“Why don’t you ask your father-in-law? Or your own father, for that matter.”
Sebastian was careful to keep all sign of surprise off his face. But the truth was, he had not known until now that Hendon was also involved in the preliminary peace discussions.
When he remained silent, Vaundreuil grunted again and said, “Still determinedly chasing the illusion that Damion Pelletan was killed by someone other than a band of London’s notorious footpads?”
“Something like that. Tell me: Was Pelletan an ardent supporter of the Emperor Napoléon?”
“Dr. Pelletan was a dedicated physician. To my knowledge, he wasn’t an ardent supporter of anyone.”
“But he favored peace?”
“He did.”
“And was he pleased with the direction the negotiations were taking?”
Vaundreuil lifted his head in a way that enabled him to look at Sebastian over the upper rims of his spectacles. “Damion Pelletan had no part in the negotiations.”
“But he knew how they were progressing, did he not?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.” The Frenchman went back to his writing.
Sebastian said, “Did you know Damion Pelletan has a sister here in London?”
“I did, yes. Now you really must excuse me; I am very busy. Would you kindly go away and allow me to finish my work?”
“In a moment. Are you not even curious to know what happened to him?”
“I am a diplomat, not a policeman. The wrong kind of curiosity is a luxury I cannot afford. If Damion Pelletan’s murderer must go free for the negotiations to continue, then so be it.”
“I can understand that. But what if Pelletan was killed by someone intent on disrupting your mission? Surely it has occurred to you that the murderer might well try again—by targeting someone else in your party?”
Vaundreuil dropped his pen, a splotch of ink flowing across the paper as his head came up. His gaze met Sebastian’s across the room, then jerked away as footsteps sounded on the paving outside the inn’s sashed windows.
Sebastian heard a man’s voice, followed by a woman’s gentle laughter. It took him a moment to realize who it was. Then he saw Colonel Foucher walking side by side with Madeline Quesnel, a market basket slung over her arm.
And there was no disguising the raw fear that gusted across her father’s face as he confronted a new and obviously terrifying possibility.
? ? ?
A smothering envelope of dense fog was descending on the city, yellow and heavy with the bitter stench of coal smoke.
Leaving the Gifford Arms, Sebastian turned toward the hackney stand at the end of York Street. It was only midafternoon, but the streets were unnaturally deserted, the pavement slick with condensation and grime, every sound magnified or distorted by the suffocating shroud of foul, heavy moisture. He could hear the rattle of a harness in the distance, the shouts of boatmen out on the river . . .
And the steady rhythm of a man’s footsteps that seemed to start up out of nowhere and gained on him, fast.
Chapter 36
Sebastian walked on, his senses suddenly, intensely alert.
The shadow’s footsteps kept pace with him.
He passed a gnarled old workman in a blue smock, his gray bearded face beaded with moisture, his head bent as he hurried on without a second glance. A moment later came the thump of two bodies colliding and the workman’s angry, “Oy! Why don’t ye watch where yer goin’?” The shadow’s footsteps hesitated for an instant, then resumed and quickened.
Sebastian stepped sideways, turning so that his back was to the brick wall of the town house beside him as he stopped and listened.
Damn this fog.
A man stepped out of the swirling mist: a gentleman, clad in a fashionable greatcoat and beaver hat with a heavy scarf that obscured the lower part of his face. He held his left hand straight down at his side, the folds of his greatcoat all but obscuring the dagger clutched in his fist.
“Looking for me?” said Sebastian.
For one startled instant, the man’s gaze met Sebastian’s and his dark, heavily lashed eyes blinked as he realized just how radically the situation had suddenly altered. Not only had he lost the benefit of surprise, but it was considerably easier to knife a man in the back than to confront him face-to-face.
Sebastian took a step forward. “What’s the matter? Can’t get at my back?”
The would-be assailant turned and darted into the street.
Sebastian leapt after him.
A team of bay shires appeared out of the fog, heads bent as they leaned into their harnesses, the heavily loaded dray they pulled rattling over the uneven paving. The man drew up and spun around, his knife flashing just as Sebastian’s foot slid on the wet stones. Before he could jerk out of the way, the blade slashed along Sebastian’s forearm. Sebastian fought to regain his balance on the icy pavement, slipped, and went down hard.