“Oh?”
“The clerk is a man by the name of Camille Bondurant. He’s trained in the law and is said to be a rather taciturn man who generally keeps to himself. He takes a constitutional every morning up and down the Mall, at precisely ten o’clock.”
“And the colonel?”
“Colonel André Foucher. He was with Napoléon in Russia.”
“Now, that’s interesting.”
“Mmm. I thought so, as well. I’m told he’s fond of the Sultan’s Rest—a coffeehouse near the Armoury.” The magistrate started to turn into the Brown Bear, then paused to look back and say, “Did you know Pelletan’s funeral has been scheduled for this evening?”
“So soon? Where?”
“The French chapel near Portman Square. At seven o’clock.”
? ? ?
Sebastian found the chapel in Little George Street hung with black crepe and lit with branches of flaring beeswax candles. A row of high, plain windows showed black against the night sky, and a lingering memory of old incense mingled with the scents of hot wax and cold, dank stone.
The small Catholic church had been established late in the previous century by nonjuring priests fleeing the French Revolution. Its interior was plain to the point of being primitive, with only the Stations of the Cross and a scattering of wall-mounted tombs relieving the starkness. A prominently placed high-backed chair served as the “throne” of the uncrowned King of France whenever he chose to honor the congregation with his presence. If Damion Pelletan had indeed come to London as part of a delegation sent by Napoléon— as Hero’s conversation with her mother that afternoon certainly suggested—then the choice of this chapel as the site of his funeral struck Sebastian as mildly ironic. But then, it would never do to forget that Napoléon had managed to have himself crowned emperor by Pope Pius VII.
Closing the door quietly behind him, Sebastian paused to glance down the short, central aisle to where a dark oaken casket draped in blue velvet stood open before the altar. He did not approach the coffin, but slipped sideways to stand against the rear wall, deep in the shadows thrown by the rickety wooden west gallery overhead.
A heavy, oppressive silence filled the church, punctuated by an occasional cough. There were only three mourners, scattered widely across the short rows of pews separated by a central aisle. He recognized Harmond Vaundreuil in the second row. The colonel, André Foucher, had taken a seat three rows back and far off to one side. As Sebastian watched, Foucher slipped his watch from his pocket and frowned down at the time. The third man, thin and bony faced, with a red nose and straight black hair, occupied the last row. Sebastian didn’t recognize him, but he had his head bent over a book, his shoulders hunched against the cold. This, surely, was the clerk, Camille Bondurant.
The minutes ticked past. Sebastian crossed his arms at his chest and ignored the damp chill that seeped up through the soles of his boots as he watched the surviving members of the French delegation: three men who knew one another and lived together, attending the funeral of one of their own, yet all ignoring one another. Mitt Peebles obviously knew what he was talking about when he said they didn’t like one another much.
The sound of the door opening drew Sebastian’s attention to the entrance.
A slim, chestnut-haired, flamboyantly dressed man entered and paused just inside the door to remove his hat and dip his fingers in the holy water to make an absentminded sign of the cross. Sebastian stared at him. It was Ambrose LaChapelle.
What the devil is he doing here? thought Sebastian.
Intrigued, Sebastian watched the courtier slide into the pew opposite the clerk, slip to his knees, make the sign of the cross again, and bow his head in prayer. It occurred to Sebastian, watching him, that LaChapelle was the only man in the church praying.
The church bells of the city had long ago struck seven. Colonel Foucher frowned and once again checked his watch. Sebastian could hear whispers and a flutter of movement from the sacristy, suggesting that the priest was finally preparing to begin his solemn procession. Then the street door opened again with a noisy jerk and another man entered the chapel.