Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(2)
“I like t’ never found ye, yer honor,” said Tom, almost falling again as he skidded to a halt. “A message jist come to Brook Street from ’er ladyship.”
“Yes, I heard she’s been delayed in Clerkenwell.”
“Aye, but this is a second message, yer honor. She’s at the Queen’s ’Ead near the Green, and she says you’ll be wantin’ t’ come right away. Somebody close to Princess Charlotte’s been murdered, and ’er ladyship done tripped over the body jist alyin’ there in the street!”
He found Hero beside a roaring fire in the private parlor of a ramshackle old inn at the base of Shepherds’ Lane. She stood lost in thought, her hands held out to the blaze. Her wet, rich dark hair lay plastered against her face; the skirts of the elegant black gown she wore in mourning for her dead mother hung limp and sodden.
“Devlin. Thank heavens,” she said, turning as he entered.
“I’m sorry it took so long for your message to find me.” She was one of the strongest people he knew, determinedly rational and fiercely brave. But as she came into his arms and he held her close, he felt a faint shudder rack her tall Junoesque frame. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She drew back to give him a lopsided smile, as if vaguely embarrassed by that brief display of vulnerability. “Although more shaken than I’d care to admit.”
“Anyone would be shaken.”
“Not Alexi. She’s gone off to treat the cook’s frostbite.”
Sebastian grunted. He wasn’t sure anything could shock that enigmatic fiery-haired Frenchwoman. But all he said was “Tell me what happened.”
He drew her back to the fire’s warmth while she provided him with a crisp, calm summary. “A couple of the parish constables are guarding the body,” she said. “But I made certain they sent word directly to Sir Henry at Bow Street rather than to the public office here at Hatton Garden.”
“That was wise,” said Sebastian. Violent deaths connected in any way with the royal family had a tendency to present the officials involved with a Faustian dilemma. And the magistrates of Hatton Garden had in the past proven themselves to be far from reliable. “Does anyone else know yet?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
Sebastian nodded, his gaze meeting hers. There was no need to give voice to what both were thinking. “Good.”
Sir Henry Lovejoy arrived in Clerkenwell not long after Sebastian.
The Bow Street magistrate was a small man, barely five feet tall, with stern religious views, a serious demeanor, and unshakable integrity. There’d been a time not so long ago when Sebastian had been a fugitive on the run for murder and Sir Henry the magistrate tasked with tracking him down. But in the years since then an unusual friendship had developed between the Earl’s son and the dour middle-aged magistrate. As different as the two men were, they shared a fierce dedication to the pursuit of justice.
Huddled now in a heavy greatcoat with a scarf covering his lower face, Sir Henry stood outside the Queen’s Head in quiet consultation with his constables while Sebastian handed Hero up into her carriage. Sebastian was watching the coachman pull away to carefully guide his team down the snowy street when Sir Henry came up beside him.
“Her ladyship is certain of the victim’s identity?” said the magistrate, his eyes narrowing as the carriage’s rear wheels slid sideways on the icy cobbles.
Sebastian nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
“Not a good situation.”
“No,” agreed Sebastian.
The carriage swung around a distant corner, and the two men turned to wade through the deep drifts clogging Shepherds’ Lane. The snow still fell thick and fast around them.
Two parish constables stood guard over a dark, silent form rapidly disappearing beneath the falling snow. The men had been stomping their feet and swinging their arms in an effort to stay warm, but at the Bow Street magistrate’s approach, both went rigid.
“At ease, men,” said Sir Henry.
“Aye, yer honor,” said one of the constables, although he still didn’t move.
Crouching down beside Jane Ambrose’s body, Sebastian yanked off his glove and used his bare hand to brush gently at the snow that had already re-covered the dead woman’s lifeless skin and dark blue lips. She’d been a poignantly attractive woman, he thought, his hand curling into a fist as he rested his forearm on his bent knee; she was probably somewhere in her early thirties, with thick dark hair, wide cheekbones, and a heart-shaped face.
The side of her head was a pulpy mess.
Lovejoy thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his greatcoat and looked away. “Did you know her, as well?”
Sebastian pulled on his glove again, his gaze returning to that still, pale face. “Only by reputation.” She’d been born Jane Somerset, the daughter of the organist at Westminster Abbey. As child prodigies, she and her twin, James, had given numerous musical performances to great acclaim. But modesty required females of her class to retire from public view once they reached marriageable age. And so, while her brother James Somerset had gone on to be acknowledged as a promising young composer and one of the greatest pianists of their age, Jane had ceased to perform, married a successful dramatist named Edward Ambrose, and confined herself to such socially acceptable “feminine” pursuits as writing glees and ballads and teaching piano to the children of the wealthy. Premier amongst those students was Princess Charlotte, ebullient young daughter of the Regent and heiress presumptive to the throne behind her father.