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Princess, turning their steps toward the canal in the distance. “Tell me, my lord: How does your wife?”
    Sebastian was aware of Lady Giselle falling in several steps behind them. “She is well, thank you,” he said.
    “I hear she is with child. Congratulations.”
    “Thank you.”
    “And married such a short time! Your wife is fortunate indeed.” Her hand fluttered to touch, ever so briefly, her own flat stomach, an unconscious movement that was there and then gone. She had been married something like thirteen years, yet had never conceived. He’d heard it said she remained convinced that God would some day send her a child, a child who would continue the Bourbon line. But time was running out, both for Marie-Thérèse and for her dynasty.
    She said, “You do realize that I know why you are here.”
    “Do you?”
    “You have made the investigation of murder your special interest, have you not? And a Frenchman named Pelletan was murdered on the streets of London two nights ago.”
    “You were acquainted with Dr. Damion Pelletan?”
    “You are obviously aware of the fact that I was. Otherwise, why are you here?”
    When Sebastian remained silent, she said, “He was a physician of some renown in Paris, you know.”
    “No, I didn’t know.”
    She kept her gaze fixed straight ahead. “I thought it might be worth my while to consult with him.”
    “Somehow, I had the impression Dr. Pelletan was not a royalist.”
    He watched her mouth tighten. “No,” she said. “He was not. But he was nevertheless an excellent physician.”
    Sebastian studied her fiercely proud profile. She was a woman who had been trained from infancy to dissemble, to never show her true thoughts or emotions. Yet there was no disguising the intense anger that smoldered beneath her carefully correct exterior. He said, “I wonder, do you know a man by the name of Harmond Vaundreuil?”
    He expected her to deny it. Instead, she curled her lip and said, “Fortunately, I have never personally encountered the man. But I have heard of him, yes. A vulgar parvenu who believes himself the equal of his betters. There are many such in the government of France these days. But by the grace of God, all will soon be dispersed. Once the Bourbons are restored to their rightful position, Vaundreuil and his kind will be like so many roaches, fleeing before the bright light of God’s divine will.”
    Sebastian kept his own features carefully bland. “What about a Frenchwoman, Alexandrie Sauvage? Do you know her?”
    “Sauvage?” Marie-Thérèse drew up at the end of the allée and pivoted to look him full in the face. “I do not believe so, no,” she said with perfect calm. “And now you must excuse me. I wish to walk on alone. Lady Giselle will accompany you back to the house.” And she turned on her heel and left him there, her head held high, her spine stiff as she strode determinedly away.
    “I’m sorry. She is rather . . . tense today,” said Lady Giselle, coming up beside him.
    In Sebastian’s experience, Marie-Thérèse was always tense. But all he said was, “I suspect I’m quite capable of finding my way back to the house without assistance, if you would rather go after her.”
    Lady Giselle shook her head. “She meant it when she said she wishes to be alone.”
    They turned to walk side by side back down the allée. After a moment, Lady Giselle said, “I know many find the Princess cold and stiff, even aloof. But she truly is an admirable woman, strong and devout. Her days are spent helping her uncle, or visiting establishments for the relief of orphans and the poor.”
    “Is that what she did this last Thursday?”
    “Last Thursday? Oh, no; Thursday was the twenty-first of January.”
    “The date is significant?”
    She looked vaguely surprised, then let out her breath in a rush. “Ah, it is because you’re not French; that is why you do not know. Marie-Thérèse’s father, King Louis XVI of France, was guillotined at ten