Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(69)

Somerset’s jaw tightened. “I knew it. The bloody bastard.”

“What would Jane have done, do you think, if she found out? Would she have left him?”

Somerset shook his head. “Not Jane.”

“Not even if she discovered his mistress was heavy with his child?”

“My God. Is she?”

“Yes.”

Somerset stared thoughtfully at a group of men drinking rum and grog around a nearby bonfire. “I still don’t think she’d leave him.”

“Even with both her children now dead?”

“She might threaten it in the heat of the moment. But she’d never actually do it.”

“The question is, would Ambrose know that?”

Somerset frowned. “Perhaps not.”

“Did you know Jane wrote the music for all of Ambrose’s operas?”

Somerset blinked. “I always suspected she helped him, although she would never admit it—at least, not to me.”

“She didn’t simply help; the music was hers.”

He blew out his breath in a long, pained sigh. “Poor Jane. To think of the acclaim that could have been hers, had she only been born a man.”

“Did she feel it, do you think?”

Jane’s brother rubbed his eyes with a splayed thumb and forefinger. “She must have. Growing up, we all knew she was actually more talented than her twin, James—even he acknowledged it. Our father tolerated her playing, but he never actually encouraged her the way he did James. People were always complimenting her for ‘playing like a man.’ I know that used to anger her. But she never said anything to me about Ambrose’s music, if that’s what you’re asking. She was a very private person, Jane.”

“Do you know if she had any close female friends?”

“Our sister, Jilly, was just a year older than Jane, and they were quite close. But Jilly died a couple of years ago. Consumption.”

“Is there no one else?”

“Not that I know of. Sorry.”

Sebastian watched one of the men drinking rum by the fire stagger to his feet, only to fall flat on the ice. “You say Jane would never have left Ambrose because of the way your father raised her. But even fiercely devout people can lose their faith, particularly after the deaths of two dearly beloved children. She might have changed her mind.”

Somerset shook his head. “Not Jane. Liam Maxwell begged her to leave Ambrose right after Lawrence died, and she wouldn’t do it. She said she’d made a vow before God, and just because she later realized it was a mistake didn’t give her the right to forsake that vow. I can’t see the discovery that Ambrose had a mistress—even an enceinte mistress—changing that.”

Sebastian felt the wind cold against his cheek. “Are you saying that your sister and Maxwell were lovers? Because just a few days ago you insisted Jane would never be unfaithful to her husband.”

Somerset looked troubled, as if he regretted what he’d said. “No; I didn’t mean to imply that at all. Jane would never have been unfaithful to Ambrose; I’m certain of that. But there’s no denying that Maxwell has been in love with her for years. And while she never admitted as much to me, I’ve often thought Jane felt the same.”

“Did Ambrose know?”

“I suppose he might have suspected it, but I couldn’t say for certain. He’s so wrapped up in himself, it’s possible he never noticed. Although if he did—” Somerset broke off.

“If he did?” prompted Sebastian.

Somerset thrust his hands deep into his pockets and shivered, as if suddenly feeling the cold. “A man like Ambrose, I don’t imagine he’d take it well, knowing his wife was in love with another man. Even if he didn’t believe they were lovers.”



Sebastian kept turning Somerset’s words over and over in his mind as he worked his way through the Frost Fair’s surging crowds. It certainly provided an easy explanation for what had happened. It was an old, familiar tragedy: A woman discovers her husband is unfaithful; they argue; the husband, himself already suspicious of her infidelity, strikes her in anger and accidently kills her.

Could it really be that simple? Could all the dangerous undercurrents in Jane Ambrose’s life—her discovery of the financial maneuverings of the Rothschilds and the political machinations surrounding Princess Charlotte—simply be a distraction?

It was possible. It might even seem the inevitable solution if it weren’t for the questions raised by the murder of Valentino Vescovi. But if it was true, then why the devil had Liam Maxwell—a man who claimed he wanted to catch Jane’s killer—deliberately kept hidden from Sebastian such an important aspect of her life?

By the time Sebastian arrived at the upper end of the Frost Fair’s grand promenade, his feet were cold and he was in no mood to tolerate any more of the printer’s evasive games. But Maxwell’s booth was being manned by three apprentices; Maxwell himself was nowhere in sight.

“He went off a good long while ago,” said one of the apprentices, inking the press’s text block. “Didn’t say where he was going.”

“You’re certain? This is important.”

The two younger apprentices shook their heads, their expressions believably blank. But the oldest lad hesitated a moment, then said, “I think he went off on account of that lady’s funeral. But I can’t tell you where he went any more than Richard and Paul here.”