Why Kings Confess

Chapter 53

Sebastian wouldn’t have been surprised if Lady Giselle refused to see him. But he underestimated her. She sent word that she would be down in a few moments, although, instead of having him escorted to the drawing room, she met him in a small, book-lined chamber on the ground floor that looked as if it might be devoted to the use of a steward or man of business.

She wore a simple gown of dove gray wool trimmed with black ribbon. Her fair hair fell in gentle curls about her delicate face; a plain band of black velvet encircled her long, delicate neck. Her only jewelry was a small gold watch pinned to her breast, and a dainty pair of pearl earrings.

“Lord Devlin,” she said, holding out her hand to him, her smile one of warmth that hinted at a secret shared. “Forgive me for receiving you here, but Marie-Therese is in the drawing room. I fear the very mention of your name is still enough to send her into spasms.”

“Thank you for agreeing to see me-particularly under such circumstances.”

“Please, have a seat. Have you discovered something of interest?”

He took the seat she indicated, a red leather desk chair with worn wooden arms. “I have, actually. I was wondering: Where did you and Marie-Therese spend a week ago Thursday? I know you devoted the day to prayer for her father, the King. But were you here, in London, or at Hartwell House?”

A vague shadow passed her face. It was there and then gone so quickly he couldn’t identify it. Apprehension, perhaps? Calculation? Or simply remembered sorrow?

“Here,” she said. “We had come up to London several days before, so that Marie-Therese might consult with Dr. Pelletan. We left for Hartwell House again early Friday morning.”

“I should tell you that I now know why Marie-Therese was so anxious to consult with Damion Pelletan. It had nothing to do with his reputation as a physician and everything to do with the fact that his father first brought Damion home the very summer the little Dauphin died in the Temple Prison. I think the Princess knew about the rumors that he might be the Lost Dauphin, and she wanted to see him so that she could judge for herself whether or not he was her brother.”

There was a long pause, during which Lady Giselle’s face showed not a hint of consternation or alarm. She simply gave a small, sad smile and said, “You are right, of course. Marie-Therese has never given up hope that her brother might one day be found alive. You’ve no notion the number of pretenders she has interviewed over the years, each time working herself into a frenzy of anticipation, only to be cast down with disappointment at the realization that she has once more been deceived.”

“But Damion Pelletan never claimed to be the Lost Dauphin.”

“He did not, no. Which is one of the reasons she was particularly anxious to see him.”

“And what was her conclusion?”

“To be frank, she found him so much like her dead mother that she was overcome with emotion. It had been her intention to ask him a series of probing questions about his past, but she was so distraught that she found she could not. I had to take her away.”

“Is that why you went back to see Pelletan again on Thursday night?”

He expected her to deny it, but she was too clever for that. And he realized she’d probably guessed from the beginning what his questions were leading up to, and why.

She tilted her head to one side, her gaze intent on his face. “How did you know?”

“You were recognized.”

“Ah.”

When she remained silent, he said, “You told me you spent the day in prayer with Marie-Therese. Why not tell the truth?”

“It seemed best at the time. Now I realize it was a mistake. Forgive me.”

“Am I to understand that for the first time in eighteen years you deserted the Princess on the anniversary of her father’s death?”

She shook her head. “No. I fear there are times when Marie-Therese’s grief simply becomes too much for her. When she reaches that point, she is impossible to calm and can make herself ill. In such situations, sleep becomes the only reasonable recourse.”

In other words, Lady Giselle had dosed the hysterical Princess with laudanum.

Now she sat with her fingers laced together in her lap, her features composed in an expression of calm beatitude that would have done justice to St. Louis himself. She said, “Marie-Therese had asked me to return and see Pelletan-to ask the questions she herself had been unable to broach. And so I did.”

“What did you discover?”

“Very little, actually. He became quite angry when he realized why I was there and refused to discuss the subject any further. So we left.”

“We?”

A faint note of exasperation crept into her voice. “You don’t seriously think I would undertake such a visit alone, do you? My mother’s cousin, the Chevalier d’Armitz, was kind enough to accompany me.” Again, that charming tilt of the head as her pretty forehead crinkled with a show of confusion. “Why are you asking me these questions?”

“Because you and your cousin were amongst the last people to see Damion Pelletan alive. What was he doing when you left the inn?”

She shrugged. “The last I saw, he was standing on the footpath outside the inn, staring up at the night sky. As I said, the conversation visibly disturbed him. He may have been trying to compose himself before returning inside.”

“Did you see anyone else while you were there?”

“We spoke to a servant in the coffee room, if that’s what you mean. But I don’t recall noticing anyone else.”

“What about your cousin, the Chevalier d’Armitz? He might have noticed someone. Would it be possible for me to speak to him?”

“I’m sorry, but I believe he is away from London at the moment.”

“A pity,” said Sebastian.

“Yes. It is, isn’t it?”

“Tell me about him.”

She smiled and gave a little shrug. “What is there to tell?”

“Has he been in England long?”

“Most of his life.”

“He’s young?”

“In his twenties, yes.” She glanced at the watch pinned to her bodice. Sebastian had outstayed his welcome, and she was not hesitant to let him know it. She rose to her feet. “And now I fear you must excuse me, my lord. We plan to return to Hartwell House in the morning, and Marie-Therese has expressed an interest in making one last expedition to Bond Street.”

Sebastian rose with her, his hat in one hand. “Best hurry, then,” he said. “It looks as if it is liable to come on to rain.”

“Hopefully not until after midnight,” she said, smiling sadly. “I’ve a private service at the chapel to attend this evening.”

He studied her delicate, fine-featured face. She was a beautiful woman, still young enough to bear children and well dowered enough to attract suitors, had she wanted them. Instead, she had devoted her life to the support of a fragile, damaged princess regarded by the indulgent as haughty and high-strung, and by the less charitable as half-mad.

Aloud, he said, “Why have you stayed with Marie-Therese all these years?”

“Because she needs me,” Lady Giselle said simply. “When she was released from prison eighteen years ago, I promised I would stay with her until the Bourbons are restored to their rightful place on the throne of France. I am a woman of my word.”

“And if there never is a Bourbon restoration?”

She looked at him with the clear, steady conviction of a Joan of Arc, or the kind of officials who once burned witches at the stake. “There will be. It is God’s will.”

“Divine right of kings and all that?”

Her jaw tensed. “You can scoff if you like. But the fact remains that God has bestowed earthly sovereignty on the Bourbons, just as He has given spiritual sovereignty to His Pope. That is why no monarch can be subject to earthly authority, for his right to rule derives from God’s own will, not from his subjects. Any attempt by those subjects to depose their lawful king or curtail his power in any way is an affront to God and thus cannot long endure.”

“The United States of America seem to be enduring just fine.”

“Yet the French Revolution endured for how long? Little more than a decade. I doubt Napoleon will last much longer.”

“Napoleon’s mistake is the same as the Bourbons’: He is trying to stand against the tide of history. The age of monarchs is passing. Even if Napoleon is defeated and the Bourbons restored by the armies of Russia and Britain, they won’t last for long.”

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.