“Why, the agent of Napoléon, of course. Who else? Eisler did not think I would do it. He did not believe I would have the courage. But I did. He should never have said those things to me.”
Sebastian studied the Parisian thief’s mobile, beard-shadowed face. “Are you telling me that you know the identity of one of Napoléon’s agents in London?”
Collot’s elastic mouth curved into a grin. “Like I said, I know things.”
“So who is it?”
The old thief gave a deep, husky laugh. “Believe me, you do not want to know.”
“But I do.”
Collot shook his head, his smile still wide, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I could tell you it is someone you know. More than that: It is someone you trust.” He laughed out loud. “But I won’t.”
Sebastian resisted the urge to grab the man and shake him. “Tell me this: Were you handsomely compensated for your information?”
Collot’s face fell.
“No?” said Sebastian, watching him. “Why not?”
“They said they already knew. They said they had known for weeks.”
Sebastian was aware of a dark carriage being driven slowly up the street. He said, “You do realize that they are probably the ones watching you? They killed Eisler, and now they’re going to kill you.”
“Non.”
“Yes. Tell me who they are.”
“Non.” Collot started to back away, his head shaking from side to side, his wayward eye going wild. “You are trying to get me killed! What do you take me for? A f—” He broke off, his expressive face going slack with shock as the explosive crack of a rifle echoed in the narrow street and the front of his coat dissolved into a pulpy sheen.
“God damn it!” swore Sebastian, barreling the crumpling French-
man deep into the fetid, protective darkness of the old archway. He caught the man’s falling body beneath the arms, propping him upright so he wouldn’t choke on his own blood. But it was already too late.
He saw Collot’s eyes roll back into his head, heard the rattle in his throat, felt the essence of his life ease away, leaving Sebastian holding a silent, empty husk that seemed to collapse and diminish before his eyes.
Chapter 44
S
ome hours later, after a tense and unpleasant interlude with the local constabulary, Sebastian walked into Kat’s dressing room at the Covent Garden Theater. The curtain had just fallen. He was still covered in blood, and he wasn’t in the best of moods.
“Devlin,” said Kat, starting up from her dressing table. “You’re hurt!”
She still wore the elaborate stomacher and velvet gown of her character, and he stopped her before she could get too close to him. “Careful. You’ll ruin your costume. And I’m fine. It’s not my blood.”
She drew back, her gaze on his face. “Whose is it?”
“An old Parisian thief named Jacques Collot. He was one of the original gang who stole the French Crown Jewels from the Garde-Meuble. He found out Daniel Eisler was handling the sale of Hope’s diamond and tried to use his knowledge of the stone’s origins to weasel money out of Eisler.”
“How?”
“By threatening to tell Napoléon’s agent where to find the French Blue. Eisler made the mistake of laughing at him.”
“Collot went to the French?”
“He did.”
She turned away to fiddle with the hairpins and combs scattered across the surface of her table, her heavy dark hair falling forward across her face as she asked with what struck him as studied casualness, “And was he able to tell you the name of the person Napoléon has charged with the stone’s recovery?”
He kept his gaze on her half-averted profile. “No. He was killed before I could get it out of him. Shot, probably by the same person who killed the young thief in the alley behind Eisler’s house Monday night.”
He waited for her to make some response. When she didn’t, he said quietly, “Is it you, Kat? Are you working for the French in this?”
She’d sworn she’d severed her association with the French well over a year ago now. But that had been before. Before their lives and their future together had unraveled in a morass of long-buried secrets and Hendon’s self-serving lies. Before she married Russell Yates, and Sebastian married the daughter of Charles, Lord Jarvis, the man who’d sworn to see her die an ugly, painful death.
She looked up, her eyes going wide, her mouth forming an O of surprise and hurt as she drew in a quick breath. “I can’t believe you just asked me that.”
He looked into her beautiful, beloved face, saw the hurt that pinched her features, saw her eyes film. He said, “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head, blinking rapidly as if she were fighting back tears. “I suppose I should be flattered that you still trust me enough to believe I’d give you an honest answer.”
“Kat—”
He reached for her, but she pulled away. “No. Let me finish. My love of Ireland is unchanged. I would do anything to see her free of this murderous occupation—anything, that is, except go back on the pledge I made to you.”