Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(40)
Vescovi’s eyes narrowed. “I serve both Princesses.”
“And if their interests don’t align? Who do you serve then?”
Vescovi remained silent.
Sebastian said, “You do realize you’ve just admitted you had a motive to kill Jane Ambrose.”
The Italian’s jaw sagged. “Me? What? But . . . how?”
“She knew you spy for the Princess of Wales, and she told Charlotte’s subgoverness.”
“But I didn’t hold that against her!”
“No? You resented it enough to have words with her about it. I assume that was the subject of your quarrel by the canal in the park?”
Vescovi was breathing hard, his chest jerking with his agitation. “I simply wished to make certain she understood the situation.”
“And what is the situation?”
“I pass letters between the Princesses and help keep Her Highness informed about her daughter. That is all. All!”
“You explained this to Jane Ambrose?”
“I did, yes. So you see, I had no reason to kill her.” Vescovi stared back at him owlishly. “None.”
“Then you should have no difficulty in telling me where you were Thursday afternoon and evening.”
Vescovi focused his attention on neatening the bright red scarf he wore wrapped around his neck.
“Signor?” prompted Sebastian.
The Italian carefully aligned the ends of his scarf. “I was in my room at the Percy Arms in Red Lion Square. I—I was unwell that day.”
“I can check on that, you know.”
“Sicuro,” said the harpist with solemn dignity.
But Sebastian noticed his hands were now shaking so badly that he gave up trying to arrange his scarf.
As they drove away from Connaught House, Sebastian said to his tiger, “Valentino Vescovi claims he was in his room at the Percy Arms on Red Lion Square all afternoon and evening last Thursday. After you take care of the horses, why don’t you go around there and see if you can find someone to verify that?”
Tom sat up noticeably straighter, his eyes shining with pride. “Aye, m’lord.”
“So van der Pals was the ‘figlio di puttana’ who told Jane some ‘unflattering truths’ about Valentino Vescovi,” said Hero as she and Devlin joined the crowds walking across Blackfriars Bridge to stare down at the frozen Thames.
“Apparently.” Devlin paused, his gaze on the snow-covered river below. Most of the spectators were content to watch from the safety of the bridge. But a few of the braver—or more foolhardy—were venturing out onto the ice itself, laughing and calling to others to join them.
“What a hideous hotbed of spying and backstabbing that household is. Poor Princess Charlotte. Imagine growing up alone in such an environment.”
“Poor Charlotte, indeed.”
Hero glanced over at him. “Do you believe Caroline’s tale? That Prinny tricked his daughter into agreeing to this vile betrothal?”
“It sounds like him, doesn’t it?”
“It does, rather.” She was silent for a moment. “Just when you think you can’t despise Prinny any more, you learn one more disgusting detail about his treatment of his wife and daughter.”
“When a prince pays people to stand up in court and swear to a vile collection of lies about his own wife, I suspect there is little he wouldn’t do.”
Out on the ice, a bagpipe player began to play a jig, and a laugh went up along the bridge as a man near him began to dance. Hero said, “How deeply involved in this tangled mess do you think Jane Ambrose was?”
Devlin shook his head. “I’m not sure. But her visit to Caroline last week is more than a bit suggestive. First Caroline, then Lord Wallace.”
Hero watched an acrobat turning handstands in the middle of the river. “I wonder what else my friend Miss Kinsworth didn’t tell me.”
“If she’s protecting Charlotte, it could be a great deal.”
Chapter 23
Princess Charlotte’s noble governess, the Dowager Duchess of Leeds, typically attended her charge between the hours of two and five. The exception was on Sundays, when Her Grace put in an appearance between noon and three—which was how she came to be crossing the entrance hall when Hero arrived at Warwick House that afternoon.
“Ah, dear Lady Devlin,” said the Duchess, intercepting her with a tight smile. “What a pleasant surprise. Unfortunately, Princess Charlotte is at present indisposed, so that neither she nor Miss Kinsworth will be able to come down. But do say you’ll join Arabella and me for tea?”
“That would be lovely, thank you,” said Hero with an equally false smile as she allowed herself to be shepherded into the dilapidated drawing room that lay just off the entrance.
“Have you met my daughter? Lady Arabella Osborne.”
“Lady Devlin.” The slender young girl rising from the room’s threadbare silk settee was so lovely it was hard not to stare. Just sixteen years old, she had flawless alabaster skin, a perfect nose, and a trembling pink rosebud of a mouth that seemed to smile shyly. But when Hero met her eyes, she found them a shrewd, icy gray, as hard and unfeeling as granite.
“I do hope there’s nothing seriously wrong with Charlotte,” said Hero, taking a lumpy high-backed chair by the fire.