Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(26)

“Friday afternoons.”

“Is it possible Jane could have been coming here on Thursday evening?”

“I don’t think so. Why would she?”

Sebastian could think of several reasons, but all he said was “How long have you known her?”

“Ten years or more. I met her through Christian.”

“So you knew her well?”

“Oh, yes. She frequently lingered after my daughter’s lessons to argue philosophy with us. She reminded me in some ways of my first wife when she was that age—bright and quick, with a rare courage and strength of character. Except, of course, that Jane’s thinking wasn’t anywhere near as unconventional.”

“She believed in monarchy?”

“She did, yes. I asked her once how she possibly could, given her familiarity with the Prince of Wales.”

“And?”

“She said that however great Prinny’s failings as an individual—and she acknowledged that his failings were indeed great—she still believed he was dedicated to the interests of his Kingdom in a way mere politicians rarely are. I told her a man who has his subjects’ best interests at heart does not run up millions of pounds in debt on self-indulgent fripperies while his people starve.”

“What was her reply?”

“She insisted that Princess Charlotte would be a different kind of ruler—that unlike her father, she truly is kind and caring, as illustrated by the fact that she actually supports both Catholic emancipation and Irish independence.”

“She does?”

“Oh, yes, she’s quite the Whig. Jane also insisted that Charlotte is sincere in her beliefs—unlike her father in his salad days.”

“Did Jane ever say anything to you about Prinny’s plans for his daughter’s marriage?”

“Not really. I asked her recently if the rumors we’re hearing about a possible Orange alliance are true, but she pretended to know nothing about it.”

“What makes you think she was only pretending?”

Godwin’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. “Jane was always an appallingly bad liar. The truth was writ all over her face.” The smile faded away into something bleak and sad. “And now she’s just . . . dead.”

“Who do you think killed her?”

Godwin went to stand at the bowed front window, his features solemn, his gaze on the wind-driven snow collecting in the corners of the mullions. After a moment, he shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

“She never spoke to you of any enemies?”

“Jane? I wouldn’t have said she had any.” He gave a heavy, pained sigh. “I’ve always believed that men are not innately evil—that the evil we see in the world around us is the result of our age’s benighted social conditions and archaic institutions rather than some inherent human flaw. But my Mary never shared my belief in the perfectibility of mankind.”

“And Jane?”

“Jane told me once that her heart agreed with me, but her head suspected Mary was probably right.”

“Did she read your late wife’s works?”

“She did, yes—although only quite recently. I’ve sensed a change in her these last few months, as if she were questioning some of her earlier beliefs, searching for new answers. The loss of her two boys last year, one right after the other, hit her hard. I think she was still finding her way toward understanding and accepting it.”

Sebastian shook his head. “How can anyone understand or accept such a loss?”

“Perhaps one cannot.”

Sebastian settled his hat on his head and turned toward the door. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Have I been of assistance? I hope so. It’s a dreadful thing, if what you say is true. She was such a talented, good-hearted young woman. Why would anyone want to kill her?”

Sebastian paused with a hand on the latch. “What do you know of her relationship with Liam Maxwell?”

“I assume she knew him through her brother—although he was always far more radical than even Christian, let alone Jane.”

“Yet he and Jane were close friends.”

“Were they? I didn’t know that. I’ve always been better acquainted with Somerset than with his former partner. Maxwell’s far too much of a rabble-rouser for my taste. I’ve never believed in initiating change through violence—even before the French Revolution showed us just how ugly that approach can be.”

“But Maxwell does?”

“He does, yes—although he’ll tell you he favors the American model over the French version.”

Sebastian found himself remembering Maxwell’s bitter words on the House of Orange and the destruction of the Dutch Republic, and knew a deep disquiet. “What’s the man’s background?”

“Maxwell? I believe he spent his early years in India. His father was in the East India Company, and his mother was raised there. But both died when he was still a lad. He went to Westminster as a King’s Scholar.”

“That can’t have been easy.”

“No. I’ve always suspected it contributed more than a bit to his radical philosophies.”

“Probably.”

Godwin gave him a hard look. “Why do you ask?”