Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(15)

“You’re saying Jane Ambrose had a lover? Who?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Yet you have no difficulty suggesting that she might have one?”

He spread his arms wide as if in surrender. “It wasn’t my intention to offend you, my lady—simply to give you a hint as to the nature of the woman we’re discussing.”

“You mean that she was the type of woman who might have been unfaithful to her husband?”

Rather than answer, he glanced significantly at the clock on the mantel and gave a faint, startled exclamation, as if suddenly becoming aware of the passage of time. “I fear you must excuse me, my lady; I’ve an appointment I cannot miss.”

Hero drew on her mittens with quick, jerky movements. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your information.”

He sketched another of his elegant bows. “Please do not hesitate to let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I shall,” she said with a smile.

It was when he was escorting her to the door that van der Pals said, “Have you by chance spoken to Valentino Vescovi?”

She paused to glance over at him. “The musician? No. Why?”

“He teaches the harp to Princess Charlotte, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know. Is there a particular reason you think I should speak with him?”

Van der Pals scratched one cheek as if in some embarrassment. “Actually, yes. You see, he and Jane had quite an angry confrontation just this past Monday.”

“How do you know this?”

“Because they were unwise enough to engage in an undignified shouting match beside the canal in St. James’s Park. Vescovi is an ice-gliding enthusiast, and he’s been going there every afternoon to take advantage of our current freezing conditions.” When Hero remained silent, he added, “A number of others were present, and the argument was quite heated. I doubt I was the only one who saw them.”

“And what was the nature of their quarrel?”

“I fear I couldn’t hear well enough to understand what was being said. Although—” He broke off.

“Yes?”

“I did hear Vescovi tell her she needed to be careful.”

“About what?”

“That I didn’t hear. Only ‘you need to be careful.’”

“Perhaps Vescovi was warning her about you,” suggested Hero, and had the satisfaction of seeing van der Pals’s self-satisfied, confident smile slip.





Chapter 10

The Prince Regent’s powerful cousin Charles, Lord Jarvis, was smiling faintly as the men carrying his sedan chair staggered through the deep drifts that continued to render even such vital streets as Whitehall, Cockspur, and Pall Mall impassable to anything except foot traffic.

The snow was undoubtedly a nuisance. But Jarvis—who’d had a busy morning and was heading back to Carlton House after a meeting at Downing Street—was concerned with far weightier matters, namely the looming, inevitable defeat of Napoléon and the enormous task of restructuring Europe. Things were going well in that quarter. Quite well indeed.

Carlton House had been home to the Prince of Wales for more than three decades, and His Highness had spent every one of those years altering, expanding, and refurbishing it into something he considered more befitting the heir to the throne of the greatest kingdom on earth. As his dear, trusted cousin, Jarvis generally encouraged him, despite the onerous cost. The Prince’s preoccupation with art, architecture, fashion, and jewels allowed more serious—and mentally stable—men to go about the business of actually running the Kingdom.

They were approaching the palace now, and the chairmen were laboring hard, for Jarvis was well over six feet tall and increasingly fleshy as he headed toward his sixtieth year. When they turned in through the ornate classical screen that separated the forecourt of Carlton House from Pall Mall, he noticed with revulsion a ragged, skeletal woman clutching what looked like a dead child in her arms as she leaned against the base of the row of columns. He made a mental note to have her removed.

Some minutes later, having finished giving his instructions to the guards, he was walking toward the palace’s entrance when he became aware of the tall, leanly built figure of his daughter’s husband, Viscount Devlin, crossing the forecourt.

Jarvis ignored him.

“I was hoping I’d find you here,” said Devlin pleasantly.

Jarvis kept walking. “I wish I could say I’m delighted not to have disappointed you, but I fear that would be beyond even my considerable powers of dissemblance.”

The Viscount gave a huff of laughter and fell into step beside him. “I think you underestimate yourself.”

Jarvis grunted. “What do you want?”

“You mean, besides Jane Ambrose’s body?”

“You’re sadly behind the times, I fear. The inquest was held this morning—”

“Already? Without the testimony of those who found her?”

“—and the lady’s corpse delivered to her husband in Soho Square.”

“Along with a warning not to allow it to fall into my hands again, I assume.”

“Edward Ambrose is no fool.”

The footmen flanking the palace’s magnificent classical portal jumped to open the doors wide and bowed as Jarvis swept past them.