“Eventually, yes. But in September of 1792, Danton and Roland were allies. Danton and Robespierre were also allies at one time; remember? Only, that didn’t save Danton’s head when Robespierre eventually decided to move against him, now, did it?”
Sebastian shifted his grip to swing Collot around to face him. In the flickering light thrown by a distant torch, the Frenchman looked pale and slack-jawed, his wayward eye more noticeable than ever. “Why should I believe you?”
Collot turned his head and spat. “Why should I care whether you believe me or not? I am telling you, Danton and Roland wanted to sell the Crown Jewels because the government needed the money. Only, the other members of the government would not agree. So Danton arranged to have the jewels ‘stolen’ instead.”
“And the French Blue? What happened to it?”
A distant burst of laughter jerked Collot’s attention, for a moment, to the lane at the end of the alley. Then he brought his gaze back to Sebastian and smiled.
“You don’t know anything, do you? That was September of 1792, when the combined armies of Austria and Prussia were camped at Valmy, just a hundred miles from Paris. Together, they outnumbered the French troops facing them nearly two to one. If they had advanced on the city then—in the middle of September—they could have taken Paris. The Revolution would have been over. Finished. That’s what Danton was afraid of. He knew what his life would be worth if Louis were restored to the throne.”
“What are you suggesting? That Danton used the French Crown Jewels to bribe the Prussian and Austrian armies not to attack Paris?”
Collot gave a harsh, ringing laugh. “Not the Prussians and the Austrians; their commander.”
Sebastian’s eyes widened, for Collot’s words opened up an entirely new angle on Eisler’s murder. He took a step back and released Collot so suddenly the Frenchman sagged and almost fell.
For the man commanding the Prussian and Austrian armies at Valmy was none other than Carl Wilhelm Ferdinand, Duke of Brunswick, husband to George III’s sister, the English Princess Augusta, and father to Princess Caroline. . . .
The estranged wife of George, the Prince Regent.
Chapter 32
F
inding himself unexpectedly free, Collot took off in a stumbling trot down the alley, his hands splayed out awkwardly at his sides, the tails of his tattered coat flying in the damp breeze.
Sebastian let him go.
He was remembering a dark carriage looming out of the night, a frightened young man running toward those whom he believed were his allies, the deadly spurt of flame from the end of a darkened rifle barrel. Who would do something like that?
The obvious answer was, people without conscience or scruples.
People who see their own agents as expendable.
People with far more at stake than a mere diamond, however big and rare.
Still turning Collot’s revelations over in his mind, Sebastian emerged from the alley into the raucous turmoil of the street beyond. Someone was scraping on a fiddle, and half a dozen Irishmen were dancing a jig, cheered on by a circle of laughing, ragged women. Beyond them, he could see a lithe, pockmarked man wearing a small-brimmed, dented hat and standing by himself on the far side of the street. He had one shoulder propped against a rough brick wall, his hands thrust in his pockets, his gaze seemingly directed toward a saucy redheaded bit o’ muslin who was smiling at him. But when Sebastian turned south, toward Covent Garden, the man readjusted his hat and pushed away from the wall to follow him.
As he wound his way up the crowded street, Sebastian was aware of the pockmarked man behind him. The man hung well back, always careful to keep some distance between them. But when Sebastian paused to gaze through the misted window of a coffeehouse, his shadow paused too. The man had a lean, sharp-boned face with a small nose, a pointed chin, and dark hair. His clothes were those of a day laborer or apprentice. . . .
Or someone considerably more unsavory.
Whistling softly, Sebastian continued on.
The pockmarked man fell into step behind him.
As they neared Long Acre, the crowds became more scattered, the neighborhood less depraved. Sebastian quickened his pace, his footsteps and those of his shadow echoing dully in the narrow streets. He turned right onto Long Acre, then immediately drew back into the darkened doorway of a button shop. The pockmarked man rounded the corner and continued past Sebastian some three or four paces before becoming aware that