Rather than answer, she looked out over the wind-wrinkled water, her throat working painfully as she swallowed.
“Did Lord Peter find out about Damion?” Sebastian asked quietly. “Is that why he hit you?”
“My husband does not beat me,” she said with awful dignity.
“Where did you get the bruise on your face, Lady Peter?”
One gloved hand crept up to touch her cheek, then fluttered self-consciously away. “I . . . I tripped. It was the silliest thing. I tripped and smacked my face against the side of a bureau.”
Sebastian watched No?l run around to the far bank to try to catch his boats. “Does Lord Peter know that you and Damion Pelletan were once considerably more than childhood friends?”
She shook her head.
“So he didn’t realize that Pelletan was still in love with you?”
“No! He didn’t know anything, I swear it.” She started to touch her bruise again. Then, as if becoming aware of what she was about to do, she curled her hand into a fist and dropped it to her side.
In England, a husband was legally empowered to beat his wife. He was expected to restrain himself to “gentle chastisement,” but the forces of the law usually looked the other way unless he so far forgot himself as to kill the poor, hapless woman. Even then, he could frequently plead manslaughter and get away with a simple burning on the hand.
The law was not always so tolerant of a jealous husband who killed a real or imagined rival for his wife’s affections.
Lady Peter said, “There—there is something I did not tell you.”
“Oh?”
She bit her lower lip, her gaze sliding away from him, as if frantically calculating how much to tell him—and how much to keep hidden. “You’re right; I did see Damion more frequently than I admitted before—perhaps more than I ought to have. He reminded me so much of happier days, of springtime along the Seine, when my parents were still alive and I was young and carefree.”
“And?”
“Damion would sometimes meet No?l and me here, in the park. I last spoke to him late Wednesday afternoon—the day before he died. I knew as soon as I saw him just how upset he was.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“At first he tried to shrug it off, saying the constant quarreling amongst the various members of the delegation was becoming tiring. But he finally admitted he’d discovered something that troubled him—something about Vaundreuil.”
“About Vaundreuil’s health?”
“No. Damion told me once that Vaundreuil’s heart is nowhere near as bad as Vaundreuil believes it to be—that if he would only eat sensibly and drink in moderation, he would in all likelihood live to a ripe old age.” She watched No?l hunker down to retrieve his boats. “Whatever worried him involved the peace negotiations. He told me he was considering approaching Colonel Foucher with what he knew.”
“Do you think he did?
“I don’t know. He may have decided instead to confront Vaundreuil directly.”
Sebastian studied her flawless profile, the exquisite lines of her face marred by the ugly purple bruise. “Did Damion ever tell you someone was trying to bribe him?”
“Good heavens, no. Bribe him to do what?”
“Spy on the other members of the delegation, perhaps?”
“You mean work for the English? Damion would never have agreed to do such a thing. He was an honorable man—and fiercely loyal to France. He had no interest in money.”
“There are other ways of persuading a man to do things against his will.”
“By threats, you mean?” She shook her head. “Damion would never have allowed himself to be coerced into doing something dishonorable.”
“Even if the threats weren’t against Damion himself, but against someone he loved?”
Her gaze drifted back to her little brother, who had left his boats on the bank and was now following a waddling, complaining duck across winter-browned grass scattered with patches of melting snow. She swallowed hard, the silence filling with the rush of the wind and the slap of the water against the shore and the homely quack-quack of the duck.
Sebastian said, “Why did you decide to tell me about Vaundreuil now?”
She shook her head, as if unable or unwilling to put her motivation into words.
And he was not cruel enough to do it for her.
? ? ?
Harmond Vaundreuil was sitting at a table in the coffee room of the Gifford Arms when Sebastian walked in. An array of papers covered the surface before him; he had a quill in one hand, his head bent, a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose. He cast Sebastian a quick glance, then returned to his work.
“The coffee room is not open to the public,” he said in his heavy Parisian accent.
Sebastian went to stand with his back to the roaring fire. “Good. Then we don’t need to be worried about an interruption.”
Vaundreuil grunted and dipped his pen in the small pot of ink at his elbow.
“How are the negotiations progressing?” Sebastian asked pleasantly as the Frenchman’s quill scratched across his paper.