Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(80)

“She’ll be ruined,” said Hero. “Utterly, irreparably ruined. Princes can get away with such behavior—and far, far worse. But not princesses.”

The older woman’s lips tightened into a thin line. “Prinny hasn’t helped matters, either. He’s spent the last ten years and more endlessly accusing his child’s mother of adultery, all in a sordid attempt to divorce her. He even paid that horrid Douglas woman to swear the Princess gave birth to one of the little boys she fosters! If word of Charlotte’s relationship with Hesse gets out, people will say, ‘Like mother, like daughter,’ and everyone will believe the worst.”

Hero stared out over the snow-filled garden. “When did you learn the Hesse letters had been taken from Portsmouth?”

“It’s been several weeks. Word came on a Sunday evening. I remember because poor Charlotte was so distraught she cried all night, so that by the time Jane arrived for their lesson the next morning, the girl was hysterical.”

“Jane already knew of the letters’ existence?”

“Oh, yes. Charlotte told her about them months ago, when she first started trying to get the letters back from Captain Hesse. You have to remember that Jane taught Charlotte from the time the girl was six or seven, so they were unusually close. It was Jane who offered to go out to Connaught House and ask Caroline if she had the letters.”

“But Caroline didn’t have them?”

“So she claimed.”

“You don’t believe her?”

“I don’t know what to believe. It’s been weeks now since the letters disappeared, yet no one has come forward with them. Obviously I’m grateful that they haven’t been published. Yet at the same time, I can’t help but worry.” The older woman was silent for a moment. “What I don’t understand is how the Hesse letters can be implicated in Jane’s death . . . unless of course she somehow discovered who has them. Is that possible?”

“Who do you think has the letters?”

Miss Kinsworth’s face hardened. “Honestly? I’d say the most likely culprits are the Whigs around Caroline, rather than Caroline herself. Not Earl Grey, but someone such as Brougham or Wallace. They’d do it. They’re passionately opposed to the Dutch alliance, and I don’t believe either of them would hesitate to ruin Charlotte if they thought it would stop the marriage.”

“Yes, I can see that,” said Hero. “Who else?”

“There must be forces in the Netherlands who feel the same way, but I know nothing of them.”

“You said the Regent didn’t know about Hesse at the time the cousins were meeting in Windsor Park. That implies that he does now.”

Miss Kinsworth brought up one hand to rub her forehead. “I can’t begin to guess how he discovered the truth, but he’s said one or two oblique things that made it obvious he found out somehow. He has so many spies. Everywhere.”

“Could the Prince himself have sent someone to steal the letters?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it? He knows Charlotte is furious with him for tricking her into the betrothal to Orange. And she is determined to fight his attempts to set things up so that she’ll be forced to spend most of her life outside of Britain.”

“You’re suggesting the Regent might see the letters as some sort of insurance against the possibility that the Princess could try to break her betrothal? So that he could essentially blackmail her into marrying Orange? Surely even he couldn’t be that contemptible and conniving.”

“Oh, he’s that contemptible. As for being that conniving, perhaps not the Regent himself, but someone determined to see that His Highness gets what he wants.”

“Someone like Jarvis, you mean.”

“I didn’t say that, my lady.”

“No.” Hero gave her friend a slow smile. “You were very careful not to.”



On Sebastian’s second visit to Connaught House, he found Caroline of Brunswick seated beside a roaring fire in her rather sparsely furnished morning room. She wore a tattered shawl over a plain gown with a plunging round neckline and was fashioning a crude doll out of wax when he was shown into her presence.

She looked up, her plump face breaking into a wide smile. “I thought you’d be back.” She did not give him permission to sit, so he stood with his hat in his hands and watched her work on what he realized was a wax image of her husband, the Prince of Wales. She said, “Do I take it you’ve learned something new?”

“Jane Ambrose’s husband was murdered yesterday.”

“So I heard. He vas a nasty man.” She used her shoulder to swipe at a loose curl tickling her cheek. “I told Jane she should leave him long ago. But she never listened to me, and now she’s dead, isn’t she?”

“You think he killed her?”

“You don’t?”

“I don’t know. The question is, if he did, then who killed Edward Ambrose?”

“Obviously someone who did not like him. I’ve no doubt there are many.”

“Valentino Vescovi is also dead.”

“Ja. That death is far more triste.” She gave a heavy sigh that heaved her ample expanse of exposed bosom. “He played the harp like an angel, and now he plays vith the angels.”