Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(83)

“So you doubt it? Why?”

“Mainly because Maxwell had no reason that I can see to kill Valentino Vescovi.”

“Van der Pals could have killed Vescovi,” reasoned Hero. “For telling Jane about Orange. Or his death could somehow be linked to the letters. For a harpist, he was involved with some nasty, dangerous people.”

“He was indeed. As was Jane—through no fault of her own.”

“As was Jane,” Hero said softly, her gaze meeting his.



Phineas, Lord Wallace, was eating a beefsteak in the dining room of Brooks’s when Sebastian came to sit opposite him.

His lordship glanced up, then calmly went on cutting a thick slice of meat, merely saying, “And if I prefer to eat in solitary splendor?”

“Answer my questions, and I’ll be gone,” said Sebastian. “I know why Jane Ambrose came to see you the week before she died.”

“Oh?”

“She thought you had in your possession certain letters—sensitive letters stolen from a trunk entrusted by a handsome young Hussar captain to his friend in Portsmouth. She was hoping to convince you to return them to the young lady who wrote them.”

A faint smile curled the Baron’s lips as he swallowed. “An interesting theory.”

“I notice you don’t claim ignorance of the letters.”

“Oh, no, I am fully aware of the existence of the Hesse letters, and have been for weeks now. As it happens, Mrs. Ambrose did indeed accuse me of being involved in their disappearance. Unfortunately, I don’t have them.”

“Why should I believe you?”

“Why?” His smile turned into something cold and gritty. “It’s rather simple, actually: because if I had them, I would have used them by now to put an end to this ridiculous betrothal. As you so accurately observed the other day, I am more than willing to sacrifice one pampered eighteen-year-old girl for the good of the nation.”

“I’m not sure anyone who knows the truth about Charlotte’s miserable upbringing could call it ‘pampered.’”

“I seriously doubt she’s ever gone to bed hungry—which is more than one can say about millions of her grandfather’s subjects.”

Sebastian watched the Baron cut another piece of his steak. “I can think of several reasons why you might not have used the letters yet.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

“Timing. Leverage. Second thoughts.”

His lordship chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Mmm. I suppose all are possible—with the exception of ‘second thoughts.’” He paused to point the tines of his fork at Sebastian. “Are you seriously suggesting that I might have killed Jane Ambrose?”

“I am.”

Wallace gave a loud laugh. “Why on earth would I?”

“Because the game you’re playing—and the individuals you are playing it against—are dangerous. Most men prefer to do their dirtiest work from the shadows.”

Wallace was no longer laughing.

Sebastian said, “It would give you a similar reason for killing the harpist Vescovi if he somehow knew you had the letters. And you could have killed Edward Ambrose in a futile attempt to convince me that Jane’s death was simply the result of a wretched lovers’ triangle.”

“Oh? Was Jane Ambrose involved in a lovers’ triangle? That I did not know.”

“No? In my experience, men like you have a tendency to keep abreast of such things.”

“How . . . flattering.”

“Someone stole those damned letters, and Jane seems to have suspected you. Why was that? I wonder.”

“I’ve no idea.”

Sebastian studied the older man’s faintly smiling face. “So who would you have me believe did take them?”

“You credit me with far more knowledge than I possess.”

“Then speculate. Surely you’ve given it some thought.”

Wallace leaned back in his chair. “Well, given that they’ve never been published, suspicion must presumably fall on the Prince—or, rather, individuals close to him. If Brougham or Somerset or anyone else opposed to the betrothal had somehow managed to get their hands on them, the Princess’s folly would be splashed all over the newspapers by now.”

Sebastian held himself very still. “Are you suggesting Christian Somerset knows about the Orange alliance?”

Wallace gave a rude snort. “Of course he knows.”

“You’re certain?”

Wallace rested his knife and fork on the edge of his plate. “Given that we’ve discussed various possible ways to scuttle this damned alliance? Yes, quite certain.”

“Does he know about the Hesse letters?”

“As to that, I couldn’t say.” Then he pushed up and walked away, leaving the rest of his meal uneaten.





Chapter 48

Sebastian found Christian Somerset standing before the side altar in St. Anne’s, Soho, his head bowed, his hat in his hands. A weak winter sun had come out to stream a rich palette of green and gold light through the stained glass window above the main altar. But the stones of the church radiated a dank cold that was numbing.

Jane’s brother stayed in prayer for several more minutes before heaving a heavy sigh, opening his eyes, and raising his head. His gaze focused on Sebastian standing quietly nearby, and he said, “I take it you’re looking for me?”