Chapter 30
He arrived back at the Place Dauphine to find Eugène-François Vidocq sitting with Hero in the salon, waiting for him.
“Ah, there you are, monsieur,” said the stocky, broad-faced head of the Sûreté nationale. He took a deep swallow from a glass of Sebastian’s port, smacked his lips, and said, “Ç’est bon.”
Sebastian exchanged one significant glance with Hero, then walked over to pour himself a brandy. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it, monsieur.”
Vidocq smiled and took another sip. “I heard about your little scuffle in the quarry up at Montmartre. But not to worry: I told her ladyship here that you were unharmed.”
Sebastian paused with the decanter in hand and swung to stare at his guest. “How did you know about that?”
“I have good informants.”
“Obviously. And did your informant tell you that all traces of my attackers—living and dead—had vanished by the time I returned with the authorities to the quarry?”
“Non. He must have sent his report too quickly to include that detail. Interesting but not unexpected. At any rate, that’s not why I’m here. I’ve had some of my men talking to the residents of the rue du Champs du Repos to see if anyone in the area recognized either the carriage or the team of grays belonging to the unknown woman who visited Dama Cappello on Thursday. A woman can wear a veil, keep her servants out of livery, and ride in a carriage without a crest. But it’s not so easy to disguise a team of prime cattle when a man knows his horseflesh.”
Sebastian went to stand beside the fire, his brandy glass cradled in his hand. “I take it someone in the area knows his horseflesh?”
“One does. Swears the team belongs to Hortense. And since he used to work in her stables, I suspect he knows what he’s talking about.”
Sebastian’s hand tightened around his glass. “Hortense?”
Vidocq nodded. “You heard me right: the erstwhile Queen of Holland herself.”
Hortense Eugénie Cécile Bonaparte, née de Beauharnais, was the daughter of the Empress Joséphine by her first husband, who’d been one of the many thousands of victims of the Reign of Terror. Under pressure from her stepfather, Napoléon, Hortense had married his brother Louis Bonaparte, who eventually became the King of Holland. But the marriage was not a success, and she’d spent little of her time in the Netherlands. Louis himself had long ago fled the country, but despite the Restoration, Hortense still lived in Paris, protected by the Russian Tsar, who’d reportedly been more than half in love with her now-dead mother. The young former queen had a reputation as a competent amateur composer, a good watercolorist, and a mean billiards player.
Sebastian said, “Any idea what she was doing there?”
“None whatsoever.” Vidocq emptied his glass and set it aside to push to his feet with a grunt. “A man like me can’t exactly approach the ex–Queen of Holland and expect to get much of an answer, now, can he? You’ll have much better luck, I’m sure.” He turned to bow to Hero. “Thank you, my lady, for the honor of your company.”
“My pleasure, monsieur,” she said, rising with him.
He turned toward the door. “Don’t bother ringing to have someone show me out; I know the way.”
But at the top of the stairs, he paused, clapped his hands to the sides of his coat, and said, “Ah, I almost forgot.” Fumbling, he extracted something from a pocket and held it out. “Here.”
Sebastian found himself holding a small, gem-studded red leather case emblazoned with a familiar gold monogram. “Where did you find it?”
“A lemonade seller pawned it at a small shop off rue de Rivoli. Swears he came upon it lying in one of the bastions on the northern stretch of the Pont Neuf on Thursday night, and I’m inclined to believe him, given that my boys weren’t exactly gentle with their questioning after we picked him up.”
Sebastian lifted the box’s flap to reveal the empty gold-silk-lined interior. “He says it was empty when he found it?”
“Swears it. And it was sure enough empty when he pawned it. Monsieur DuBois—that’s the pawnbroker—knows better than to lie to me.”
Sebastian studied the ex–galley slave’s saber-scarred face. “Have you ever seen it before?”
“The case? Non.” Vidocq settled his tricorne hat on his head. “But maybe you can ask the Queen of Holland about it.”
After the man had shown himself out, Sebastian turned to Hero and handed her the case without a word.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, running the pad of her thumb across the monogram emblazoned there: the intertwined initials “JB” surrounded by a wreath of laurel leaves surmounted by an imperial crown. “Joséphine Bonaparte.” She looked up. “You think that’s why Hortense was at the rue du Champs du Repos that evening? To give this to Sophie?”
“Seems a logical assumption, doesn’t it?” He went to stand at the window, his gaze on the short, sturdy man walking rapidly away. “I wonder what it could possibly have contained?”
That evening, as was their habit, they were gathered before dinner in the salon with the two little boys and their nurse, Claire, when a knock sounded on the door below.
Patrick had been helping Simon sort a collection of silk cards of gaily painted wood, but at the sound of murmured voices from below, his head came up, and Sebastian saw a shadow cross his features before the boy said quietly, “ ’Tis ’is lordship.”
