“I thank you for your kind attention, messieurs,” he said again. “Allow me to send for wine.”

“Non,” Fergus said. He pulled an ink-stained handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat pooling in his deep eye sockets. “This place is like a Turkish bath. I have come to hear what you have to say, monsieur. Say it.”

Beauchamp pursed his lips as though about to whistle, but then relaxed, still smiling, and gestured them to a pair of ornately brocaded chairs near the empty hearth. He also went to the door and, in spite of Fergus’s refusal, ordered some refreshments to be brought.

When a tray of pastries with a decanter of iced negus had been delivered, he asked the butler to pour out a glass for each of them and then sat down facing them. His eyes flicked over Roger, but all his attention was for Fergus.

“I said to you on a previous occasion, monsieur, that I wished to acquaint you with the facts of your birth. These are … somewhat dramatic, and I am afraid that you may find some of them distressing. I apologize.”

“Tais-toi,” Fergus said roughly. Roger didn’t understand all of what he said next, but it seemed to be an invitation to Beauchamp to shit something or other—possibly the truth?—out of his backside.

Beauchamp blinked, but sat back, took a sip of wine, and patted his lips.

“You are the son of le Comte Saint Germain,” he said, and paused, as though expecting a reaction. Fergus just stared at him. Roger felt a small rivulet of sweat run down the seam of his back like water from a melting ice cube.

“And your mother’s name was Amélie Élise LeVigne Beauchamp.” Roger heard Fergus’s sudden intake of breath.

“You know that name?” Beauchamp sounded surprised but eager. He leaned forward, his face intent, nacreous in the lamplight.

“J’ai connu une jeune fille de ce nom Amélie,” Fergus said. “Mais elle est morte.”

THERE WAS A moment’s silence, broken only by the distant, bustling hum of the house’s domestic staff.

“She is dead.” Beauchamp’s voice was gentle, but Fergus jerked a little, as though stung by a wasp. Beauchamp drew a long, careful breath, then leaned forward.

“You knew her, you said.”

Fergus nodded, once, a jerky movement quite unlike him.

“I knew her by name. I did not know she was my mother.” He caught Roger’s look of surprise from the corner of his eye and turned to face him, turning a shoulder to Beauchamp, the bringer of unwelcome news.

“There are many children born in a brothel, mon frère, despite unceasing attempts to prevent them. Those pretty enough to be salable within a few years are kept.”

“And the others?” Roger asked, not wanting to hear the answer.

“I was pretty enough,” Fergus replied tersely. “And by the time I did not bruise easily, I could take care of myself on the streets.” Looking down, Roger could see that the toes of Fergus’s shoes were dug hard into the carpet.