Why Kings Confess (21 page)

T
he promenade known as Birdcage Walk ran along the south side of St. James’s Park. A broad carriageway lined with rows of elm and lime, it was open to commoners traversing it on foot. Only members of the royal family were allowed to drive down Birdcage Walk. It wasn’t a privilege they exercised often, but the prerogative remained exclusively theirs, nonetheless.

Over the past fifty or more years, the walk had become notorious as a popular “molly market,” or cruising ground. The area’s proximity to the nearby barracks meant that handsome young guardsmen eager to earn an extra guinea or two could inevitably be found here. As Sebastian walked beneath the fog-shrouded branches of the winter-bared trees, he wondered if that was why Ambrose LaChapelle had come here.

But as he approached the huddle of greatcoated men near the eastern end of the walk, he was surprised to see the tall, chestnut-haired Serena sitting hunched on a bench off to one side. She had her head down, her hands thrust between her knees in a posture that would have made more sense if she had been wearing breeches. Her green silk gown was torn, the black lace that had once trimmed the neckline ripped so that it dangled off one shoulder.

“Ah, Lord Devlin,” called Sir Henry Lovejoy, separating himself from the knot of constables beside what Sebastian could now see was the sprawled body of another woman—or in all probability a man in a woman’s red velvet gown, topped by a short white fur cape stained dark with blood. “I thought you might want to see this.”

Sebastian glanced again at Serena. The French courtier did not look up.

“What happened?” Sebastian asked the magistrate.

“Her name is Angel Face. Or at least, that’s what she called herself when she was wearing skirts. In breeches, he was James Farragut, a jeweler who keeps—kept—a shop in the Haymarket. According to the—” Sir Henry paused, as if trying to settle on an appropriate noun. “—the person who was with her—him, they were simply walking along the carriageway when an unknown man came up behind them, stabbed Farragut in the back, and then ran off.”

“Farragut is dead?”

“Oh, yes. I gather he died almost instantly.”

Sebastian went to hunker down beside the dead man. Of medium height and slim, he had softly curling dark hair and a delicately boned face ending in a strong jawline. Sebastian had never seen him before. “How did you know I might be interested?”

“The . . . person . . . who was walking with the victim suggested it.”

Sebastian pushed to his feet and went to where LaChapelle still sat. The French courtier might have fought bravely against the forces of the Revolution, but the murder of his friend had obviously affected him profoundly. “You all right?”

“Yes.” Serena thrust out her jaw and blew a long breath up over her face. “Oh, God; it’s my fault. Angel is dead because of me.”

Sebastian sat on the bench beside her. “What were you doing here?”

A ghost of a smile touched the courtier’s painted lips. “Caterwauling, of course. There are some grand guardsmen to be found along here.”

Caterwauling.
Sebastian had heard they also called it “picking up trade” or finding someone to “endorse.” He said, “Bit chilly, isn’t it?”

Serena shrugged. “The cold tends to discourage the bastards working for the Society for the Suppression of Vice.”

Sebastian stared off across the fog-shrouded park. “Why do you say you’re responsible for Angel Face’s death?”

Serena kept her gaze on the sprawled body of her friend. “She was cold. I lent her my fur cape. It’s very distinctive—I’m known for it. I think whoever killed her saw it and thought she was me.”

Sebastian studied the dead Haymarket jeweler. In the darkness and fog, she could easily have been mistaken for the French courtier. And yet . . .

“You can’t know that for certain,” said Sebastian.

“What? You think this is a coincidence?”

Sebastian shook his head. “What can you tell me about the man who stabbed her?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. It all happened too fast. At first, I thought he’d simply run up behind us and pushed Angel, to be rude. People do that sometimes, you know. But then she coughed and staggered against me, grabbing my dress to try and stay upright, so that I had to catch her. By the time I realized she’d been stabbed, the man who’d done it was gone.”

Sebastian studied the rows of limes along the border of the carriageway. Just to the south of the park lay the Recruit House and, beyond that, the gardens at the rear of the Gifford Arms Hotel. Until now, everyone killed had been either a member of the French delegation or connected to it in some way. So why the hell had LaChapelle been attacked?

Aloud, he said, “Who would want to kill you? Not just any random molly, but you?”

“I honestly don’t know.”

Sebastian brought his gaze back to the courtier’s painted face. “Did you tell the magistrates who you are—I mean who you really are?”

Serena rolled her eyes. “Seriously? Do you truly think I would? There will be an inquest, remember. What would you suggest as my choice of attire for the occasion? Should I go as Serena Fox, or as Ambrose LaChapelle, the gentleman who was cruising Birdcage Walk dressed as a lady? Either way, what do you imagine my reception would be?”

“I wouldn’t think you’d care.”

“Do you know how many mollies have been beaten to death by London mobs?”

“No. But I would imagine it’s a fair number.”

“It is.”

