supper?” He frowned. “Where the d-” He started to say “devil” but caught himself just in time. “-dickens is Mrs. Federico?”

“I am afraid your housekeeper has a rather low opinion of the French.”

“She what?”

“She promised to return tomorrow, after I am gone.”

He became aware of the bundle of her things resting just inside the door, and its significance hit him so hard it nearly took his breath. “You’re leaving?”

“I sent for Karmele. She’s gone to fetch us a hackney. But I wanted to stay long enough to tell you good-bye.”

She took the two steps necessary to close the distance between them. For one glorious moment he thought she meant to kiss him, and he told himself he was six kinds of an Irish fool. She rested her palms on the front of his coat. He could feel the heat of her hands against his chest, feel his heart pounding against his ribs. Then she tipped her head to brush her lips against his ever so softly before taking a step back again.

Her hands fell to her sides. “There simply are no words adequate for the task of thanking someone who has saved your life,” she said. “But I don’t know what else to say except. . merci.”

Somehow, he found enough breath to answer her. “You don’t need to be going yet.”

“Yes, I do.” Her gaze met his. “And you know why as well as I do.”

A long silence drew out between them, filled with their measured breathing and words best left unspoken.

He said, “What about that man-the one who was watching you last night-”

“Bullock?” She shrugged. “I can handle Bullock.”

She was so bloody brave and stubborn she frightened him. “And Damion Pelletan’s killer?” he asked, his voice rough with the force of his emotions. “Can you ‘handle’ him too?”

She lifted her chin in that way she had. “I refuse to live my life in fear. But. . I will be careful. I promise.”

The rattle of a trace chain and the clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside announced the arrival of her hackney. She stooped to catch up her bundle and reached for the latch. Then she paused to look back at him. “I meant what I said last night. You don’t need to live with the pain from your missing leg. I can help you. There’s a trick that uses a box and mirrors to fool the mind into-”

He shook his head. “No.”

“And you call me stubborn.” She jerked open the door.

The hackney was old and broken-down and smelled of moldy hay and spilled ale. Gibson was conscious of her woman, Karmele, scowling at him from the vehicle’s interior, her arms crossed beneath her massive breasts as he handed Alexi up into the carriage. He wished he could say something-anything-to stop this moment and hold her in his life. But the jarvey was already cracking his whip. The carriage rolled forward.

He raised one hand in an awkward gesture of farewell. But she kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, her hair a bright flame lost all too soon in the gloom of the night. It wasn’t until she was gone that he realized he hadn’t actually called her stubborn.

He’d only thought it.

• • •

The impulse to lose himself in opium’s sweet embraces was strong enough to propel Gibson away from Tower Hill that night. Resisting a secondary urge to seek a coarser type of oblivion at his local pub, he caught a hackney to Mayfair and met Devlin at a quiet coffeehouse in Hanover Square.

“I can look at your face and see that you haven’t brought me good news,” said Devlin, ordering coffee for them both.

Gibson eased out a soft sigh as he settled in a chair near the fire, glad to get off his peg leg. “Part of the problem is Richard Croft. He’s been very busy going about justifying himself to anyone and everyone who’ll listen. Technically I suppose he could claim he’s been discreet, but it’s amazing how much a man can somehow manage to convey without actually saying it. Most people are wise enough to discern the truth-that Croft resigned because he feared Jarvis’s wrath should something go wrong. But rather than helping matters, that’s probably only made the situation worse.”

“All I need is one name,” said Devlin, leaning his forearms on the table between them.

Gibson wrapped his cold-numbed hands around his steaming coffee. “Well. . My colleague Lothan has offered to consult with Lady Devlin. But to be frank, I don’t think he’ll find favor with her any more than Croft did-less so, in fact. If anything, he’s worse than Croft when it comes to the employment of bloodletting, purges, and emetics. And he absolutely refuses under any circumstances to use forceps, which I’m afraid may become necessary in this case.”

Devlin listened to him in silence, his lean, handsome face looking unnaturally bleak and hollow eyed. “So what do you suggest?”

Gibson took a sip of the coffee and burned his tongue. “There are a few men I still haven’t managed to contact yet. But if worse comes to worst. .” He paused, drew a deep breath, and said, “What about Alexandrie Sauvage? She’s a physician and an accoucheur, and she-”

“No.”

Gibson dropped his gaze to his steaming cup. He knew he should tell Devlin that Alexi had left his surgery and returned to Golden Square. But somehow his throat closed up at the very thought of even trying to talk about it. He said instead, “Have you learned anything more about the men who attacked you outside Stoke Mandeville?”

“No. I had a message from Sir Henry a bit ago, saying his constables came up empty-handed at the livery stables. But I’m not surprised. Whoever we’re dealing with here isn’t careless enough to leave a clear trail.”

“Seems to me the two aren’t necessarily linked-Pelletan’s murder and the attack on you, I mean. It could be that you’re making someone connected to either the Bourbons or the peace initiatives nervous.”

“I’ve no doubt my questions are making a lot of people uncomfortable.”

A silence fell between them, both men lost in their own thoughts. After a moment, Devlin said, “What are the chances the babe could still turn? Give me an honest answer, Gibson.”

Gibson forced himself to meet his friend’s gaze. “In truth, they’re small. But it is possible. I’ve known babes to turn within hours of a confinement.”

Devlin nodded silently.

But the look in his eyes was that of a man staring into the yawning abyss of hell.