Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(43)

Jarvis calmly slipped his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Are you so certain she did not?”

“When three different physicians who treated her during that period, her dresser, and the chambermaid who changes her sheets all swear it never happened? When the friends who saw her every week laugh at the possibility? When the Prince is now paying Lady Douglas a tidy pension for life? Don’t be ridiculous.”

Jarvis gave a negligent shrug. “Yet many people do believe it. In the end, that’s all that counts.”

“And the truth?”

“The truth has nothing to do with it.”

Wallace shook his head, his jaw set hard. “Charlotte knows of her father’s intentions. She will never allow herself to be forced to leave the country. She has been warned of the consequences to both her mother and her own position as heiress presumptive to the throne. And because she knows her father and the way he lies and feigns affection to get what he wants, she will insist that safeguards are written into the marriage contract before she signs it.”

“She’ll sign. She’s already agreed to the betrothal; these clever little machinations of yours are all too late.”

“It won’t be too late until the vows are said.”

“Perhaps. But they will be said. Make no mistake about that.”

“Not if I can help it,” said Wallace curtly. “Good day to you, sir.”

Jarvis smiled faintly as Wallace strode angrily away up St. James’s Street.

He was still smiling when his daughter, Hero, came to stand beside him.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said.

“Oh?” They turned together to walk down Cleveland Row. “Do I take it from your scowl that you’ve learned something? Something you believe does not cast me in what you consider a flattering light?”

“You sent one of your men in a carriage to pick up Jane Ambrose as she was leaving Warwick House exactly two weeks before she was killed. Why was that?”

“And if I told you the woman was spying on Charlotte for me?”

“I wouldn’t believe you. Not unless you were forcing her to do so against her will.” When Jarvis remained silent, she said, “So were you?”

He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

Hero’s nostrils flared on a quick intake of air. “I would think you have enough spies around the Princess—including a certain very beautiful duke’s daughter with a gift for languages and the lethal instincts of a barracuda.”

“One can never have too many informants.”

“Perhaps not. Especially when you’re plotting to maneuver Princess Charlotte out of the country so that the Regent can replace Caroline with a new wife and beget a new heir.”

“Now, wherever did you hear that?”

“From Caroline.”

“Really? Interesting.”

“She’s no fool.”

“That’s debatable.”

“She says Prinny was virtually impotent nineteen years ago—which is quite believable given the rumors one hears about his current so-called mistresses.”

When Jarvis remained silent, she said, “If what she says is true, the chances of the Prince producing a male heir at this point are decidedly slim.”

“Slim, perhaps, but not impossible.”

“What’s wrong with Charlotte? She’s far more stable, responsible, and just plain likable than her father. And the people love her—they cheer her every time they see her.”

“She is a woman.”

“So was Queen Elizabeth.”

“Queen Elizabeth lived in a far different age.”

“Are you suggesting the Elizabethan era was more enlightened than our own? Or simply less challenging?”

Jarvis drew up and turned to face her. “The last thing the nineteenth century needs is a woman on the British throne—especially one who believes in Catholic emancipation and Irish independence.”

“Ah. So young Charlotte actually is a Whig, is she?”

“Fervently so. Her becoming queen would be an unmitigated disaster.”

“And so you’re marrying this innocent eighteen-year-old to a foreign prince with a known preference for handsome courtiers? How can you do that to the poor girl?”

“I’m not interested in what’s best for Charlotte. My concern is what is best for Britain.”

Hero studied him through narrowed eyes. “Why would someone kill Jane Ambrose?”

“I’ve no idea.”

He was aware of Hero’s gaze still hard upon him. “I don’t believe you,” she said.

At that, Jarvis laughed out loud and looped his arm through hers. But all he said was “So are you planning to bring your son to see your grandmother this afternoon? I’ve no doubt she’ll complain that he’s interrupting her nap and fatiguing her in every way known to man, but I doubt she’ll live to see many more of his birthdays. . . .”





Chapter 25

That evening Alistair James St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon and the man known to the world as Sebastian’s father, paid a visit to Brook Street.

He came to wish young Simon a happy birthday and to present the boy with a mechanical turtle, which the child adored. Afterward, Sebastian set up the chessboard on a table by the library fire and the two men sipped fine brandy while an icy wind howled around the house. There’d been a time not so long ago when Sebastian had believed the breach between them would never be healed. But things were easier these days. Not exactly the way they had been before, but easier.