Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(8)

“I expected her to come home.”

“She didn’t?”

“I don’t believe so, no. None of the servants saw her.”

“You weren’t here?”

“I was, yes. But I’m working on the libretto for a new opera. It’s giving me fits at the moment—as they usually do at this stage.” His lips twitched as if he almost smiled. Then the smile tightened with what looked like pain. “Jane knows—knew—to leave me alone when I’m like that. I shut myself up in the library.”

“You weren’t concerned when she wasn’t home by evening?”

“Not overly much, no. Jane had her own life. I don’t—didn’t—keep a tight rein on her activities. It wasn’t until I realized just how late it was getting that I even gave it a thought. And then I assumed she must have decided to stay someplace until the storm passed. God help me, I was even mildly annoyed with her for not bothering to send a message telling me she’d been delayed.”

“Do you have any idea what your wife might have been doing in Clerkenwell yesterday?”

“No. I understand that’s where she was found, but I can’t imagine why she would go there.”

“Who do you think killed her?”

A spasm passed over the playwright’s features and he gave a half shake of his head in denial. “The magistrate who was here last night—Sir Henry—suggested she’d been murdered. But this morning the papers are all saying she simply fell and hit her head.”

“Given her connection to Princess Charlotte,” said Sebastian, “you do understand why, don’t you?”

Ambrose’s gaze met his. Then he looked away and nodded silently.

Sebastian said, “Do you know of anyone who might have wanted your wife dead?”

“Jane? Good heavens, no.”

“No one?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me more about her?”

“What is there to tell? She was a brilliant, beautiful, talented woman. Why would anyone want to kill someone like that?”

Sebastian glanced again at the portrait of Jane Ambrose above the fireplace. She held the younger boy—in this painting a laughing babe of perhaps eighteen months—on her lap, while the more pensive older child leaned against his mother’s knee. Rather than looking outward at the viewer, Jane had her head turned, her attention all for her children. A gentle, loving smile softened her features. Sebastian found it profoundly disturbing to be given this glimpse of her as she’d once been—so warm and glowing with life and love—and then remember the way he’d last seen her, a cold, bloody cadaver on a stone slab in a surgeon’s dissection room. And he knew a powerful surge of fury directed at whoever had robbed her of her future and left her as only a memory.

“Your children?” asked Sebastian, keeping his voice steady with difficulty.

Ambrose followed his gaze. “Yes.” He sucked in a quick breath that shuddered his chest. “That was painted seven years ago. They’re both dead now. We lost Benjamin last summer, and Lawrence in November.”

Oh, Jesus, thought Sebastian, his heart aching for this man’s tragic series of losses. “I’m sorry.”

Ambrose swiped one hand across his face and nodded.

Sebastian said quietly, “Did your wife have any family?”

“Not really. Jane lost her mother when she was still quite young, while her father passed away ten years ago or so—not long after Jane’s twin, James. And then her sister, Jilly, died two years ago. Consumption, same as James. A dangerous weakness to the disease seems to run in the family.”

“How long has Jane served as Princess Charlotte’s piano instructor?”

Ambrose looked thoughtful. “It must be nine or ten years, at least. Why?”

“So she knew the Princess well?”

“She did, yes. But surely you don’t think her death could have anything to do with Charlotte?”

“At this point, I don’t know. Did she talk much about the Princess?”

“Not really. You don’t stay with the Princess long if you talk about her—or even get too friendly with her. If Prinny could have his way, that poor girl would be attended only by deaf-mutes who hate her.”

The rough anger in the man’s voice didn’t surprise Sebastian. There were few in contact with the Prince Regent who didn’t come away with sentiments ranging from contempt to disgust. “Who else did your wife teach?”

Ambrose frowned. “She’s had various pupils over the years. But the only one I can name off the top of my head is Anna Rothschild.”

Sebastian knew a flicker of interest. “The daughter of Nathan Rothschild, the German financier?”

“Yes. Jane’s been teaching Anna for three or four years now. Or, at least, she did until several weeks ago, when Rothschild suddenly dismissed her.”

“He dismissed her? Do you know why?”

“No. All I know is that Jane was extraordinarily upset by it. Rothschild’s daughter, Anna, was a talented pianist, and Jane was disappointed to lose her as a student. Although . . .” Ambrose’s voice trailed off.

“Although?” prompted Sebastian.

Ambrose drew in a quick breath that flared his nostrils. “She refused to talk about it—she actually became angry with me when I tried to press her on it. But to be honest, I’d say she was more than upset or disappointed. She was frightened. Don’t ask me to explain it because I can’t. But that’s the only word I can use to describe it.