The house was quiet around them, the room lit only by a brace of candles on the dressing table. He pulled the ruined shirt off over his head and unwound the bindings that held what was left of the padding around his waist. “I don’t know. But he was French.” He frowned down at the flesh revealed beneath the bindings. The tip of the man’s blade had cut through the padding enough to leave a long, angry weal across his lower abdomen.
“You’re acquiring an impressive collection of cuts on your torso,” said his wife, pushing away from the doorframe. “All you need now is a slice along the right side of your ribs and the symmetry will be complete.”
“Huh,” he grunted, and tossed the shredded padding at her.
She ducked, laughing, then went to uncork a flask of alcohol and liberally soak a folded cloth. “Whoever he was, he must have been watching Jacques Collot rather than you; otherwise, he would have known your protuberant belly began life as a feather pillow.”
“You’re probably right. In which case the question then becomes, who is watching Jacques Collot? And why?”
She came to press the alcohol-soaked pad to his cut. He sucked in his breath in an audible hiss.
“Stings, does it?” she said, her voice pleasant.
“If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect you of deriving some sort of fiendish delight from this.”
She grunted, her head bent as she focused on her task. “Tell me again what Collot said about the theft.”
He told her. He watched the way the flickering light from the nearby candles danced across her face, watched as she gripped her lower lip between her teeth while she worked.
He said, “Why do I get the distinct impression that none of this is exactly news to you?”
She set the pad aside and carefully recorked the flask. “How much do you know about Princess Caroline’s father, the Duke of Brunswick?”
“Not much, I’m afraid.”
“He was a surprisingly accomplished and unusual man—very much a student of the Enlightenment. They used to call his court at Wolfenbüttel the ‘Versailles of the North.’ It was a center for poets and artists and men of letters, and filled with an exquisite collection of books, paintings, and fine furnishings.”
“Sounds like Daniel Eisler would have loved it,” said Sebastian.
“Napoléon certainly did.”
“He ransacked it?”
“I think ‘stripped it’ would be a more accurate term.” She perched on the edge of the bench while he poured warm water in the basin. “Napoléon had something of a grudge against the Duke. You see, in addition to being the brother-in-law of the King of England, father-in-law to the Prince of Wales, and a patron of artists and scholars, he was also considered one of Europe’s best generals. When the American colonists revolted against us, good ole King George actually asked Brunswick to lead Britain’s forces. He refused.”
Sebastian looked over at her. “Any particular reason?”
“Some say it was because he wanted King George to fail—that he was sympathetic to the Americans’ cause.”
“Was he?”
“I suspect he was. In 1792, the French revolutionary government in their turn approached Brunswick and asked him to take command of their army. He refused them as well, but not without expressing his support for the reforms they were enacting.”
Sebastian scrubbed at his face and hair, rinsing away the ashes and grease. “So why did he agree to take command of the combined armies of Austria and Prussia instead?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps they gave him no real choice. But his distrust of the Austrians was well-known, as was his belief that the Prussian King—also his cousin, by the way—was a fool.”
Sebastian reached for a towel. “According to Collot, Brunswick’s army was within a hundred miles of Paris at the time of the theft of the French Crown Jewels.”
She nodded. “That’s right, at Valmy. It’s well-known that the revolutionary government tried to negotiate with Brunswick—to persuade him to withdraw. A meeting was actually held.”
“And?”
“Supposedly, the negotiations failed.”
Sebastian frowned. “But Brunswick still didn’t attack Paris.”
“No, he didn’t. And every day he held off was one more day the French were able to use to build up their own forces. Did you know that Johann Wolfgang von Goethe was with the Prussian Army at Valmy?”
“I did not.”
“His account of those days makes interesting reading. He was convinced some sort of treachery was afoot. He says there was no conceivable reason why an attack on Paris wasn’t launched immediately.”
“But there was eventually a battle.”
“Eventually. Although it was more in the nature of a small skirmish. And after that, Brunswick simply . . . withdrew. The next day, the National Convention abolished the monarchy and declared France a republic. And barely four months after that, Louis XVI was beheaded.”
“You’re saying Collot was right—that Brunswick was bribed?”
“According to the rumors, his price was five million livres.”
“With part of the payment being delivered in the form of the French Blue?”
“That’s the rumor.”
He looked over at her. “And is the rumor true?”
“I’ve never been told.”