“Congratulations,” said the courtier. “She’ll never forgive you for that, you know. You have just broken one of the cardinal rules. One does not contradict a member of the French royal family, no matter how ridiculous or patently false their utterances may be. Fifteen years ago, a certain Madame Senlis ventured within Marie-Thérèse’s hearing to correct the Comte de Provence’s faulty memory of some trivial incident from their youth. Marie-Thérèse has still not forgiven the unfortunate woman—and she never will.”
“Madame Rancune,” said Sebastian, watching as, in the distance, Lady Giselle tenderly tucked a fur-lined robe around the duchesse.
“You have no idea.”
The two men turned together to walk up the street toward Portman Square.
Sebastian said, “Why did you attend Damion Pelletan’s funeral?”
“I am not sure. Out of respect, I suppose.”
“Is that all?”
LaChapelle cast him a quick, sideways glance. “Eighteen years ago, the boy who was destined to be King Louis XVII of France died in a filthy prison cell at the age of ten. Yet even before his body was consigned to an anonymous grave in some forgotten churchyard, the rumors had already begun to fly. There is no denying that while the boy lived, there were several plots hatched to spirit the Dauphin away and replace him with another boy, a mute, dying of consumption. So after his death, it is inevitable that some would cling to the hope that one of those plots succeeded—that a switch was made, that the child who died in the Temple was an imposter, and that the Dauphin himself still lives.”
“What does any of this have to do with Damion Pelletan?”
“Few people alive today know the truth of what happened in the Temple Prison. Dr. Philippe-Jean Pelletan may be one of them. But the senior Pelletan is in France, beyond the Bourbons’ ability to question him. There was hope that Damion Pelletan, the son, might know some of the events of those dark days. But he claimed he did not.”
“Did the Bourbons believe him?”
“Frankly? I doubt it.”
The two men walked on in silence for a moment. Then Sebastian said, “You do realize that, depending on where the truth lies, the House of Bourbon could conceivably have had two distinct motives for killing Damion Pelletan?”
“Two?”
“The first, obviously, would be to disrupt the delegation from Paris, thus putting an end to the possibility of any peace accord that would leave Napoléon Bonaparte as Emperor of France.”
“Such a peace will never come to pass, with or without Pelletan’s murder.”
“Perhaps. But why take the chance?”
LaChapelle snorted. “To even suggest that the French royal family would stoop to murder is absurd.”
“To recover their kingdom? What is one more man’s death when millions have already died?”
The Frenchman’s jaw tightened. “And your second so-called motive?”
“Revenge.”
“Seriously? For what?”
“Damion Pelletan’s father was brought to the Temple to treat the critically ill Dauphin. But the boy died anyway. One could conceivably fault the physician for his death.”
“One would need to be brutal and cruel beyond measure to kill an innocent young man simply to avenge oneself on the man’s father.”
“And to cut out his heart?” said Sebastian.
They drew up at the edge of the square and Sebastian turned to face the courtier. But the Frenchman simply shook his head and shifted his gaze to the elliptical gardens at the center of the square, where children laughed and frolicked in the snow.
Sebastian said, “What are the chances that a substitution was made in the prison? That the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette lives?”
Ambrose LaChapelle shook his head. “There is no Lost Dauphin. I told you this tale to explain the interest of Provence and Marie-Thérèse in Dr. Pelletan. But there is no doubt in my mind that the son of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette is dead. He died eighteen years ago in prison and lies buried in a pauper’s grave in the churchyard of Ste. Marguerite. Believe me, monsieur: If you seek Damion Pelletan’s murderer, there is no need to delve so deeply into the events of the dark and distant past. There are plenty of motives to be found in the life the man was living here and now.”
“Oh? Such as?”
“You have heard, I assume, of the fighting within the delegation from Paris?”
“Yes.”
“Have you never wondered why Damion Pelletan agreed to come to London as Harmond Vaundreuil’s personal physician? I have heard it was for love.”
“For love?” repeated Sebastian.
“Mmm. Vaundreuil’s daughter, Madame Madeline Quesnel, is a very attractive woman.”
“She is with child. By her dead husband.”
“She is, yes. But some women are never more beautiful than when they are with child. And she is, as you say, a widow.”
“What precisely are you suggesting? That Pelletan was murdered by a rival for Madame Quesnel’s affections?”
“You suggest that Damion Pelletan’s heart was removed because his father may once have removed the heart of the dead Dauphin. I find it more likely that he fell victim to a rival in an affaire de coeur.”
Sebastian studied the courtier’s long, delicate face. The faint traces of last night’s rouge were still visible in the pores of his skin. “Why should I believe you?”