“You find the knowledge unsettling. Why?”
“Good God; who would not find it unsettling? I mean . . . to steal a man’s heart! It is barbaric. It is the work of madness. What a violent, dangerous place this London of yours is.”
“True. Yet it’s considerably more salubrious than Paris in, say, 1793. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Vaundreuil’s jaw hardened. “Those dark days are twenty years in our past.”
“Twenty years is not so long ago.”
The wind gusted up, scuttling a loose playbill down the street and bringing them the voice of the priest with sudden, unexpected clarity. “Ambulabo coram Domino, in regione vivorum . . .”
Sebastian said, “Who would want to put an end to the possibility of peace talks between Napoléon Bonaparte and the British government?”
“I never said—”
“Very well; in honor of your exquisite sensitivity to the finer points of language, I’ll rephrase the question: If preliminary peace talks were to be held between Paris and London, who would have an interest in seeing them brought to an untimely end?”
“Truly, monsieur? The list is endless. In my experience, those for whom war is lucrative are rarely satiated. For them, war is opportunity, not hardship or sorrow. After all, it is rarely their sons who lie in unmarked graves on foreign soil.”
Sebastian studied the fat, successful bureaucrat before him. Vaundreuil himself had obviously profited handsomely from the Revolution and the endless wars that followed it. But all Sebastian said was, “Do you have anyone in particular in mind?”
The Frenchman gave a tight-lipped smile. “Surely you know those in England who profit from war better than I, yes?”
“And the French?”
Vaundreuil shook his head. “In France, even those who once grew rich off the empire know that the efforts of the last two decades are no longer sustainable. I suspect you’ll find that those French most fervently opposed to the idea of peace between England and Napoléon are to be found on this side of the Channel, not the other.”
“You mean the royalists?”
“The émigrés, the royalists, the Bourbons. There are tens of thousands of my former compatriots here. Most dream of someday returning to France. And of revenge.”
“Do the Bourbons know of your presence here in London?”
“Officially? No. But there are few involved in this conflict who do not have their own spies.”
“Any chance the Comte de Provence could be behind Pelletan’s death?”
“Provence?” Vaundreuil crinkled his nose in a way that turned down the corners of his mouth. “The soi-disant Louis XVIII is ill, childless, and old before his time. In my opinion, the one who bears watching is the younger brother, the Comte d’Artois. Artois, and his niece, the Duchesse d’Angoulême. It would be a mistake to dismiss Marie-Thérèse as half-mad. She is, after all, Marie Antoinette’s daughter. I have heard Napoléon himself say that Marie-Thérèse is the only real man in her family.”
“He fears her?”
“I would not go so far as to say he fears her. But he watches her, yes. He definitely watches her.” Vaundreuil touched his hand to his hat and inclined his head. “Monsieur.”
He was turning away when Sebastian asked, “Are you by chance acquainted with Lord Peter Radcliff?”
The Frenchman pivoted slowly to face him again. “I know the man well enough to have recognized him, if that’s what you mean.” An unexpected gleam of amusement lit Vaundreuil’s small, dark eyes. “I assume you noticed that he, likewise, did not stay for Pelletan’s funeral mass?”
“Why would a son of the Duke of Linford attend the funeral of a French physician who arrived in London only three weeks ago?”
“I believe Radcliff is married to a young Frenchwoman. Someone Pelletan knew in Paris many years ago.”
Sebastian was familiar with the young Lady Peter, for her beauty was legendary. She had come to England nine years before, when her father—a highly respected general in the Grand Army—had a falling-out with Napoléon that forced the family to flee France. But she had not arrived in London penniless, for the general had managed to accumulate a small fortune that he kept safely abroad. And he had settled nearly half of his wealth on his beautiful daughter.
An unpleasant gleam shone in Vaundreuil’s eyes. “Perhaps you seek too complicated a motive for this murder, monsieur. Perhaps what we are dealing with is a simple—if somewhat ghoulish—affaire de coeur. It would explain much, yes?”
“Was Pelletan in love with Lady Peter?”
“Once, perhaps; who knows? Damion Pelletan was my physician, not my friend or confidant.” Vaundreuil bowed again. “And now you really must excuse me, my lord.”
Sebastian watched him stroll away toward Portman Square, the cold wind flapping the tails of his black coat, while from inside the church came a low, mournful chant.
“Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem. Amen.”
Chapter 17