Why Kill the Innocent (Sebastian St. Cyr #13)(86)

“Would Jane have told him about it?”

Maxwell looked thoughtful for a moment. “She might have. I couldn’t say for certain.”

“What about the Hesse letters? Would she have told him about those?”

Maxwell started to say something, then stopped.

“What?” asked Sebastian, watching him.

Maxwell’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking me about Christian?”

“I’m simply trying to get an idea of what happened in Jane’s life the last few weeks before her death.”

Maxwell tossed his hammer aside. “I don’t think she ever told him about Hesse, no. I remember one time she was in my print shop, talking about the Princess’s attempts to retrieve the letters, when Christian came in without her realizing it. She was worried he might have overheard what she was saying. But when she carefully tried to find out if he had heard, he teased her about being involved in some deep, dark secret and laughingly asked if he needed to worry she’d taken to plotting nefarious deeds.”

“So he didn’t hear?”

“I don’t think so.”

“When was this?”

The printer looked thoughtful. “Must’ve been three or four weeks ago now.”

“Before Somerset left for Kent?”

“Was he in Kent? I didn’t know that. I remember Jane had stopped in to see me that day on her way back from one of her lessons at the palace. It was before the letters were stolen, at the time the Princess was still trying to get them back, which is how we came to be talking about it.” Maxwell’s brows drew together. “You can’t be suspecting Christian of all people.”

Sebastian shook his head. “Would Jane have told her husband about the letters, do you think?”

“Ambrose?” Maxwell gave a harsh snort. “Not hardly. To be frank, they rarely spoke. And I doubt he would have been interested.” He cast another anxious look at his apprentice and dropped his voice even lower. “I didn’t kill the bastard. I swear it.”

“Unfortunately, you’re the only person who appears to have a motive.”

“What about his bloody creditors?”

“You know he was in debt?”

“I know.”

“How?”

Maxwell twitched one shoulder.

Sebastian said, “Did you tell Jane?”

“I think she suspected it.”

“But you never told her?”

Maxwell shook his head.

“Why not?”

“For the same reason I never told her about her husband’s philandering: because there was nothing she could do about it, and I knew it would only upset her.”

When Sebastian simply remained silent, Maxwell’s nostrils flared on a quick, angry breath. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Should I?”

“Someone is trying to set me up!”

“It’s certainly possible. The question is, who?”

“I don’t know!”

“How many people were aware of your relationship with Jane?”

“We’ve been friends for years. That at least was never a secret.”

“All right, look at it another way: Who would want to do you harm?”

The printer gave a low, humorless laugh. “Probably too many people to count—starting with your own damned father-in-law.”

“Who else?”

“Ambrose, maybe. But he was too selfish of a bastard to ever take his own life.”

Sebastian thought about the other dangerous men who had moved through Jane’s life in those final weeks: Rothschild, Wallace, van der Pals. All commanded the resources that could have enabled them to learn of the long-standing connection between Jane and her brother’s childhood friend. And Sebastian wouldn’t put it past any of them to have killed Ambrose in a calculated maneuver to deflect suspicion away from themselves and onto the hot-tempered, radical young journalist.

Or rather, have Ambrose killed, Sebastian reminded himself. The handsome Dutch courtier might conceivably do his own killing—and enjoy it. But with the exception of van der Pals, such men rarely did their own dirty work.

He became aware of Maxwell watching him thoughtfully. The journalist said, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“Not really. All I have at this point is conjecture. I’m still missing something—something that’s obviously vitally important. I wish I knew where the hell Jane went after she left the palace that last day, and why. You’re certain you have no idea where she might have gone?”

Maxwell sucked in a deep breath that shuddered his chest, and the look of soul-scouring anguish on his face was so profound that Sebastian almost—almost—believed it genuine. “I—” Maxwell’s voice cracked, and he had to begin again. “I lie awake at night, trying to remember every little thing she said to me, something I might have overlooked—something that might explain what happened to her. But I can’t think of anything. I just can’t.”

“Then it must have been something that came up unexpectedly.”

“What?”

But that was one more question to which Sebastian had no answer.





Chapter 49