Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(18)

When he reached the surprisingly dilapidated brick wall that sheltered Warwick House’s Renaissance courtyard from the lane, Sebastian paused, his eyes narrowed against the snow. The fresh white blanket gave the scene a simple, peaceful air. But he knew that was deceptive. The young Princess was separated physically and in almost every other way from her father, the Regent, yet her position as second in line to the throne made access to her both rare and coveted. And corridors of power were always dangerous.

He tipped back his head, his gaze scanning the brick house’s upper floors, and saw a curtain move at one window. It shifted for only an instant and then hung still. But he knew someone had been watching him.

The sound of the house’s front door opening and closing carried clearly in the snowy hush. Sebastian heard the crunch of footsteps crossing the snow-filled yard toward him. The solid wooden gate’s heavy iron latch twisted with a creak and the gate jerked inward to reveal an older man in an exquisitely tailored cassock and old-fashioned periwig.

He looked to be in his late sixties, with swooping heavy brows that drew together in a fierce frown. “What precisely do you think you are doing?” demanded the prelate, his long, prominent nose twitching. “I don’t know who you are or why you are here, young man, but you’d best move on before I—”

“The name is Devlin,” said Sebastian, calmly handing the man his card.

The prelate broke off, his thin-lipped little mouth going slack as he took the card. “Ah. My lord.” Mouth tightening, he gave a curt, begrudging bow. “I beg your pardon. I did not recognize you.” He sniffed. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am the Bishop of Salisbury, Preceptor to Her Royal Highness the Princess Charlotte.”

“Bishop,” said Sebastian with a polite bow. He had heard of the Right Reverend Doctor John Fisher, Bishop of Salisbury. With a reputation as a humorless, vain, self-important clergyman, Salisbury had coordinated the Princess’s education for nearly ten years. He had an affected manner of speaking and a strange way of pronouncing the word “bishop,” so that it came out sounding like “bish-UP.” Sebastian had heard that Charlotte, who heartily detested the humorless man and possessed a gift for mimicry, had long ago nicknamed him “the Great Up.”

The Great Up sniffed again. “I noticed someone loitering in the lane and thought it best to move them along.”

“Oh?”

“Can’t be too careful, what?” said the Bishop. “Not when one considers what happened to Mrs. Ambrose.”

“So you don’t believe she simply slipped on the ice?” said Sebastian.

“Oh, no, no, of course I believe it.” The Great Up gave an incredulous scoff that told Sebastian the Bishop knew only too well why Sebastian was here. “To suggest otherwise would be ridiculous.”

“Would it?”

“But of course!”

“Did you see her yesterday?”

“I did, yes. We encountered each other in the entrance hall just as she was leaving.”

“What time was this?”

“Must have been shortly after noon, I suppose.”

“You spoke to her?”

“Briefly. We exchanged a few pleasantries, nothing more.”

“Do you know where she planned to go after leaving Warwick House?”

“Sorry, no; I couldn’t say.” The Bishop gave an exaggerated sigh. “Shocking to think that only a few hours later she was dead. A timely reminder to us all to be prepared to meet our Maker at any moment.”

Sebastian was beginning to understand why the young Princess found the prelate so annoying. “Do you know if she had any enemies?”

“Enemies?” The Great Up drew back his head in an exaggerated gesture of disbelief nicely combined with obvious disapproval. “Of course not.”

“No?”

“She was a pianist!”

“Pianists don’t have enemies?”

The Bishop’s full cheeks darkened. “Jane Ambrose slipped in the snow, hit her head, and died. To suggest anything more nefarious is at work here is not only frivolous, but it is also irresponsible and—given the woman’s relationship to the Princess—dangerous nearly to the point of sedition.”

“Sedition? Seriously?”

The Great Up glared at Sebastian in righteous silence.

Sebastian touched his hat. “Thank you, Bishop. You’ve been . . . most helpful.”

The prelate responded with a stiff bow, took a step back, and closed the old heavy gate with a reverberating crash.

Sebastian stood still for a moment, the snow falling gently around him. He was about to turn away when he became aware of an elegant young woman in a fur-trimmed pelisse and a jaunty Swedish hat emerging from the public footpath that wound up from St. James’s Park. She was an extraordinarily tall woman, nearly as tall as he, with strong, handsome features and the aquiline nose of her father, Lord Jarvis.

“Good heavens,” said Hero, blinking against the falling snow as she came up to him. “What are you doing here?”

“I was about to ask you the same question.”

“I’ve been watching an Italian harpist ice-skate.”

“And that’s an explanation?”

She linked her mittened hand through his proffered arm and smiled. “It is.”