Rather than answer him, Lady Giselle turned to the priest. “Please continue the service, Father.” To Sebastian, she said, “You may leave us now.”
Sebastian expelled his breath in a low, humorless huff. “Not without Damion Pelletan’s heart. It’s up to his sister to decide what’s to be done with it.”
“No.” She shook her head. “His name was not Damion Pelletan, and the woman who accompanied him was not his sister.”
“You’re wrong,” said Sebastian, advancing on her.
He could probably never prove that the Chevalier d’Armitz had killed both Colonel Foucher and the molly, James Farragut, just as there was no way to prove that the Chevalier had acted under this woman’s orders. But he’d be damned if he’d let her enshrine Damion Pelletan’s heart in a monument dedicated to a dynasty that the man had hated.
“Give me the heart,” he said.
“Monsieur,” protested the priest, attempting to step between them.
“Father—,” Sebastian began, just as Lady Giselle gave the priest a violent shove that sent him staggering into Sebastian.
“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian, reaching out to steady the old man as Giselle whirled and ran for the front of the chapel.
She had the heavy skirts of her gown fisted one hand, the urn clutched tight against her side. She’d almost reached the doors when she obviously remembered they were locked. She hesitated only an instant, then veered off, intent on circling back toward the sacristy. But Sebastian was already setting the bleating priest aside and moving to cut her off. For one intense moment, her furious gaze met his. Then she turned and dashed up the narrow wooden stairs of the west gallery.
He pelted after her, taking the steep steps two at a time. He erupted onto the creaky gallery to find her backed against the wooden balustrade, the urn raised like a weapon.
“Don’t come any closer to me,” she said with awful calm.
He drew up abruptly. “I won’t hurt you. Just give me the heart.”
She shook her head. “You asked how I happened to know the identity of the cabinetmaker, Bullock. Well, I’ll tell you. I made it my business to know. I realized he might prove a useful distraction, if it looked as if you were becoming more than a nuisance—as you have. Which is why, before he came to meet me here, my cousin stopped by Tichborne Street to make certain Bullock knows about the child. He’s very angry with you, you know. He’s sworn he’ll take his revenge against both you and Alexi Sauvage.”
“Damion Pelletan’s son is safe.” Sebastian took a step closer, then another. “Bullock will never get to him.”
She gave a high, ringing laugh that echoed around the small chapel. The rain drummed on the roof and the gusting wind drove the torrent against the windows in waves. “I’m not talking about No?l Durant, you fool. What interest have I in a prince’s bastard? I’m talking about your child. Your unborn child.”
Sebastian drew up abruptly, a cold prickling running across his scalp.
“Bullock is going to kill it,” she said with cold triumph. “The child and its mother both.”
Sebastian took another step toward her. “I don’t believe you.”
“Then that is the greatest revenge of all, is it not?” she said, and slammed the heavy urn against his head.
The sharp edge of a silver handle sliced into his scalp, sending hot blood coursing down the side of his face. He put up an arm to fend her off, but she swung the urn at him again, her features distorted with rage and hatred and blind determination.
He flung her off, the blood in his eyes now. She stumbled back, off-balance, careening hard against the gallery’s wooden balustrade. Sebastian heard the crack of breaking wood, saw the horror of comprehension flood her face.
The old railing gave way, the banister shattering. She scrabbled one-handed to catch herself. If she had let go of the urn, she might have saved herself. But she held on to it, falling backward into space with a cry of rage, her black skirts billowing around her.
“Mon Dieu!” screamed the priest as she slammed into the pavement with a bone-breaking smack.
The impact knocked the urn from her grasp, the rock crystal shattering against the pavement in a shower of clear, glittering fragments, the torn heart coming to rest just inches from her outflung hand. She stared up at the chapel ceiling with wide, sightless eyes. But Sebastian didn’t even pause to make certain she was dead.
He was already running for the door.
Chapter 57
Paul Gibson sat with his back propped against the edge of the kitchen table, a smile crinkling his eyes as he watched Alexi fill the teakettle and set it on the trivet.