“I dunno. I didn’t notice.” Mitt frowned. “Why you asking all these questions, anyway?”
“I’m interested. Tell me this: Was the woman English or French?”
“Oh, she was a Frenchie—although I’ll admit her English was considerably better than most of ’em’s.”
“How was she dressed?”
Mitt shrugged. “Respectable-like, I suppose you could say. But not in the first stare of fashion, if you know what I mean?”
“How old would you say she was?”
He gave another twitch of the shoulder. “Not old, but not real young, neither. With that veil, I couldn’t tell you much else.”
The description fit the unknown woman in Gibson’s surgery. But it would also fit a thousand or more Frenchwomen in London. Sebastian said, “Tell me this: What manner of man was Dr. Pelletan? Would you describe him as pleasant? Or quick-tempered?”
“Pelletan?” Mitt paused to scratch the side of his face. “He weren’t half-bad, for a Frenchman. There’s no denying he was the nicest of the lot—him and Miss Madeline.”
“Miss Madeline?”
“Vaundreuil’s daughter.”
“And how old is she?”
“’Bout twenty-five, I’d say. Maybe a bit less.”
Sebastian, who had been picturing a child in pigtails, was forced to readjust his mental image. “Have you seen Miss Madeline this morning?”
“Oh, aye.” Mitt’s eyes narrowed with a sudden renewal of his earlier suspicion. “Why’d you say you was asking all these questions?”
“Just curious,” said Sebastian.
Mitt Peebles fixed him with a long, hard stare. “You’re a right curious fellow, ain’t you?”
“I am, yes. Can you think of any—”
He broke off at the sound of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs, and a man’s deep voice saying, “à quelle heure?”
Sebastian could see them now: two men, one middle-aged and stout, the other taller, younger, and considerably leaner, with the swooping sandy-haired mustache and unmistakable carriage of a military man. They crossed the short entry passage and left the inn without glancing toward the coffee room.
Sebastian nodded after them. “I take it that was Monsieur Vaundreuil and Colonel Foucher?”
“It was, yes.”
Sebastian watched through the old-fashioned, wavy glass in the multipaned front windows as the two men hailed a hackney. The tall, rather gaunt man with the military bearing was unknown to him. But he recognized Harmond Vaundreuil immediately. He had seen the Frenchman just the week before, briefly, in Pall Mall, riding in a carriage with the King’s powerful cousin, Charles, Lord Jarvis.
Ruthless, cunning, and utterly devoted to both the monarchy and Britain, Lord Jarvis controlled a personal network of spies and informers that made him virtually omnipotent. He was also Sebastian’s new father-in-law.
And a dangerous, deadly enemy.
Chapter 5
Paul Gibson sat in a wooden chair drawn up to the unknown woman’s bedside, his gaze on her face. She was so pale, her closed eyelids fragile and nearly translucent, the skin drawn tight over the exquisitely molded bones of her face. And if she didn’t awaken soon, she probably never would.
He pushed to his feet and went to stare out the narrow window overlooking the ancient medieval street beyond. The sun was high enough to begin burning off the fog, but there was little warmth in it. Rows of icicles glistened from the eaves, and he could feel the bitter cold radiating off the glass. Turning, he went to stoop beside the hearth and throw more coal on the fire. He was about to straighten when he became aware of the sensation of being watched.
Glancing over at the bed, he found himself staring into a pair of dark brown eyes. “Good morning,” he said, lurching awkwardly as he straightened.
Her tongue flicked out to wet her dry lips, her chest jerking as if with fear.
He said, “You needn’t worry. I’m a friend.”
“I remember you.” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, her English accented but distinct. “You are the one who—” Her eyes darkened as if with a resurgence of remembered grief. “Is Damion truly dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
She blinked rapidly several times and turned her face away, her glorious, flame-colored hair fanning out over the pillow.
“He was your friend?” Gibson asked quietly.
Rather than answer, she put her hand to her head, the long, fine fingers exploring the bandage she found there. “What happened to me?”
“You don’t remember?”
“No.”
He walked up to the side of the bed again. “It may eventually come back to you. Memory is a funny thing.”
She looked at him again. “Where am I?”
“This is my surgery.”
“You are a surgeon?”
“I am.” He sketched an awkward bow. “Paul Gibson, late of His Majesty’s Twenty-fifth Light Dragoons.”
She let her gaze drift over him, making him wish he’d taken the time to wash and shave and maybe change his clothes.
She said, “You lost your leg fighting the French?”
“I did, yes.”
“I am French.”