“He was a supporter of the Emperor?”
Her chin came up in an unexpected gesture of pride. “He was a supporter of France.”
“And did he approve of the delegation’s objective?”
“You mean, peace? After twenty years of war, who amongst us does not long for peace?”
“Even a peace that leaves Napoléon Bonaparte on the throne of France?”
“Damion was no royalist, if that is what you are suggesting.”
“Yet he agreed to consult with Marie-Thérèse.”
A shadow of worry passed over her features. “You know about that?”
Sebastian said, “The Princess has been childless for years. What made her think Damion Pelletan could help her?”
“One of Damion’s passions was the study of ancient herbs, both those that have fallen out of favor here in Europe and those with long traditions amongst the natives of the Americas and India. He published a number of articles on the subject.”
“Somehow, I find it difficult to picture Marie-Thérèse perusing complicated medical studies. So how did she come to hear of him?”
“I believe it was her uncle who recommended Damion to her.”
Sebastian watched the boy, No?l, shove his playmate, the boys’ angry voices mingling with the shrieks of the maid. “Which uncle?”
“Louis Stanislas. The Comte de Provence. The soi-disant Louis XVIII. However you care to style him. He saw Damion himself, you know, just a few days before the Princess.”
“No; I didn’t know.” Somehow, Louis Stanislas had neglected to mention that little fact.
The boys were locked together now, rolling over and over in the winter-browned grass beneath a spreading elm.
“Did Damion Pelletan seem at all . . .” Sebastian paused, searching for the right word. “Troubled by his meetings with the Bourbons?”
She turned to face him. “He did, yes. He tried to laugh it off, but I was surprised he even mentioned them to me. I thought perhaps it was because of his father’s brief and rather tragic interaction with the family.”
“That the Bourbons consulted him? Or that he was troubled by his meeting with them?”
“I meant that his father’s history with the family was the reason the meeting troubled him, of course.” She looked puzzled. “Why would the Bourbons have decided to consult with Damion because of something his father did twenty years ago?”
If her imagination wasn’t that active, Sebastian wasn’t about to enlighten her. He said, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm him?”
“Damion? Good heavens, no. He was a good, gentle, caring man who devoted his life to helping others. He’d only been in London a few weeks. Why would anyone want to kill him?”
“How did he get along with Harmond Vaundreuil?”
“Well enough, I suppose. After all, Vaundreuil chose him to come here, did he not? Damion had a knack for humoring the man—calming his fears, rather than fanning them, the way so many physicians are wont to do in order to make themselves more necessary to their patients.”
“And the others? Foucher and Bondurant? Did he have trouble with them?”
She frowned, as if considering the question. “I would say he was wary of both Colonel Foucher and the clerk, Bondurant. But I do not know if he ever quarreled with them.”
“What about someone he might have met in England?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t meet many people here in London. That was one of the main reasons the delegation hired that hotel in York Street, was it not? To avoid having to interact with many Englishmen?”
She paused, her lips parted as if with a sudden thought.
“What?” asked Sebastian, watching her.
“Last week—I think it was early Thursday morning—No?l and I were walking in Hyde Park. We saw Damion and another man there, near the Armoury. It was obvious their words were heated, so I stopped No?l when he would have run up to them.”
“Did Damion see you?”
“He did, yes. No?l called out ‘Bonjour!’ before I could hush him, so Damion glanced over at us. But I knew from the expression on his face that he wanted us to stay away.”
“What sort of expression? Annoyance?”
“Not annoyance. More like an odd mixture of anger and fear.”
“Do you know who the man was?”
“I don’t number him amongst my acquaintances, but I doubt there is anyone in the West End of London who would fail to recognize him. It was Kilmartin. Angus Kilmartin.”
Sebastian had a sudden clear recollection of having seen the small, bowlegged Scotsman descending the stairs from Jarvis’s apartments. “Do you have any idea why Damion would have been meeting him?”
“No; none at all.” She looked beyond him, to where the nursemaid was now trying to separate the two squabbling boys. “Truly, monsieur, I must go.”
He touched his hand to his hat and bowed his head. “Thank you for your assistance, Lady Peter. If you think of anything else that might be useful, you will let me know?”