Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(16)

Devlin said, “Why are you so determined to prevent any real investigation into what happened to her?”

Jarvis crossed the hall toward the imposing main staircase, his boot heels clicking on the polished marble floor. “You think her death should concern me, do you?”

“You consider the murder of a young woman on the streets of London of no importance?”

“She was not murdered. But even if she were, when her death is set beside affairs of state, it is beyond insignificant.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you’re blocking any investigation.”

Jarvis drew up at the foot of the stairs. “Really, Devlin? Are you truly such a fool, or are you simply determined to play one? The last thing the Regent needs at the moment is to have Princess Charlotte’s name bandied about in conjunction with that of a woman unwise enough to get mixed up in something as tawdry as murder.”

“‘At the moment’? And why is this moment any different from all the others?”

Jarvis pressed his lips together and began to mount the sweeping marble steps.

Devlin kept pace with him. “I had an interesting conversation this morning with Nathan Rothschild. He asked if I’d spoken to you. Why is that? I wonder.”

“Stay away from Rothschild.”

“Oh? Why?”

Jarvis paused and swung to face him. He kept his voice low, his words coming out clipped and deadly. “You think because you are married to my daughter, you are safe? You’re not.”

Devlin didn’t even blink. “I never made the mistake of imagining I was. But it does raise the question: Why are you so anxious to keep me away from Rothschild?”

Jarvis continued up the stairs. “Curiosity is a dangerous weakness. You should strive to overcome it.”

“This isn’t about curiosity. It’s about justice for a vital, talented young woman left in a snowy street with her head bashed in.”

“Justice.” Jarvis rolled the word with distaste off his tongue. “This maudlin obsession of yours with vague and essentially useless philosophical constructs is beyond tiresome. Justice comes from God.”

“So do you believe that what is morally good is commanded by God because it is morally good? Or is it morally good because God commands it? Because if the latter, then all justice is arbitrary. But if the former, then morality exists on a higher plane than God.”

“Don’t try to argue Plato with me. That’s a false dilemma and you know it.”

“Is it?”

“Apart from which, you’re simply wrong. Jane Ambrose’s death has nothing to do with Rothschild.”

“So certain?”

“It has nothing to do with Rothschild and nothing to do with Princess Charlotte.”

“Then why are you afraid of what an investigation might discover?”

“These are delicate and dangerous times. You would cause more harm than you know.”

“Oh? So explain it to me.”

Jarvis made a rude noise deep in his throat. “You’ve been warned.”

Then he walked into his chambers and shut the door in his son-in-law’s face.





Chapter 11

Frozen solid and milky white under a cloudy sky, the canal in St. James’s Park was crowded with skaters of all ages.

Hero bought a cup of hot cider from one of the booths pitched near the lake’s snow-encrusted banks and strolled along the edge of the ice, her gaze moving over the laughing, shouting mass of skaters. A few were well-dressed young bucks—mainly Scottish by the sounds of it—who belonged to skating clubs and obviously took their sport seriously. But most were considerably less practiced, either creeping cautiously along with shiny new blades strapped to their boots or else striking out in ungainly rushes that inevitably ended in spectacular crashes.

It didn’t take her long to spot the Italian harpist Valentino Vescovi. A lanky, craggy-faced man dressed in black with a red scarf tied around his neck, he was in a class by himself, gliding effortlessly across the ice as he executed an intricate pattern of graceful figures reminiscent of a courtly dance.

She stood for a time watching him. But after throwing one or two glances in her direction, he finally skated straight toward her, stopping with a flourish just offshore by leaning back on his heels with the acorn-tipped fronts of his skates pointing into the air.

He was a man somewhere in his thirties or forties, with dark hair and an expressive, mobile face. He’d come to London perhaps a dozen years before via Amsterdam—which was presumably where he’d learned ice-gliding. “Bene!” he said, his breath coming fast from the recent exercise. “I’d like to think you’re focused on me because you admire my skating. But that’s not it, is it? You are here because of Jane Ambrose, yes?”

Hero choked on her cider. “How did you know?”

His dark eyes gleamed with what might have been amusement. “You were at Warwick House this morning, Lady Devlin. And the walls there have ears.”

“Evidently.”

He said, “What I don’t understand is why you wish to speak with me.”

“I’m told you had an argument with Jane Ambrose last Monday. A very public argument. Here, by the canal.”

“Ah.” He climbed carefully off the ice to perch on a nearby bench and set to work unstrapping the skates from his boots. “I did, yes. It was so public, in fact, that I see no point in attempting to deny it.”