Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(62)
The Italian’s gaze faltered away. “Brougham. Henry Brougham was there. Whitbread. Earl Grey. Some others.”
“Phineas Wallace?”
“No. Not him. He was supposed to attend, but he canceled at the last minute.”
Interesting, thought Sebastian. Aloud, he said, “I’ve been slowly piecing together a picture of Jane Ambrose’s last days. On Thursday, the twentieth of January—exactly one week before she died—Peter van der Pals attempted to cajole Jane into spying on Princess Charlotte for him and then threatened her when she refused. The following day she told Miss Kinsworth of the incident, unaware of the fact that the Duchess of Leeds’s nasty young daughter was listening at keyholes again. So when did Lady Arabella talk to you?”
Vescovi slumped in his seat and looked miserable. “The following Monday.”
“And Jane confronted you beside the canal in St. James’s Park that same day?”
“Yes,” said Vescovi again, obviously not seeing where this was going. “Why?”
“Because the following afternoon—Tuesday—Jane went to see a certain gentleman of her acquaintance to ask about Orange’s sexual interests. So far I haven’t been able to discover who told her about Orange. But given the timing, I’m beginning to think it was you.” Sebastian hesitated. “Am I right?”
Face tight with worry, Vescovi set down his fork with a clatter and pushed his half-eaten plate away.
Sebastian said, “Signor?”
The Italian drew a pained breath and nodded. “I was . . . angry. We both were. She made a number of unjust accusations about me, and I told her she was naive—that she didn’t understand the situation at all.”
“That’s when you told her about Orange?”
Vescovi nodded. “But she didn’t believe me. At least, she said she didn’t.”
“She may not have believed you at first. But she was concerned enough about what you said that she sought out someone she thought could confirm it.”
Vescovi swiped his hands down over his face. “And this person she went to see, did he tell her the truth?”
“He did.”
“Dio mio,” he whispered. “You think that’s why she was killed? Because someone was afraid she might pass on what she’d learned to Charlotte?”
“I think it’s a distinct possibility.”
“Dio mio,” he said again.
Sebastian studied the musician’s haggard, troubled face. “The Orange alliance is important to a number of powerful people, none of whom are the sort to take kindly to having their ambitions thwarted.”
Vescovi brought up a shaky hand to cup his mouth.
“What?” asked Sebastian, watching him.
The musician cast a quick look around, then leaned forward and dropped his hand. “Those pushing for the Orange alliance are extraordinarily ruthless and powerful. But some of those working to prevent the marriage—while less powerful—can also be dangerous.”
Sebastian frowned. “But Jane was against the marriage herself. Why would they be a threat to her?”
“You must understand that those working against the alliance do not all share the same motivations, nor do they all have the Little Princess’s best interests at heart. Some wish simply to protect Charlotte from a miserable future and are opposed to the marriage for that reason, while others would like to prevent the Dutch entanglement but not at the cost of harming the Princess. Yet there are those who will do anything to prevent the alliance and they don’t care if Princess Charlotte is hurt in the process.”
“That doesn’t make sense. How might she get hurt? If anything, it’s in her best interests if the marriage is called off.”
“That depends on why it’s called off, does it not?”
“Meaning—what?”
“Please.” Vescovi’s voice turned into an agonized whisper. “Don’t ask me. I cannot tell you.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s drawn, frightened face. “You might be safer if you did.”
“I cannot.”
And with that, the Italian pushed up from his chair and walked quickly away, his head bowed and the fingers of one hand sliding nervously up and down his watch chain.
Chapter 36
Sebastian stood beside the stone balustrade of Blackfriars Bridge and stared out over the uneven frozen plain that had once been the River Thames. Two straggly parallel lines of gaily painted booths and tents were beginning to form, with roving vendors selling everything from gingerbread and tea to gloves and hairbrushes. Troops of jugglers, acrobats, and tumblers performed for the growing crowd, while close to one of the arches of the bridge someone was roasting a sheep over a large iron pan full of coals and charging sixpence to watch or a shilling for a slice of mutton. The air was heavy with the scent of roasting meat, hot chestnuts, and ale.
There hadn’t been a Frost Fair on the Thames since Sebastian was a boy. In his memories it loomed as a magical thing, a marvel of music and laughter and fanciful sights that seemed far more exciting than those of more humdrum fairs such as Bartholomew’s or Southwark’s. He supposed the wonder had something to do with a Frost Fair’s ephemeral, spontaneous nature, as well as the inevitable spice of danger that came from knowing the ice could at any moment crack and give way, plunging everyone into the frigid waters below.