Sebastian watched the mist drift between the dark trunks of the trees. He could smell the damp grass and the wet stones of the walk and the spilled blood of the murdered man. “If you’re not going to tell me who you think did this, then why the bloody hell did you have the magistrates alert me to what happened?”

An unexpected smile flashed across the molly’s somber features. “It was amazing the effect your name had on the local constabulary. One minute they were all set to hustle me off to the nearest roundhouse. Then I chanced to utter your name, and it was like a magic talisman. I’d tried asking them to contact Provence, but they seemed to find it difficult to believe that the uncrowned King of France would consort with one of my kind.” She paused. “You obviously consort with all kinds.”

Sebastian suspected chance had nothing to do with it. But he simply rose and said, “I suggest you avoid dark parks and arcades for a while—or else, if you must, carry a muff gun and keep your wits about you. If you should suddenly think of someone with an interest in doing away with you, you know where to find me.”

He was turning toward Sir Henry when he recalled something Lady Giselle had said to him the previous night, at the Duchess of Claiborne’s soiree. He paused. “What can you tell me about the ‘Dark Countess’?”

Serena leaned back against the bench’s rails. “Good God; what has she to do with anything?”

“I have no idea. Who is she?”

“No one knows, actually. That’s one of the reasons why she’s called the ‘Dark Countess.’ She lives in a castle in Thuringia and has never been seen in daylight—only glimpsed in the shadowy interiors of carriages. When she walks the castle’s grounds, she is always veiled, and she dresses only in black—black gown, black gloves, black veil. She has a man with her—a count, although they say he is neither her husband nor her lover. Speculation has it that he may be a courtier. Or her keeper.”

“Her keeper?”

“Mmm. Those who serve her are kept carefully guarded. But rumors have naturally circulated. They say she’s in her mid-thirties and is as blond and blue-eyed as our own dear Marie-Thérèse was as a child. Oh, and she has a fondness for the fleur-de-lis.”

The stylized lily or iris had been associated with the royal family of France for a thousand years. Sebastian’s eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. Only that one can understand how certain speculation might have arisen. The journey of Marie-Thérèse from Paris to Vienna in 1795 was cloaked in secrecy, as were her years in the Temple. Some believe she was raped while in prison, that she was pregnant when released by the revolutionaries and had to be hidden away. Others suggest that her experiences overturned the balance of her mind, so that after her release she was either unable or unwilling to take up the kind of prominent role required of the only surviving child of the martyred King and Queen of France.”

“The theory being that an imposter was put in her place, while the real Marie-Thérèse lives out her life in seclusion in a castle in Germany?”

“That is the theory, yes. Although anyone with any sense knows that it is pure myth.”

“Why is that?”

Ambrose LaChapelle met his gaze. “Because anyone undertaking to arrange such a dangerous substitution would be certain to select an imposter with a strong mental fortitude and unshakable balance. Whereas the Marie-Thérèse the world has seen these past eighteen years . . .” He shrugged and shook his head, as if unwilling to put the rest of his thoughts into words.

“Is she mad?” Sebastian asked quietly.

The courtier thrust the splayed fingers of one hand through his hair in a typically masculine gesture. “She is damaged. No one can deny that. You’ve noticed her voice? They like to say it is the result of her refusal to speak to her jailors—that she found it difficult to make sounds once she finally began to speak again. Yet she also likes to boast of her proud responses to the revolutionaries’ taunts and questions, and she frequently recites her rosary aloud.”

“So what did happen to her voice?”

“I have heard that severe emotional trauma can permanently affect one’s vocal cords, although there are also those who suggest she screamed so long and so loud that it damaged her voice.”

“Was she raped in prison?”

“If she was, she would never admit it. But when one thinks of what was done to her brother . . .” Again, that silent, suggestive lifting of the shoulders. “I’ve heard her say she used to sit up all night, dressed, in a chair because she was afraid to undress and go to bed. Why do that unless something had happened to make her afraid? Can you really imagine that the men who did such vile things to the boy Prince would spare the Princess? An attractive but despised young woman, alone and utterly in their power?”

Sebastian shifted his gaze to the gravel carriageway. The men from the nearest deadhouse had arrived and were shifting the jeweler’s body onto their shell. He watched them lift the burden between them with a grunt.

A new explanation for Damion Pelletan’s murder, and for the attempted murder of his sister, was beginning to take shape in his imagination. He said, “The man who killed your friend . . . what did he look like?”

The courtier frowned with the effort of thought. “I didn’t see him well—he wore a greatcoat and scarf, with his hat pulled low over his forehead. All I can say with any certainty is that he was dark-haired and roughly your height, only slightly stockier.”

The description matched that of the man who had attacked Sebastian at Stoke Mandeville and again in York Street, although he had no doubt it also matched any number of other men in London. “He didn’t say anything?”

“No. Nothing.”

“Did you notice his eyes?”

“His eyes? No. Why?”

Sebastian shook his head. “I’ll ask you one more time: Who would have reason to kill you?”

