“Yes.”
Sebastian studied her calm, proud face. She was the kind of woman who had long ago turned her back on society’s expectations for one of her sex. She had studied medicine at an Italian university and joined her physician-husband in following Napoléon’s Grand Army. And when he died, she’d taken a lieutenant as her lover and continued ministering to the medical needs of the soldiers. How she had then ended up with an English captain as her husband, Sebastian could only guess. But the realization that Gibson was falling daily more and more under her spell twisted at Sebastian’s guts and made him want to shake some sense into his friend.
He said, “Why are you here? I mean here, at Gibson’s.”
He expected her to deliberately misunderstand his question, to make excuses and claim the need for a place of refuge. Instead, she said, “Someone needs to help him.”
“Gibson? He’s doing just fine. Or at least, he was.” Before you came into his life.
“If you mean he was doing a fine job of killing himself, you are right. Do you have any idea what long-term use of opium does to the human body? Especially at the levels at which he has been taking it.”
“He doesn’t go overboard that often.”
“How do you know?”
Sebastian opened his mouth, then closed it. The truth was, he’d seen little of Gibson these past four months or more.
He said, “The man is in pain. How do you expect him to live with that?”
“I can help him with the pain, if he will only let me.”
“The way you helped the children and nuns of Santa Iria?”
Her head jerked back as if he’d slapped her. “I didn’t know . . .”
“Yes, you did. You knew. And you let it happen.”
Her voice was a harsh tear. “If the blood of those children is on my hands, it’s on yours too.”
“Yes. The difference between you and me is that I’ve never denied it.”
She stared back at him, and the death-haunted memories of that long-ago Portuguese spring were like a hushed presence in the room with them.
He said, “Paul Gibson is my friend. I won’t let you destroy him.”
“Destroy him?” She gave a ringing laugh. “What in God’s name do you think I’m going to do to him? Pluck out his heart and his soul?”
“How many husbands and lovers have you had? How many are still alive?”
She didn’t answer, but the flesh of her face pulled taut across the bones and her eyes darkened with the power of some emotion he couldn’t quite define.
He settled his hat on his head and turned toward the door.
He was about to close it behind him when she took a quick step forward, one hand fisted in her grimy apron, the other coming up to thrust back the lock of vibrant hair that had tumbled onto her forehead. “Four. I’ve had four. Two lovers, two husbands. And you are right; all are dead. And all but the last were killed by Englishmen.” She practically spat the last word at him.
“What happened to the last one?” he asked. “What happened to Captain Miles Sauvage?”
But she simply wrenched the door from his grip and slammed it in his face.
Chapter 40
Gibson was leaning against the slab in the center of the small stone outbuilding at the base of the yard, his arms smeared with gore up to the elbows, when Sebastian came to stand in the entrance.
What was left of Colonel André Foucher lay faceup on the slab, his body naked and eviscerated, his ruined eyes hideous in the glare of the lantern Gibson had lit against the morning gloom.
“Ah, there you are,” said the surgeon, laying aside his scalpel and reaching for a rag to wipe his hands. “There’s something I wanted you to see. Here; help me turn him over.”
Between them, they eased the French colonel over to reveal the back of his long, slim torso. The purple slit low between his shoulder blades was clearly visible.
“So he was stabbed,” said Sebastian.
“He was indeed. With a dagger. And here’s something interesting: Judging by the angle of the blade’s entry, I’d say it’s a good bet that the man who stabbed him is not right-handed. I could be wrong, mind you; it’s always possible the killer was standing in such a way as to have the same effect. But it’s far more likely you’re looking for a left-handed murderer. I just wish I’d had Pelletan’s body long enough to know if he was stabbed in the same way.”
“The man who tried to kill me—twice—is left-handed.” Sebastian studied the freshly healed scar running the length of the colonel’s right arm. “Doesn’t seem right, somehow, for him to have managed to survive Napoléon’s debacle in Russia, only to be stabbed in the back in London.”
“Bit ironic; that’s for sure. You can bet he didn’t see this as a dangerous assignment.” Gibson paused. “Know if he had any family?”
Sebastian shook his head. “I never asked.”