“I was on a mission for Colonel Sinclair Oliphant when I was taken captive by a troop of French cavalry. She was with them. Her lover was a lieutenant named Tissot. When I escaped, I killed him.”
There was more to the tale—far more. But Gibson had been back in London by the time of the incident, and Sebastian had never told his friend any of the wretched details.
Gibson said, “You think she holds a grudge against you?”
Sebastian looked over at him. The wind blew the snow against the windowpane, like a soft whisper from a long-vanished past. “What do you think?”
Gibson went to throw more coal on the fire. Then he simply stood there, one hand braced against the mantel, his gaze on the fire before him.
After a moment, Sebastian said, “I’ve discovered something that may or may not be relevant. Damion Pelletan’s father was one of the doctors who performed the autopsy on the little Dauphin when he died in the Temple. He also treated the boy before his death.”
Gibson turned to stare at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“The Comte de Provence himself confirmed it.”
Gibson shook his head. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Neither do I. Particularly when you consider that Damion Pelletan was murdered on the anniversary of Louis XVI’s death.”
Gibson pushed away from the fireplace. “How much do you know about the death of the last Dauphin?”
“I’m not sure how much anyone knows about those days. But there’s a courtier who is close to Provence—a man by the name of Ambrose LaChapelle. I think he knows considerably more than he’s letting on. About a lot of things.”
“Do you think you can convince him to talk?”
Sebastian finished his wine and set the glass aside. “I don’t know. But I intend to try.”
Chapter 26
After Devlin left, Gibson went to stand in the doorway to the inner chamber.
Alexandrie Sauvage lay, still dressed, atop the bed. She had her head tipped back, her eyes closed. He could see what the effort of rising even for those few moments had cost her in every fragile line of her being.
He said, “That was not wise.”
She turned her face to look at him. “I am getting better.”
“You won’t if you keep pulling stunts like this one.”
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. She had a full, generous mouth, gently curved in a way that made a man long to rub the pad of his thumb along its soft lines.
She said, “He hadn’t told you? About Portugal, I mean.”
“No.”
Her slim throat worked as she swallowed. “And does it alter your opinion of me, to know that I once took a lover?”
“Why should it? I’ve had a few lovers myself, you know.” He’d never had a wife, though, and no woman at all since he lost his leg. But he didn’t see any reason to tell her that.
“That’s different.”
“I don’t know why it should be.”
“You know why. Our society expects—no, demands—very different conduct from women and men.”
He said, “What happened to you, after your lover was killed?”
He thought for a moment she wasn’t going to answer him, and if he could have unsaid the question, he would have. It was too personal, too much a betrayal of his interest in her, and he knew by the pinched look around her eyes that those days had been bleak.
She said, “I took up with a British captain—Miles Sauvage. He—how do you English say it? Ah, yes; I remember. He made an honest woman of me. It’s a curious expression, don’t you agree? An ‘honest woman’ is a very different creature from an ‘honest man’ and has nothing to do with the truth or lack thereof. Just as a woman’s honor is a very different thing from a man’s. It’s as if when it comes to women, all possible virtues—honesty, honor, even virtue itself—are reduced simply to whom we allow between our legs.”
When he said nothing, she gave a crooked smile. “Now I have shocked you.”
He shook his head. “I don’t shock as easily as you may think. Although that was your intent, was it not? To shock me?”
She tilted her head, her gaze on his face. And he knew he’d read her right. But he was unprepared for her next assault.
She said, “I wonder, does your good friend Viscount Devlin know of your taste for opium?”
Gibson sucked in a quick breath. “He knows I take laudanum from time to time. He was with me when they cut off what was left of my leg—held me down while the surgeon went at me with his saw.”
“How long ago now?”
“Four—five years.”