Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(33)

“My apologies for the intrusion,” said Sebastian, pausing just inside the dining room door, his hat in his hands.

Ambrose nodded, his lips pressed together tightly. “I understand it’s necessary.”

“Is there a place we can talk?” asked Sebastian.

He saw a flicker of something in Ambrose’s bloodshot eyes that was there and then gone. “Yes. Of course.”

The playwright led the way to a crowded library dominated by two pianofortes. Sheet music lay scattered everywhere, along with stacks of books, several violins, and a flute. “Have you discovered something?” he asked, turning to face Sebastian. He did not invite him to sit.

“Actually, yes. I’m hearing reports that you have a mistress. Is that true?”

Ambrose’s head jerked back. “Good God, no!”

Sebastian studied the other man’s suddenly high color and tightened jaw. “Let me give you some advice: When it comes to murder, it’s never a good idea to lie. It makes you look guilty.”

Ambrose straightened his shoulders, his nostrils flaring wide as if he were working to keep his temper in check and his voice even. “I do not keep a mistress.”

“If you do, I will find out about it eventually. You do realize that, don’t you?”

“I do not keep a mistress and I did not kill my wife. That is what you’re insinuating, isn’t it?”

Sebastian let his gaze drift around the room, taking in again the multiple musical instruments, the basket of mending beside the hearth. It looked very much like a space Jane had shared with her husband rather than the private retreat he had insinuated the last time Sebastian had spoken with him. “You had a quarrel with Jane late Tuesday on the steps of the Opera—a quarrel that ended with you shaking her and her in tears. And don’t even think about trying to deny it because you were seen by someone I know and trust.”

Ambrose walked away to stand looking out the window at the narrow snow-filled garden to the rear of the house. “Husbands and wives quarrel. Why should I deny it?”

“What was the quarrel about?”

“If I tell you, you must assure me that it will go no further.”

“Within reason, of course.”

Ambrose hesitated, then said, “I was angry because Jane had paid a visit to the Princess of Wales.”

Whatever Sebastian had been expecting, it wasn’t that.

Caroline, Princess of Wales, was the Regent’s estranged wife and mother to Princess Charlotte. Once she had been highly sought after by members of the ton, an enthusiastic hostess famous for giving unusual, amusing dinner parties frequented by everyone from men of letters such as Lord Byron and Walter Scott to the painter Thomas Lawrence and Whig politicians like Brougham and Wallace. But when the Prince of Wales became Regent, most of Society dropped her cold. Few cared to alienate the Prince, who was now both head of state and head of the royal family—and who had a reputation for holding a grudge forever and exacting petty revenges.

“The Regent’s patronage is important to a man in my profession,” Ambrose was saying. “You know the way he treats those who dare have anything to do with Caroline. What husband in my position wouldn’t have been angry?”

“When did Jane visit Charlotte’s mother?”

“I don’t recall precisely. Sometime last week.”

“Why?”

Ambrose looked as if the question puzzled him. “I’ve no idea. What does it matter why she went? Do you imagine the Prince cares what her motives might have been?”

“It matters if it had something to do with her death.”

Ambrose brought up a hand to rub his forehead. “Oh, yes, of course. I wasn’t thinking of that.”

“No. I can see you weren’t.”

A faint flush touched the other man’s cheeks, but he remained silent.

“Did you know Lord Wallace was planning to employ Jane to instruct one of his daughters?”

“Wallace?” What looked like a habitual kind of fury hardened the other man’s eyes. “No. She didn’t tell me. Good God, what was she thinking?”

“To deal with someone who has made himself such a public enemy of the Prince, you mean?”

“Yes!”

“Perhaps she didn’t care.”

“Obviously.”

“Any chance she was romantically involved with another man?”

Ambrose let his hand drop, his jaw tightening. “You can’t be serious. What are you suggesting now?”

The playwright was either oblivious to his wife’s friendship with Liam Maxwell, or very good at hiding uncomfortable truths he didn’t want known. Rather than answer, Sebastian said, “A day or two before she was killed, your wife was raped. Did you know?”

Ambrose stared at him. “No.”

“She didn’t say anything to you about it?”

“Good Lord, no.”

“It wasn’t you by any chance, was it?”

Ambrose took a hasty step forward, his hands curling into fists. “I should call you out for that.”

“I wouldn’t advise it,” said Sebastian dryly.

“Get out. Get out of my house. Now.”

Sebastian inclined his head and turned toward the door. But he paused to glance back and say, “One more thing: You told me you were here on Thursday afternoon. But I don’t recall your saying where you were that evening.”