Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(48)

“It must be innate. What I don’t understand is, why all the spying on Charlotte?”

“I suspect it’s because both the Regent and Orange are afraid she will try to back out of her betrothal.”

Hero watched the Princess form a snowball and throw it for her dog. “Would she do that?”

“If she learned the truth about Orange? I think she might try. She’s already furious over the plans to force her to leave England, and honesty is so very important to Charlotte.”

Hero glanced over at her friend in surprise. “You know, then?”

“About Orange’s disinterest in women? Oh, yes—at least, I do now. Unfortunately, I didn’t know last December. Otherwise I would have cautioned her before she agreed to meet him.”

“Did you tell Jane Ambrose?”

“About Orange? No.”





“Toby! Come!” called the Princess. The two women watched together as the girl waded through the snow to the edge of the terrace and stood staring out at a smooth section of the river that was thick with ice-skaters.

Miss Kinsworth said, “It’s horrible, what Prinny is doing—marrying her to Orange without telling her the truth. After the miserable, lonely childhood she’s had, she wants desperately to find love and happiness in her marriage. But there’s no chance of that with him as her bridegroom.”

“It sounds as if Prinny’s keeping any number of truths from her.” The dog was frolicking at the Princess’s feet, wanting to run. But Charlotte stood transfixed by the intricate maneuvers of a pair of experienced ice-gliders. “Does she know her father is plotting to divorce her mother as soon as she’s out of the country?”

“She doesn’t know for certain, but there’s no denying she fears it. It’s why she’s fighting so hard over the marriage contracts—to try to insert a clause saying Orange won’t be able to force her to leave England against her will.”

“Do you think she’ll succeed?”

Miss Kinsworth looked troubled. “I don’t know.”

They watched as Charlotte reached down to scratch the happily panting dog behind its cropped ears. Hero said, “The greyhound is lovely.”

“She is, isn’t she? She used to belong to Napoléon’s Empress, but was taken aboard a French ship we captured.”

“So she’s a prisoner of war?”

Miss Kinsworth laughed. “I suppose in a sense she is. The captain sent her to the Prince, except of course Prinny hates dogs, so Charlotte rescued the poor creature.”

Hero looked over at her friend. “What kind of man hates dogs?”

“Dogs don’t like him. They growl and snap at him.”

“The wisdom of animals,” murmured Hero as the Princess turned to come running up to them, the dog at her heels.

“Oh, I wish I could try skating,” she said, laughing. “Do you think Papa would permit it, Miss Kinsworth?”

“You could ask him,” said Miss Kinsworth in a voice that didn’t hold out much hope for success.

The Princess pulled a face at her, then turned to Hero. “Do you skate, Lady Devlin?”

“I never have. Although if this weather keeps up, I fear we all may need to learn.”

Charlotte laughed again, then grew serious. The carefree child who’d been playing with her dog disappeared, her features schooled into a sober expression that gave a glimpse of the splendid queen she would one day be. “Miss Kinsworth says you wished to ask me about Jane Ambrose—about our lesson the day she died.”

“You’re the last person known to have had any meaningful interaction with Jane that day. Can you remember anything about that morning—anything at all—that might shed some light on what happened to her?”

“Sorry, no. Believe me, I have gone over our conversation in my mind. But I can’t think of anything.”

“Do you know where she planned to go after she left Warwick House?”

“I assumed she would be returning home, although I don’t believe she ever actually said. We spoke of the cold, and she told me she’d heard the Cambridge stage was snowed up for eight hours before they managed to pull it out with most of the passengers nearly frozen to death. But I can’t recall our discussing anything of a personal nature.”

“Did she seem worried or troubled to you?”

The Princess considered this a moment, then shook her head. “I don’t think I would say she was troubled. But there was something different about her I can only describe as a sort of fierceness. As if—” She broke off.

“Yes, Your Highness?” prompted Hero.

“It was as if she had finally made up her mind about something and was both relieved and determined to carry through on her decision.” Charlotte gave a rueful smile. “I know it sounds an odd, fanciful thing to say, but I can’t think of any other way to describe it. And it’s no use asking me what she’d made up her mind about, because I’ve no notion at all.”



“It could mean nothing,” Hero said to Devlin later, after she’d related the conversation to him. She was leaning against the doorway of his dressing room and watching him tie a rough black cravat around his neck. The cravat was black for the same reason his breeches were worn and his shirt frayed: Kat Boleyn had arranged for him to meet a smuggler named Archibald Potter at a tavern called the Cat and Fiddle near Ratcliff Highway, and one did not venture into an area such as Whitechapel dressed like a Bond Street beau.