“They do, yes.”
She was silent for a moment. She lay on her side, her elbow bent, her head propped up on one fist as she traced a delicate pattern across his bare chest with her free hand. After a moment, she said, “There’s something I haven’t told you. Something I believe may help explain what happened to my brother.”
He had been lying lost in a pleasant, half-dreamy state of warmth and quiet contentment. Now he found himself instantly alert.
He listened as she told him. Then he said, “You need to take this to Devlin.”
She pushed up on both hands so she could stare down at him. “Are you mad? Lord Jarvis is his wife’s father!”
“He is, yes. But Devlin is not Jarvis’s ally. Far from it, in fact. If anyone can find your brother’s killer, it’s Devlin. He’ll not be letting Jarvis’s involvement turn him from his purpose—and he’ll not be betraying you to his lordship either, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Her gaze met his. “I don’t trust him.”
He caught up the heavy lock of hair that had tumbled forward to half hide her face. “One of these days you’re going to be needing to tell me what happened between the two of you, in Portugal. But not now. This isn’t about the past. It’s about the men and women who are dying here, in London, today. First your brother, then Karmele, now Foucher. If you know anything that can stop it, you must tell Devlin.”
“You trust him?”
“With my life.”
Her lips parted, trembled with uncertainty and proud stubbornness and an onslaught of memories he could only guess at. Then she nodded, and he found himself both humbled and inspired in a way he could not have defined.
Chapter 43
That evening, Sebastian was in the library reading Augustin Barruel’s work on the Revolution when he heard a peal at the front door. Lifting his head, he listened to a woman’s soft French voice. A moment later, Morey appeared in the doorway.
“A Madame Sauvage to see you, my lord. She says it is in regards to the murder of her brother, Monsieur Damion Pelletan.” The majordomo’s expression remained remarkably bland. But then, he had been in Sebastian’s employ for more than two years; like Tom and Calhoun, he wasn’t easily overset.
“Show her in,” said Sebastian, and set aside his book.
He came from behind his desk as Alexi Sauvage entered the room. She drew up just inside the doorway, one hand knotted in the strap of her reticule, the other holding close the worn plaid shawl she had wrapped around her shoulders.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, indicating the chairs before the fire.
She shook her head. “What I have to say will not take long. I am only here because of Paul.”
Paul.
His reaction to her use of Gibson’s given name must have shown on his face, because her chin came up. “He says that I should trust you, that I have been wrong to keep back information that might help you to make sense of what happened to Damion. That Jarvis is your enemy too.” She paused, then added, “I hope he is right.”
Sebastian was aware of Hero coming down the stairs toward them. But all he said was, “What information?”
“The day before he was killed, Damion told me he had overheard a conversation between Vaundreuil and Charles, Lord Jarvis. He couldn’t catch everything that was said, but it was enough to convince him that Vaundreuil is engaged in a double game—that rather than representing France’s interests, he is deliberately playing into Jarvis’s aims, which are basically to see that these peace overtures go nowhere.”
It fit only too well with what Lady Peter had told him. Yet Sebastian found it difficult to accept anything this woman said at face value. He said, “It’s my understanding that both André Foucher and Camille Bonderant were included in the delegation specifically to prevent that sort of connivance.”
“Yes. And now Foucher is dead too.”
Sebastian leaned back against his desk, his arms coming up to cross at his chest. “You’re suggesting Foucher might also have discovered Vaundreuil’s activities? Or that Damion might have told him?”
“I don’t know. But it seems reasonable, does it not?”
“And the attack on Golden Square?”
“Was presumably meant to kill me, on the assumption that Damion must also have told me what he knew.”
“And how does any of this explain the macabre mutilation of the bodies? Pelletan’s heart and Foucher’s eyes?”
“That I do not know.”
Sebastian walked over to pour two glasses of burgundy. He held one out to her, and after a moment, she took it.
He said, “Vaundreuil may well be playing a double game; he would hardly be the first to do so. But I find it difficult to believe him ghoulish enough to desecrate the bodies of his colleagues. To what purpose?”