Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(13)

“So why didn’t she?”

“I asked her that once. She said it’s one thing to write an opera or symphony but something else entirely to find an orchestra willing to perform a piece composed by a woman.”

“Ah, yes, I can see that.”

“When her brother James was alive, he actually published some of her pieces as his own. She said he hated that she didn’t get credit for them, but he thought they deserved to be performed and he knew that was the only way it would happen.”

“I’ve heard Mozart did the same for his sister, Maria Anna.”

“I suspect it’s far more common than anyone would like to admit,” said Miss Kinsworth. Hero nodded, and the two women sat in companionable silence, quietly sharing a lifelong cold anger at the limitations society placed on their sex.

After a moment, Hero said, “Do you have any idea who might have wanted to see her dead?”

“Who might have killed her, you mean?” The older woman pressed the fingers of one hand to her lips.

“There is someone, isn’t there?” said Hero, watching her.

Miss Kinsworth thrust up from her chair and went to stand at a narrow-sashed window looking out over the snow-covered city, her arms crossed and her elbows held close to her chest. After a moment, she said, “This is very delicate, given the circumstances, but . . . there is a gentleman attached to the Dutch embassy—van der Pals is his name, Peter van der Pals.”

“Yes. I met him recently when I was visiting my father,” said Hero. “I understand he’s become quite popular with London’s hostesses in a surprisingly short time.”

“He has, yes. He’s an extraordinarily handsome, charming man. At one point he was quite friendly with Jane.”

“Meaning?”

“Oh, nothing serious. Please don’t misunderstand me. But he did single her out, and I think she was flattered by his teasing attentions. What woman would not be? He is very attractive.”

“So what happened?” prompted Hero.

“It turned out he was simply trying to cajole her into spying for him.”

“Good heavens. On Princess Charlotte, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Hero had no need to ask why a member of the Dutch ambassador’s entourage would be interested in spying on Princess Charlotte. It was an open secret that the Prince Regent was eager to see his daughter married and that the needle-thin, awkward, and decidedly unattractive William, Hereditary Prince of Orange—nicknamed Slender Billy—was his favored suitor. For his part, Orange was said to be more than eager to wed the woman who would someday reign as Queen of England. “When was this?”

“That Jane realized what he wanted? One day last week—last Thursday, I believe. Needless to say, she refused. He then tried to bribe her. And when that failed, he turned ugly. Quite ugly.”

“How do you know this?” said Hero.

“Because Jane came to me the next day and told me. She thought I needed to know in case he should approach other members of the Princess’s household. It seems that when she refused, he threatened her.”

“Threatened her how?”

“He warned her not to tell anyone, and said she’d be sorry if she did.” Miss Kinsworth turned to face Hero, her arms still hugged close to her chest. “She was quite shaken.”

“Did you tell anyone else about van der Pals?”

“No.”

“Not even the Duchess of Leeds?”

Miss Kinsworth grimaced. “Technically, I suppose I should have. But I thought it best to keep it to myself.”

“Could Jane herself have told someone?”

“Perhaps. Although I warned her not to.”

It was a statement that spoke volumes about the degree of mistrust, suspicion, and backstabbing in the Princess’s household. Hero said, “Would it be possible for me to ask Princess Charlotte about her last lesson with Jane?”

Miss Kinsworth made a scoffing sound deep in her throat. “Not if Lady Leeds has anything to say about it.” She looked thoughtful a moment, then said, “Charlotte and I frequently go for walks in the afternoon. If I sent you word, perhaps you could contrive to come upon us . . . quite by accident, of course.”

Hero smiled. “Yes, I believe I could manage that.”





Chapter 9

The Dutch courtier Peter van der Pals had arrived in London the previous December in the train of his good friend William, the Hereditary Prince of Orange. A strikingly handsome man with a strong jawline, softly curling auburn hair, and a wide boyish smile, the courtier was—like Orange—quite young. His English was extraordinarily good, for he had attended Oxford with his prince and also, like Orange, served as aide-de-camp to Arthur Wellesley. Yet he had chosen to remain in London when Orange returned to the newly liberated Netherlands. At the time, Hero had wondered why.

Now she thought she understood.

On leaving Warwick House, she turned her steps toward the residence of the Dutch ambassador, intending to make inquiries there into the young courtier. But as she neared the ambassador’s stately town house, she was fortunate enough to find van der Pals himself carefully descending the embassy’s icy front steps.

At the sight of Hero, he drew up, a faint expression of puzzlement crossing his handsome features before being hidden away behind a courtier’s practiced smile. “Lady Devlin,” he said, his elegant bow somewhat spoiled by his refusal to let go of the railing beside him. “You are beyond courageous, venturing out in this weather. Unfortunately, His Excellency the ambassador is not at present here.”