But Serena simply stared off across the park, as if looking for the answer in the mists that swirled among the winter-bared trees.

Th
ursday, 28 January

T
he next morning, Sebastian was easing on his Hessians when Calhoun said, “You know how you asked me to look further into Sampson Bullock, my lord?”

Sebastian glanced over at his valet. “Discovered something interesting, did you?”

“You were right, my lord: Bullock spent six years in the Ninth Foot. He came back to London when his unit was reduced in 1802, after the Peace of Amiens.”

“In other words,” said Sebastian, stomping his foot into his boot, “he knows more about gunpowder than your average cabinetmaker.”

“Considerably more, I should think. He was in the artillery.”

•   •   •

Sampson Bullock was flooding a new tabletop with boiled linseed oil when Sebastian walked up to him. The fog was still so thick that a deep gloom filled the shop, and the cabinetmaker had lit the lantern suspended over his work. The air was heavy with the smell of warm oil and freshly shaved wood and rank male sweat.

Sebastian stood for a moment, arms crossed at his chest, and watched the cabinetmaker turn the pale raw wood a deep, rich brown as the oil soaked into the surface. Bullock glanced up at him, then dipped his cloth into the tin of oil and went back to rubbing the piece.

“Wot ye want from me?” he demanded after a moment. “I got nothin’ t’ say t’ ye.”

“I understand you were in the Ninth Foot. The artillery, to be precise.”

“Aye. Wot of it?”

“I would imagine you know a fair bit about gunpowder, don’t you?”

Bullock kept his gaze on his work, although Sebastian noticed his movements had become slower, more deliberate. “Suppose I do? Wot of it?”

“You heard about the explosion in Golden Square?”

“Ye’d be hard pressed t’ find a body hereabouts who hasna heard of it.”

“Did you know the charge was set directly beneath Madame Sauvage’s rooms?”

“Now, how would I know that?”

“I thought you might have heard. After all, it’s not often someone tries to blow up a London house with gunpowder.”

The cabinetmaker flung down his cloth with enough force to send thick golden globules of oil flying in all directions. “Wot ye sayin’? That I done it? Is that wot yer sayin’?”

Sebastian subtly shifted his weight, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. “You did threaten to kill her, remember?”

“Yeah? Well, she weren’t killed, now, was she? It was that Basque bitch wot bought it.”

Sebastian studied the man’s small black eyes. The scar across his cheek had darkened to a deep, vicious purple. “A mistake, I wonder? Or a deliberate attempt to hurt Alexi Sauvage by killing someone she loved?”

When the cabinetmaker remained silent, Sebastian said, “She didn’t kill your brother; he died of gaol fever, in prison.”

“She put him there!”

“You mean, by having the courage to stand up and say what everyone in the neighborhood knew to be true? That your brother was a brutal wife beater?”

“Why, ye—”

His face twisted with raw savagery, Bullock grabbed a long, sharp awl and lunged around the table to come at Sebastian with the tool clutched in his fist like a stiletto.

Sebastian yanked his own knife from the sheath in his boot, the carefully honed blade winking in the lamplight as he settled into a street fighter’s crouch.

The cabinetmaker drew up, his lips twitching, his fist still tight around the awl’s worn wooden handle.

“What’s the matter?” said Sebastian. “Does the idea of a fair fight give you pause? Do you prefer stabbing men in the back and blowing up women in their homes?”

A strange, eerie smile lit up the cabinetmaker’s face. “Ye think yer real smart, don’t ye? High-and-mighty lord that ye are, livin’ in that big fancy house, surrounded by all them other grand nobs. Think ye can come in here and talk t’ me like yer still a captain and I’m jest some swadkin? Think I gotta play by yer rules?”

“How do you know I was a captain?”

The man’s smile widened. “Think yer the only one can ask questions? I know all about ye—about ye and yer wife, and about the child she’s carryin’ in her belly. I even know ’bout that black cat you fancy.”

Sebastian was careful to keep all trace of his instinctive reaction off his face and out of his voice. All that remained was a cold, lethal purposefulness. “You stay away from my wife.”

“Wot’s the matter, Captain? Ye scared?”

“I see you anywhere near my wife, my house, or my cat, and you’re a dead man. You understand?”

Bullock laughed. “Ye sayin’ ye’d risk hangin’ fer killin’ the likes o’ me?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, the man’s self-satisfied smile slipped. Then it slid wide again. “I reckon maybe ye mean it, after all. But ye gots to see me comin’, don’t ye, Captain? And I can move real quiet when I wants to. Quiet as a raindrop runnin’ down a windowpane, or a dog dyin’ somewhere alone in the night.”

“I have extraordinarily good hearing,” said Sebastian.

And then he left Bullock’s workshop before he gave in to the temptation to kill the bastard then and there.

It was only afterward that Sebastian found himself wondering if he’d just made a terrible mistake.