He rose to his feet and went to throw more coal on the fire. The icy air bit his naked flesh, but he ignored it, standing with one hand resting on the mantel, his gaze on the leaping flames. He heard a soft whisper of movement from the bed, and Hero came to drape a blanket around his shoulders.
He had returned home that evening to find her kneeling on the bed with her arms folded on the mattress and her forehead resting on her hands. She might not trust Alexandrie Sauvage to manipulate the child in her womb, but she was desperate enough to spend twenty minutes every two hours in an ungainly posture that thus far had done nothing to encourage his recalcitrant offspring to assume a position best calculated to preserve her and her mother’s life.
She said, “You can’t solve every murder, unravel every mystery, right every wrong.”
“No.”
She gave a soft huff of disbelief. “You say that, but you don’t really believe it.”
He gave a crooked smile. “No.”
She snuggled into the chair beside the fire, a quilt held close around her. “Do you seriously think it possible that Marie-Thérèse could be behind all this?”
“When you’re brought up to believe that you’re descended from a saint and that your family has been anointed by God to fill a position of limitless power and authority, it does tend to have a somewhat warping influence on your thought processes—even without the damage inflicted by three years of hell locked in a tower and guarded by men who hate you.”
Hero was silent for a moment, her eyes clouded by a troubling memory.
“What?” he asked, watching her.
“I was just thinking about a dinner party I attended a few years ago. Marie-Thérèse was there, and she told a story about her brother, about a time when Marie Antoinette allowed the children to milk the cows at the Petit Trianon, and how the little Dauphin squealed with delight when he was accidentally squirted in the face with the warm, fresh milk. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen her looking relaxed and vaguely happy. I think she remembers the days before the Revolution when her mother and father and brother were all alive as a golden age in her life, a sacred time of joy and love and serenity. If she genuinely thought Damion Pelletan was the Lost Dauphin, I can’t believe she would have had him killed. The others? Perhaps. But not a man she believed to be her beloved little brother.”
“You could be right. It’s possible she knows nothing about it. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t done to benefit her.”
“By whom?”
“I’d put my money on Lady Giselle.”
She blinked. “Can you prove it?”
“Prove it? No. To be honest, I’m not even entirely convinced I’m right.” He gave a wry smile. “It isn’t as if I haven’t been wrong before.”
She watched the flames lick at the new load of coal. “How do you explain the explosion at Golden Square? I mean, why would Lady Giselle try to kill Alexi Sauvage? Simply because she was there when Damion Pelletan was killed?”
“It’s possible. Although I’m not convinced the Bourbons had anything to do with what happened in Golden Square. That was probably Sampson Bullock’s handiwork.”
“Then how do you know he didn’t kill Damion Pelletan too?”
“I don’t. I’d probably think he did kill Pelletan, if it weren’t for the removal of Pelletan’s heart. That, and the way everything seems to keep circling back to the Bourbons.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re to blame.”
“No. But they are involved. Somehow.”
She pushed up from the chair with the slow, stately grace that had come to characterize her movements of late. The dark fall of her hair glowed in the firelight, a soft smile curling her lips as she bracketed his cheeks with her hands and kissed his mouth. He rested his hands on her hips, breathed in the familiar heady scent that was all her own. He kissed her again, then leaned his forehead against hers as he felt his heart swell with a flood of love and joy, all tangled up with a fear more terrible than any he had ever known.
Even after they had gone back to bed and she had fallen asleep beside him, he found the night’s shadows haunted by dreamlike images of empty arms and silent cradles.
Friday, 29 January
Early the next morning, Sebastian was coming down for breakfast when Morey opened the door to Lady Peter Radcliff.
She carried an overstuffed satchel and had brought with her the child known to the world as her brother. He stood on the top step with his two wooden boats clutched to his chest. There was a pale, pinched look about his face, and he kept shivering as if he were so cold he might never warm up.
Lady Peter wore a cherry red velvet pelisse with a high white fur collar and a silken bonnet whose stiffened velvet brim hid her face. But when she turned her head, Sebastian saw the thin line of blood that trickled from her split lip and the purple bruises that mottled and swelled her once pretty face.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice a cracked whisper. “I know I shouldn’t have come here. But I didn’t know where else to go.” And then, as if she had been holding herself upright by a sheer act of will, her eyes rolled back in her head.
Sebastian caught her just before she hit the tiled marble floor.