“It is rather symbolic, is it not? Rather like the theft of Pelletan’s heart. Perhaps Foucher saw something he was not supposed to see.”
Sebastian let out a long, troubled breath. In his arrogance, he’d thought he was narrowing in on who had killed Damion Pelletan, and why. But Foucher’s death—and, more important, what had been done to him after death—suggested that the focus of Sebastian’s inquiries so far had been all wrong.
? ? ?
He pushed to his feet. “Have you heard anything about this morning’s explosion in Golden Square?”
Lovejoy nodded. “I saw a preliminary report not long ago. It seems the rooms in which the charge was set were empty; the woman who previously occupied them died last week.”
“Convenient. No one saw anything?”
“Apparently not. But there’s no doubt that whoever set the blast knew what he was doing. I’m told the gunpowder was contained in such a way that the full force of the blast went upward.”
“Toward Alexandrie Sauvage’s rooms.”
“Yes.”
Sebastian brought his gaze back to the French colonel’s ruined face. He’d become convinced that the theft of Damion Pelletan’s heart was somehow connected to the reason for his murder. But Foucher’s death complicated that scenario even as it underscored his conviction that they were dealing with a killer who was either far from sane or else diabolically clever.
Or perhaps both.
The problem was, how did that morning’s attempt on the life of Alexi Sauvage fit into any of it?
“Nothing symbolic about trying to blow someone up,” he said aloud.
Lovejoy swallowed. “If there is, I don’t see it.”
Sebastian nodded and started up the stairs, the soles of his dress shoes slipping on the wet, slimy stones. Then he paused to look back as a thought occurred to him. “What was Foucher doing here, anyway?”
“That we don’t know.”
“Monsieur Vaundreuil picked a damned inconvenient time to dose himself with laudanum.”
“Perhaps he’ll have developed more of a stiff upper lip by tomorrow.”
“One can only hope,” said Sebastian.
Wednesday, 27 January
The next morning, Charles, Lord Jarvis, was still in his dressing room when he heard someone ringing an impertinent peal at the distant front door. He pulled on an exquisite pair of unmentionables and calmly buttoned the flap.
His valet’s head jerked around, eyes widening at the sound of a shout, followed by a light, quick step on the stairs.
Jarvis said, “From the sounds of things, I shall shortly be receiving a visitor. You may leave us.”
“Yes, my lord.” The valet bowed and moved toward the door, just as the handle turned and Viscount Devlin walked into the room.
“Oh, good,” said Devlin. “You’re still here.” He was dressed in doeskin breeches, tall Hessians, and a black coat, and he brought with him all the smells of a foggy London.
Jarvis wrinkled his nose and reached for a starched white cravat. “As you see.”
Devlin shut the door in the interested valet’s face. “I take it you’ve heard about Colonel Foucher?”
“I have.”
He was aware of Devlin studying him, those ungodly yellow eyes glowing with a fierce passion. “Is it you? Is this all part of some diabolical scheme to frighten Harmond Vaundreuil into fleeing back across the Channel?”
“By plucking out the hearts and eyes of his underlings? How revoltingly Gothic. What do you suggest I do next? Eliminate the clerk—what’s his name?”
“Bondurant.”
“—by having his tongue cut out?”
“If anyone’s capable of it, you are.”
Jarvis laughed. “Thank you. Or was that meant as an insult?” He carefully settled the wide strip of linen around his neck. “While I’ve no doubt such a simple solution would appeal to you, the fact remains that it is not I. Nor do I know who is doing this. But I won’t pretend to be even vaguely troubled by the turn of events. If Vaundreuil is still in London by the end of the week, I’ll be very much surprised.”
Devlin stood with his legs braced wide, his head thrown back, his jaw set hard. “Yet you would have had me believe you were concerned my inquiries might disrupt the progress of the negotiations.”
“I was concerned.” Jarvis smiled. “If not quite for the reasons I led you to believe.”
“Would peace with France really be so bad?”
“As long as Napoléon still rules as Emperor? Yes.”
“Who would you have in his place? The Comte de Provence?”
“For a time. He is next in line, after all, and one must at least appear to observe the traditional order of succession. Provence is a fool and ridiculously infatuated with the more extreme permutations of constitutional monarchy. But he’s old before his time and hopelessly fat. He won’t last long.”