Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(66)

“He’s aware of your friendship with Jane?”

“How could he not be? Christian and I have been mates since we were at school together.”

“Will Ambrose allow him to attend the funeral?”

“Christian? I’ve no doubt Ambrose would like to keep him away. But it wouldn’t look good, would it—barring Jane’s brother from her funeral? And Ambrose is all about being seen to do the right thing.”

“Mr. Maxwell,” called one of the apprentices. “We need more paper!”

Maxwell cast a quick glance back at his booth. “I must go.”

“Of course,” said Sebastian. “Thank you.”

Sebastian was still standing there, watching the printer bustle about preparing a new ream of paper, when Hero walked up with Simon clutching a square of warm gingerbread in his mittened hands.

“Do you believe what he told you?” she asked quietly.

“Some of it,” said Sebastian, his gaze still on the printer. “But not all.”

As they turned to leave, Maxwell stepped in front of his booth to clap his hands and shout, “Step right up, friends, and seize your chance to support the freedom of the press! After all, what can be a greater example of liberty than a genuine souvenir of the Frost Fair, printed right here in the middle of the Thames?”



They drove home through nearly deserted streets that glowed a ghostly blue-white in the waning moonlight.

“What do you think Maxwell is hiding?” Hero asked suddenly, as if she had been quietly pondering his recent conversation.

Sebastian shook his head. “I wish I knew. I’d also like to know how the devil he found out about Rothschild’s gold shipments—and Jarvis’s involvement in it all. He claims he didn’t learn it from Jane, and that’s one of the few things he’s said that I’m inclined to believe.”

“Yet he didn’t know about Jane’s problems with van der Pals?”

“Evidently not.”

Hero stared out at the shuttered shops of Bond Street flashing past. It was so cold the fresh layer of powder squeaked beneath the horses’ hooves. “You think Maxwell and Jane were lovers?”

“I’m not sure. He knew her lessons with Mary Godwin were on Friday and not Thursday—which is interesting, given that her own husband claims to be ignorant of her students. Of course, if—”

He broke off as the coachman shouted, “Whoa there!” and the carriage came to a shuddering halt, the horses snorting and plunging.

“What the devil?” said Sebastian, leaning forward.

A man lay crumpled at the turning into Brook Street. A lanky middle-aged man with a long red scarf that trailed behind him like a line of blood in the snow.





Chapter 38

By the time Sebastian reached him, Valentino Vescovi was struggling to prop himself up on his elbows, his breath coming in short, painful gasps.

“Where are you hurt?” said Sebastian, kneeling beside him in the snow.

The Italian’s harsh features contorted with pain. “Bastardo . . . Stuck a knife in my back.”

“Who? Who did this?”

“Don’t know. Couldn’t see. Most of his face was hidden.”

Sebastian looked up to find one of his young footmen staring at them, his mouth slack with horror. “Don’t just stand there, damn it! Run to the house and get some men to help carry him inside.”

“Y-yes, my lord,” stammered the footman, and took off running.

Vescovi coughed, and Sebastian carefully eased one arm beneath the man’s shoulders to raise his head and support his weight. “Why would someone want to kill you?”

“I was coming to see you. Tell you about the . . . about the letters.”

Vescovi’s eyes started to slide closed, and Sebastian tightened his grip on the man’s shoulders. “Hold on. As soon as we get you into the house, I’ll send—”

But Vescovi’s eyes were no longer sliding closed; they were still and staring, and Sebastian knew he was dead.



Sometime later, Sebastian stood with Sir Henry Lovejoy at the snowy intersection of Bond and Brook Streets.

“A second of Princess Charlotte’s music instructors found dead in the street?” said Lovejoy, his shoulders hunched against the cold as he stared down at the dead man in silence. “Why?”

“I wish I knew.”

Lovejoy shook his head in bewilderment. “The palace will never be able to quiet the speculation this time.”

“That doesn’t mean they won’t try.”

“No,” said Lovejoy with a sigh. “No, it doesn’t.”



They sent the harpist’s body off to Paul Gibson’s surgery. Then, at Sebastian’s suggestion, they took a couple of Lovejoy’s constables and went to search Valentino Vescovi’s room at the Percy Arms in Red Lion Square.

The innkeeper muttered and grumbled about being dragged from his fireside for something that could just as easily have waited until morning. He was still grousing about being disturbed when he threw open Vescovi’s room. Then he broke off to clutch at his nightcap as it started to slide. “Merciful heavens,” he said, his voice rising into a squeak. “What is this?”

The room had been ruthlessly searched, the mattress dragged from the bed and slit open, drawers emptied and their contents strewn about the floor. Even the Italian’s spare clothes had been slashed, as if the searcher thought something might have been hidden in their seams and linings.