“Divine right of kings and all that?”
Her jaw tensed. “You can scoff if you like. But the fact remains that God has bestowed earthly sovereignty on the Bourbons, just as He has given spiritual sovereignty to His Pope. That is why no monarch can be subject to earthly authority, for his right to rule derives from God’s own will, not from his subjects. Any attempt by those subjects to depose their lawful king or curtail his power in any way is an affront to God and thus cannot long endure.”
“The United States of America seem to be enduring just fine.”
“Yet the French Revolution endured for how long? Little more than a decade. I doubt Napoléon will last much longer.”
“Napoléon’s mistake is the same as the Bourbons’: He is trying to stand against the tide of history. The age of monarchs is passing. Even if Napoléon is defeated and the Bourbons restored by the armies of Russia and Britain, they won’t last for long.”
She held herself stiffly. “I’d no notion you were so radical in your thinking, my lord.” Somehow, she managed to turn the ‘my lord’ into a mockery—which he supposed in a way it was, although she didn’t know that. “What do you believe in, then? The Rights of Man?”
“Actually, there’s very little I believe in.”
He had been deliberately trying to provoke her, and he had succeeded far better than he had anticipated. But now she seemed to become aware of the extent to which she had betrayed herself. She blinked, and the steely moral certainty that had inspired the likes of Cotton Mather, Oliver Cromwell, and Maximilien Robespierre slid behind the careful assumption of calm good humor that typically characterized her.
She said, “I think you believe in far more than you give yourself credit for, my lord.”
“Perhaps.”
She walked with him to the entrance hall, nodding quietly to the butler, who moved to open the front door.
“Tell me, my lord,” she said, pausing beside him. “Are you any closer to discovering who is behind these dreadful murders?”
“I believe I may be, yes.”
“Indeed? Then hopefully soon we may all sleep better in our beds.”
“Have you been afraid?” he asked, his gaze on her face.
“Fear has been our constant companion for many years.”
“I don’t think you need worry about this.”
“Yet you will let us know if you discover anything more?”
“Of course.”
A woman’s voice floated down from upstairs. “Giselle? Où es-tu?”
“You must excuse me, my lord.” She gave a slight bow. “And thank you again.”
He watched her move away, her tranquil self-possession once more firmly in place. He did not for an instant believe that she was losing sleep due to fear of some brutal murderer prowling the streets of London. But he could believe she was worried.
For a very different reason entirely.
Chapter 54
Sebastian walked the cold, rain-washed streets of Mayfair and tried to think. Would a woman who believed in the divine right of kings plot to kill a young man she thought might be the only surviving son of Louis XVI of France? On the surface, the answer seemed to be no. And yet, this was a woman who had dedicated her life to the restoration of the Bourbon dynasty, not to the restoration of a certain frail young prince who may or may not have died in the Temple Prison. If she considered Damion Pelletan a threat to the eventual accession of Marie-Thérèse and her husband to the throne of France, would Lady Giselle kill him?
Sebastian believed she would.
What had Alexi Sauvage said about her brother? Damion despised the Bourbons. Had he expressed those sentiments to Lady Giselle? If he had, it might well have led to his death.
The family trees of Europe’s royal houses were littered with kings who had fallen victim to a usurper’s hand. Fathers murdered by sons, nephews by uncles, cousins by cousins. How did Lady Giselle explain such irregularities, he wondered? As the divine wisdom of Providence working in mysterious ways? Probably. Those who believed God was on their side all too often found it easy to kill in His name, secure in the comfortable certitude of their own righteousness.
And yet . . . And yet his imagination still balked at the image of Lady Giselle and her cousin the unknown Chevalier stalking Damion Pelletan through the mean streets of St. Katharine’s on one of the coldest nights of the year. Sebastian knew he was still missing something. The question was, What?
He kept coming back to the image of Damion Pelletan standing before the Gifford Arms, his head thrown back, his gaze on the cold night sky above. How many people knew Damion and Alexi Sauvage intended to visit Hangman’s Court that night? Lady Giselle? No; she was gone by the time Alexandrie arrived. Lord Peter? Possibly, if he had lingered longer than he claimed. Jarvis’s man? Again, possibly—if he had been close enough to overhear their conversation. Harmond Vaundreuil? Again, possibly.