Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(64)
After he had gone, Sebastian remained on the bridge, his gaze on the makeshift booths and tents below. Of all the Whigs gathered around the Princess of Wales, Lord Wallace was probably the most likely to stop at almost nothing if he thought he could scuttle the projected alliance between Britain and the Netherlands. But did that include murdering a talented pianist?
Perhaps. The problem was, Why? In what way could Wallace have seen Jane as a threat to his machinations? Jane was every bit as opposed to the proposed Orange marriage as Wallace. Vescovi had hinted at something hidden, something sinister. But what?
What?
Playing a hunch, Sebastian drove to Lord Wallace’s house on Mount Street. Only, instead of knocking at his door, Sebastian stayed with the horses and sent his tiger, Tom, to question his lordship’s house servants and grooms.
Unassuming, subtle, and beguilingly cheerful, Tom was very good at eliciting information without raising a whisper of either understanding or alarm.
Sometime later, Phineas Wallace was crossing the snowy forecourt of the House of Lords when Sebastian fell into step beside him.
“Now what the devil do you want?” demanded the Baron as they turned onto Margaret Street toward Whitehall.
“I’m wondering where you were the afternoon and evening of Thursday, the twenty-seventh of January.”
“Really? Why on earth would you want to know that?”
“That’s the day Jane Ambrose was killed.”
Wallace drew up abruptly and swung to face him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid I am.” When the Baron continued to simply stare at Sebastian, he said again, “So where were you?”
Wallace turned and kept walking. “You think I remember? That was a week ago.”
“Not quite. As it happens, Her Highness the Princess of Wales gave a dinner party that evening. All your friends and close associates—Brougham, Whitbread, Earl Grey—were there. But you weren’t. Why was that? I wonder. And before you claim to have been at home, I should warn you that your servants say otherwise.”
“My God. Have you stooped to suborning a man’s own servants?”
“Not suborning. Merely questioning.” Sebastian studied the Baron’s tightly held face. “It’s no secret that you are strongly opposed to the marriage Prinny has arranged between his daughter and the House of Orange.”
Wallace threw a quick look around and lowered his voice. “Of course I am opposed to this ridiculous alliance. But what has that to say to anything?”
“I don’t think Jane Ambrose came to see you about music lessons for your daughter. I think something else was involved—something linked to either Princess Charlotte or her mother. Or both.”
Lord Wallace paused at the kerb. “Did it ever occur to you that you are wrong? That Jane Ambrose simply slipped on the ice, hit her head, and died? That her death, while tragic, is not part of some grand and nefarious international conspiracy?”
Sebastian shook his head. “Jane Ambrose didn’t die alone in the middle of Shepherds’ Lane.”
“That doesn’t mean her death necessarily had anything to do with the Princesses.” Wallace turned his head to stare thoughtfully up the snowy street, his eyes narrowing against the glare. “I’m told Jane Ambrose was as much against this marriage scheme as anyone. If you are right and she did not simply die by accident, then I suggest you look for her killer amongst those dedicated to seeing the alliance go through. Not amongst those who are opposed to it.”
“Perhaps. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Jane Ambrose would never do anything that might harm Princess Charlotte. Can you say the same?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed the Baron, and walked away.
But Sebastian noticed he didn’t deny it.
Chapter 37
That evening, Sebastian and his Viscountess wrapped young Master Simon in a fur-lined robe, sturdy boots, and a thick woolen cap and mittens, and set off to visit the Frost Fair.
The fair was a magical place after dark, with torches flaring up golden bright against a clear, glittering black sky and strings of colored lanterns dangling between parallel rows of makeshift booths and stalls. They’d dubbed the main thoroughfare “the City Road,” a grand promenade that snaked down the frozen river from Blackfriars to London Bridge. Scores of tradesmen whose businesses were suffering from the cold and snow had seized the opportunity to reach new customers, with everyone from barbers to shoemakers setting up shop on the ice. There were gaming tents with EO tables, wheels of fortune, and rouge et noir; drinking tents where gin and ale flowed freely; cook stalls selling mutton pies and baked potatoes and gingerbread; and amusements such as knock-’em-downs and merry-go-rounds for the children. Their shrieks and laughter echoed across the ice, mingling with the wail of bagpipes, the screech of fiddles from dancing tents, and the quavering voices of ragged little girls singing ballads for a penny.
Rather than being smooth, the icy surface was rough and undulating, for the Thames had not frozen in a single sheet. And so the “streets” of the fair twisted this way and that, winding around jagged, snow-covered hillocks formed by the massive ice chunks that had floated down from upriver and collided into one another, allowing the river to freeze between them.