Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(63)

There were tents for drinking, eating, and dancing; toy stalls and skittles alleys; even a Punch and Judy show. And near the roasting sheep, a couple of apprentices were helping their master set up a printing press in a booth decorated with gaily colored streamers. The apprentices were unknown to Sebastian, but he recognized the printer. It was Liam Maxwell.

A young mother and two small children, all wrapped up warmly against the cold, were picking their way across the ice toward Maxwell’s booth. For a moment the younger boy paused to gaze in wide-eyed wonder at a juggler tossing flaming torches high into the air, and Sebastian found his thoughts spinning away, inevitably, to Jane Ambrose’s last days.

He suspected that, near the end, she must have felt something like a juggler herself, desperately trying to control the dangerous men who threatened her world. One of them had eventually killed her. If Sebastian could figure out how and where, it might tell him which one. But at the moment his thoughts were all up in the air, going round and round in an endless, useless whirl.

He was still staring thoughtfully out over the growing fair when a slim, elegantly dressed courtier came to stand beside him, the breeze rising off the ice to ruffle the artful curls that framed his handsome face.

“A curious level of excitement, this,” said Peter van der Pals, his gaze on the bustle below. “One would think they’d never seen a Frost Fair before.”

“They don’t happen here often.”

Van der Pals shifted his posture to lean one hip against the snow-covered battlement and face Sebastian. “I’m told you’ve been making inquiries about me.”

“I have. I don’t appreciate it when people lie to my wife.”

The Dutch courtier stiffened. It was considered a grave insult, calling a gentleman a liar. “I beg your pardon?”

Sebastian kept his voice even and pleasant, his gaze on two men setting up a swing below. “When you claimed Jane Ambrose was jealous of your attentions to Lady Arabella, that was a lie. Her anger was actually provoked by your attempts to convince her to spy on Princess Charlotte. When she refused, you threatened to make her ‘sorry’ if she told anyone. But she did tell someone, and now she’s dead. All of which makes you a prime suspect in her murder.”

A weak sun peeked out through a break in the clouds, and van der Pals’s eyes narrowed against the glare off the ice. “No one murdered Jane Ambrose. She slipped and fell.”

“Someone certainly made a rather clumsy attempt to give that impression.”

“So you’re suggesting—what? That I killed her out of spite? For daring to tell some dried-up old spinster on me?” The Dutchman gave a ringing laugh. “Surely you know that everyone around Charlotte spies for someone?”

“Perhaps. Except that as a result of your rather crude overtures, Jane Ambrose learned a certain troublesome secret about the Prince of Orange. And that secret gives you a second—and considerably more powerful—motive to kill her.”

The smirk remained on the courtier’s face. “Do you realize how many men in England—not to mention on the Continent—know this supposedly powerful and dangerous ‘secret’? Yet no one is killing them. To my knowledge, Mrs. Ambrose’s death remains a singularity.”

“Jane Ambrose’s access to Princess Charlotte was also rather . . . singular.”

Van der Pals twitched one shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “At this point it doesn’t matter whether Charlotte learns the truth or not. It’s too late for her to back out.”

“Perhaps. But it does rather beg the question: If your Prince is certain of his future bride’s constancy, why were you so eager to place a spy in her household?”

“Security. There are those who would like nothing more than to see the betrothal ended before it is announced.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“Charlotte’s mother, the Princess of Wales, obviously—and those who champion her cause.”

“Namely?”

“Wallace. Brougham. You know as well as I with whom Caroline associates.”

“Who else?”

The courtier raised one haughty eyebrow. “How would I know?”

“Because it’s your business to know.” Sebastian studied the courtier’s handsome smiling face. “The betrothal’s announcement is being delayed because Orange fears he has yet to adequately solidify his position in the Netherlands. That tells me there are forces within your own country that are as opposed to the match as Caroline and her associates. So who amongst the Dutch in London might be working to prevent the alliance?”

“None, to my knowledge. Apart from which, why would any of them want to kill Jane Ambrose? The woman was against the betrothal herself.”

“So she was. Although I wonder how you came to know that.”

“She told me.”

“Oh? When did she tell you this?”

“The last time I saw her.”

“Which was—when?”

“You seriously think I recall?”

“You claim to recall what she said.”

Van der Pals pushed away from the balustrade to stand with his hands dangling loosely at his sides, his chiseled jaw set so hard he was practically spitting out his words. “That makes twice you have insulted my honor by calling me a liar. It is only my respect for what is owed the dignity of my Prince that prevents me from calling you out here and now. But I will not be so forbearing next time. Good day to you, my lord.” And with that he strode off, the hem of his elegant caped greatcoat flaring in the icy wind.