Simon was already jumping up, a wide grin spreading across the face that was so much like that of his adopted brother. “Grandpapa Jarvis!”
Sebastian’s gaze met Hero’s. “Do you know what this is about?”
She shook her head. “No.”
Jarvis came in, bringing with him all the scents of the cold Parisian night. His face was set in stern lines, his gray eyes flinty with quiet anger, and he said without preamble, “I must speak with you alone.” He took off his greatcoat and cast it aside. Then his gaze fell on Simon, and for a moment his expression softened as he held out his arms to his grandson. “Come give your bon-papa a kiss and tell him good night.”
Simon ran to him, while Sebastian went to help Patrick put away the wooden pieces and softly kiss the top of the little boy’s head.
“What’s wrong?” asked Hero as soon as Claire had left the room with the children.
Jarvis went to stand with his back to the fire, his jaw set hard as he rocked back and forth on his heels. “Bonaparte landed near Cannes four days ago.”
Sebastian felt a strange sense of inevitability sluice through him, followed swiftly by a sickening lurch of his gut as the landing’s full implications struck him. Oh, Sophie. “Any chance it could be a hoax?”
Jarvis glanced over at him. “I doubt it. Word came by semaphore this afternoon. We’d have heard sooner, but the weather interfered with the signal transmissions.”
Hero sank into a nearby upholstered armchair. “But how is this even possible?”
Jarvis’s nostrils flared on a quick, angry intake of air. “There’s a reason we wanted the bastard exiled far away from France—and with a proper guard set upon him. No one knows the details yet, but word is he has fewer than a thousand men with him. I don’t think there’s much cause for alarm. They’ll stop him soon enough—and hopefully this time they’ll kill him.”
Sebastian went to stand behind Hero’s chair and rest his hands on her shoulders. “Does Hendon know?”
“I’ve just come from meeting with him. I’ll be leaving for the coast within the hour, and I’ve advised the French King not to send word to the Prince Regent just yet. Hopefully I’ll reach London before the news breaks there or at least not long afterward. But we don’t see any reason at this point for Hendon to leave, too. The last thing we want is to create a sense of alarm with a sudden exodus of British subjects. The palace intends to keep the news from the French public for now, but it’s difficult to say for how long they’ll manage to do so. If nothing else, the truth is bound to get out as soon as travelers from the south of France begin reaching Paris.”
“So why keep it secret?” said Hero.
“Because they’re hoping the army can capture the bastard before anyone realizes he’s returned.”
“Is that likely?” she said.
“I don’t see why not. Pretty hard to conquer a country with a thousand men.”
“But if the people rally to him—”
“They won’t,” snapped Jarvis.
“And the army?” said Sebastian.
“The Grand Army has been mostly disbanded, and what’s left is firmly under royal control. All his former marshals have sworn allegiance to the King. No one is going to rally to him. If he tries to come up through Provence, they’ll hang him the way they tried to do a year ago when he was on his way to Elba. And there’s snow in the Alpine passes. He’s not going to get far.”
Sebastian met Hero’s gaze. Provence had always been heavily royalist and staunchly Catholic. If Napoléon was planning to march on Paris, his only choice would be to take the mountain route through Grenoble. And if there was snow . . .
Hero said, “No one had any warning this was going to happen?”
Jarvis’s lips flattened into a tight line. He operated a vast network of spies and informants that gave him a well-deserved reputation for omniscience. But somehow they’d missed this. “Obviously there’s been talk about him returning since last September. But few thought he’d actually be foolish enough to try it.”
“Is it so foolish?” said Hero.
“It’s madness.” He reached for his greatcoat. “I must be off. And remember: not a word of this to anyone until King Louis announces it.”
Sebastian walked with him to the street door. “If Bonaparte was near Cannes four days ago, then where is he now?”
Jarvis paused to look back at him. “We don’t know. But with any luck, he’s already dead.”
Later that night, Sebastian lay awake with Hero in his arms, his cheek resting against her hair. He could hear the wind kicking up outside, tossing the newly leafed-out lime trees in the square and sending something clattering over the old cobblestones. He kept telling himself that Jarvis must be right, that Napoléon was probably already dead and his desperate bid to regain his faded glory dead with him. But he found he couldn’t believe the deposed Emperor’s chances of reaching Paris were that slim, and he knew with a sick dread that it was all about to start again. The fighting. The executions. The mass graves with silent black crosses . . .
“That’s why Sophie was in Elba, isn’t it?” Hero said softly, one hand resting on his bare chest. “She knew this was coming and was somehow involved in helping to coordinate it.”
Sebastian was conscious of a strange ache that pulled across his heart. “I don’t want to believe it. And yet I can’t come up with any other explanation that makes sense.”
She tilted back her head so she could look up at him. “And Joséphine’s red leather case? Where does it fit in?”
“I don’t know yet.” He tightened his arms around her, drawing her closer. “But I intend to find out.”