Sebastian went to sink into one of the cracked leather chairs beside the fire. It was then that he noticed someone had picked up the newspapers that normally littered the floor. He let his gaze drift over the recently dusted mantel, the fresh candles in the sconces flanking the fireplace. “How is your patient?”
“You can ask me yourself,” said Alexandrie Sauvage, coming to stand in the doorway.
She looked much the same as Sebastian remembered her from three years before, her hair still the same riotous cloud of sunset-shot fire, her eyes the same unexpectedly dark brown. But away from the hot sun of Spain, her skin was paler, and she was thinner, her cheekbones more pronounced in a way that gave her an air of fragility he knew was utterly deceptive.
“Good God; what are you doing out of bed?” Gibson demanded, going to steer her wobbly steps to a nearby chair.
She wore the same faded dress he’d seen that first night, and from the looks of things, she’d just pulled it on. “I heard you talking,” she said, settling with a soft, quickly suppressed sigh into the chair opposite his. He could see the tight lines bracketing her lips and knew how much it had cost her to leave her bed.
“You don’t look like you should be up.”
“She shouldn’t be,” said Gibson.
Her gaze met Sebastian’s. He saw the flare of smoldering animosity in her eyes, and something else, like the wariness of a cornered fox.
He said, “What can you tell us about the night Damion Pelletan was killed?”
She put her hand to her forehead, as if the mere effort of thought brought a renewed surge of pain. “I’m afraid I don’t remember much.”
“Can you tell us the name of the man who went with you to the Gifford Arms?”
She frowned at him in confusion, her hand falling back to her side. “What man? What are you talking about? I went alone. That I do remember.”
Gibson and Sebastian exchanged looks. Sebastian said, “According to a certain Mitt Peeples, a veiled woman and an unknown man asked to see Pelletan at about nine o’clock the night he died. He went outside to speak to them. Then he came inside for his greatcoat, and left.”
She shook her head. “I don’t know anything about them. Damion never mentioned them to me. When I arrived at the inn, he was standing outside, staring up at the stars. I asked what he was doing—it was so cold that night. He said he was just . . . thinking.”
Sebastian studied her pale, tightly held face. But if she was lying, she was giving nothing away. “And then what?”
“I asked him to come with me to see Claire Bisette’s child. He went inside for his greatcoat; then we hailed a hackney carriage. We told the jarvey where we wanted to go, only when we reached the Tower, the man refused to enter St. Katharine’s and insisted on setting us down, so we had to walk the rest of the way to Hangman’s Court. After that . . .” She shrugged. “I know we saw Cécile, but I barely remember it. And nothing after that.”
She held Sebastian’s gaze, as if defying him to disbelieve her, and he thought, Why? Why would she be keeping back something that might lead them to the person or persons who had tried to kill her?
She said, “I heard what you said, about your wife.”
“What about my wife?”
“There is a way to turn a babe in the womb that involves manually applying pressure to the belly to externally manipulate the child. But it must be done soon. If you leave it too late, it becomes considerably more difficult.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“Not if you know what you’re doing.”
Sebastian glanced over at Gibson. “Is it possible?”
Gibson shrugged. “I’ve heard tales of such a thing being done. But are they true? I don’t know. I’ve never spoken to anyone who’s attempted it.”
“I have done it,” said Alexandrie Sauvage, leaning forward. “It doesn’t always work. But you must allow me to at least make the attempt. If the babe doesn’t turn before its time comes . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Sebastian felt a renewed yawn of terror open up within him.
He said, “No.”
She flopped back in the chair, her hands gripping the worn, rolled leather arms. “What do you think? That I would deliberately harm an innocent child and a woman I have never met? Simply to get back at you?”
“Yes.”
She pushed to her feet, her face white, her arms trembling with the effort. “Your friend is a fool,” she told Gibson, and left the room.
Gibson stared after her.
Sebastian said, “You didn’t tell me she was better.”
“She isn’t better. Her fever has broken, but I meant it when I said she shouldn’t be up.” He brought his gaze back to Sebastian’s face. “Care to tell me what the bloody hell that was about?”
“You mean to say she hasn’t told you?”
“No.”
Sebastian drained his wine and went to pour himself another glass. “You remember I said I’d seen her before, in Portugal?”
“Yes.”