Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(20)

Sebastian grunted. “More people than you might expect. At the moment my list of suspects includes her husband, an Italian harpist, a Dutch courtier, and Nathan Rothschild.”

“Rothschild? You can’t be serious?”

“I wish I weren’t. I was inclined to doubt it myself until a certain royal cousin warned me quite explicitly that looking too closely into the German financier’s affairs would be hazardous to my health.”

Gibson drained his ale and set the tankard aside with a dull clunk. “Bloody hell. You think Jarvis himself could be involved in this?”

Sebastian met his friend’s worried gaze. “I’m afraid so.”

“Does her ladyship know?”

“Not yet.”

Gibson shook his head and said again, “Bloody hell.”





Chapter 13

That evening, the snow continued to fall in big fat flakes that hurtled down out of a hard sky.

As was their habit of late, Hero and Sebastian gathered in the drawing room before dinner with Simon, fresh from his bath and ready for bed. “What’s this?” asked Sebastian, turning the page of a wooden book painted with barnyard animals as he sat beside his son on a low ottoman.

“Mm-ga-ga-gee,” said Simon, pointing to a shaggy billy goat.

“Sounded like ‘goat’ to me,” said Hero with a smile. “Your son is brilliant.”

“Of course he’s brilliant. He has a very brilliant mother. And what’s that?” Sebastian asked as the boy turned the next thick wooden page himself.

Simon smashed a fat finger down on the fluffy black lamb. “Mm-ga-ga-gee.”

“Alas, they’re all mm-ga-ga-gees,” said Sebastian, just as a knock sounded at the distant front door. He looked over at Hero. “Expecting someone?”

A stranger’s voice could be heard below, mingling with that of their majordomo, Morey. “No,” she said.

Tiring of his book, Simon scooted off the ottoman and tottered over to the long-haired black cat curled up in one of the cane chairs near the bowed front window. “Mm-ga-ga-gee.”

The big cat looked at the boy through slitted green eyes and lashed his magnificent long, thick tail—a movement that was not generally a sign of either affection or pleasure.

“Careful there, young man,” said Sebastian, rising to his feet as Morey appeared in the doorway.

“A gentleman to see you, my lord,” said the majordomo. “A Mr. Liam Maxwell. He says it’s about Mrs. Ambrose.”

Sebastian exchanged a quick glance with Hero. “Show him up.”

Hero moved to retrieve the fallen book and thrust it in a drawer. “Do you know who he is?”

Sebastian shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

The man who entered looked to be in his late twenties. Of medium height and slim build, he was respectably rather than fashionably dressed, with fierce dark eyes and windswept dark hair that glistened with wet from the snow. It was obvious he was laboring under barely suppressed emotions, his features pinched with what looked like profound grief. “Lord and Lady Devlin,” he said with a perfunctory bow. “My apologies for interrupting you at this hour.”

“That’s quite all right,” said Sebastian. “Please come in and sit down, Mr. Maxwell. How may I help you?”

Their guest made no move to take a seat but continued to stand just inside the door, his hat in his hands, his posture stiff enough to be almost hostile. “I’m here because of Jane—Jane Ambrose.”

Sebastian walked over to the small table where a decanter of brandy and glasses were warming by the fire. “You knew her?”

Maxwell hesitated just a shade too long before saying, “I’ve known her for years. Her brother and I once published a newspaper together.”

Sebastian looked up, the brandy decanter in one hand. “I’d no notion James Somerset was involved in journalism.”

Maxwell shook his head. “Not her twin, James. I meant her younger brother, Christian. He and I were in school together at Westminster.”

“Christian Somerset is Jane’s brother?” said Hero, as if the name meant something to her. Sebastian himself had no idea who Christian Somerset was, but Hero was staring at Liam Maxwell as if she now understood something that had escaped her before.

Maxwell nodded. “I’m told your lordship is looking into the circumstances surrounding Jane’s death, which doesn’t make sense if she truly slipped on the ice the way the papers are saying.”

Sebastian poured a healthy measure of brandy into two glasses. “There will be no official inquiry into Jane Ambrose’s death because the palace will never allow any hint of scandal to touch the Princess. But Jane did not slip in the snow and hit her head. It’s not clear whether her death was murder or manslaughter, but she didn’t die in the lane where she was found. Someone moved her body there after she was already dead.”

“Dear God.”

Sebastian held out one of the brandies, and after a moment’s hesitation, Maxwell took it and drank deeply. “I want to help find whoever is responsible for this.”

“You have an idea who might have killed her?” asked Hero.

Maxwell glanced over at her, the features of his face tightening with what looked very much like animosity. “Not exactly.”