Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(46)

She looked from Hero to Alexi, as if searching for an answer. But Hero felt her throat close up as the words of comfort she sought proved elusive. How do you console a seventeen-year-old mother who is about to die at the hands of her own government?

The truth is, you can’t.





Chapter 27

The day was turning increasingly cold. By the time Sebastian knocked at the small ramshackle brick house on Savile Row now inhabited by Richard Sheridan, a fierce wind was howling down the street.

One of his generation’s most successful dramatists and a respected member of government, Sheridan had been the toast of London for decades. But he’d taken a massive financial loss when both Drury Lane and Covent Garden burned within just a few years of each other, and he’d always had a tendency to live beyond his means. With the recent loss of his parliamentary seat thanks to an ugly quarrel with the Regent, he’d now become exposed to his creditors.

Even a few weeks in debtors’ prison were hard on someone in his sixties. The thin, hunched man who invited Sebastian into his nearly empty parlor looked haggard and ill, his nose red and his eyes watering. He clutched an old blue-and-red horse blanket around his shoulders for warmth and had a nightcap pulled down over his long silver hair, presumably for the same reason.

“Please, have a seat,” he said, indicating one of the two chairs drawn up before the fire. They were the only pieces of furniture in the room. “My creditors have taken the settees and carpet and a lovely old table that belonged to my late wife’s mother. But, fortunately, the stout lad who delivers coal next door was kind enough to hide the chairs in the attic when we saw the bailiffs coming.” The playwright grimaced as he settled again before the fire. “Unfortunately, I’ve no doubt they’ll be back. It’ll be a damnable nuisance, sitting on the floor at my age. But at least they can’t rip out the fireplace.” He fussed with the tails of his coat, then frowned up at Sebastian. “What the devil are you doing here, anyway?”

“I’m told Jane Ambrose was your niece.”

“She was, yes.” Sheridan’s eyes narrowed. He might have been impoverished and ill, but his mind was still quick and clever. “Word on the street says she was murdered. I take it that’s true?”

“It was either murder or manslaughter. She didn’t fall and hit her head in the middle of Shepherds’ Lane. That’s for certain.”

“Well, well,” said the old man, shaking his head.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Jane? Just last Tuesday.”

“She came here?”

“She did. Does that surprise you?” He gave a bark of laughter that ended in a cough. “I still had the settees then.”

“Did she come to see you often?”

“Often enough. Even rescued me from the Marshalsea last November. It’s the worst part about losing my seat in Parliament, you know—having all these bastards hounding me night and day.”

“How did she seem when you last saw her?”

“How was she? She was bloody furious—that’s how she was. Seems someone told her that His Most Serene Highness the Hereditary Prince of Orange is extraordinarily fond of his more attractive male friends and manservants, and she wanted to know if it was a tale or not.”

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth, of course.”

“Where had she heard about Orange?”

“She never said. She was all afret about how Princess Charlotte would react, should she find out.” Sheridan exhaled his breath in a huff. “You’ve seen Orange—skinny as a straw, and those teeth! They don’t come much plainer-looking or more awkward. According to Jane, the only thing Princess Charlotte likes about the fellow is that she believes him to be direct and honest—unlike that worthless lying cad of a father of hers. Jane said it would devastate the girl, if she ever realizes how she’s been taken in by the lot of them.”

“She will find out. Eventually.”

“Oh, undoubtedly.”

Sebastian studied the aging playwright’s sagging features. His skin was slack and pale, and he needed a shave. But the ghost of his youthful good looks was still there in the strong nose, finely molded lips, and cleft, rounded chin. “Did you encourage Jane to tell the Princess?”

Sheridan stared back at him. “I did not.”

“Yet I assume you are opposed to the match with Orange.”

“Of course I am. But I didn’t advise Jane to tell Charlotte. What would be the point, at this stage? The girl will never be allowed to back out of the betrothal now.” Sheridan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “You think that’s why Jane was killed? Because of Orange? But that makes no sense. There must be dozens in London who know the truth.”

“Yes. But how many have Charlotte’s ear?”

Sheridan blew out a troubled breath. “There is that.” He sat for a time with his gaze on the fire, his brow furrowed with thought.

Sebastian said, “Who do you think killed her?”

Sheridan looked up. “You mean besides that worthless husband of hers?”

“Was he faithful to her?”

“Ambrose? What do you think?” The vehemence of the old man’s words caught Sebastian by surprise. “Of course he wasn’t. He’s one of the most successful dramatists working today, which means he has opera singers and dancers falling all over themselves to convince him to give them a part—and he’s not the sort of man who’d fail to take advantage of that.”