by C. S. Harris
“So what happened?” prompted Hero.
“It turned out he was simply trying to cajole her into spying for him.”
“Good heavens. On Princess Charlotte, you mean?”
“Yes.”
Hero had no need to ask why a member of the Dutch ambassador’s entourage would be interested in spying on Princess Charlotte. It was an open secret that the Prince Regent was eager to see his daughter married and that the needle-thin, awkward, and decidedly unattractive William, Hereditary Prince of Orange—nicknamed Slender Billy—was his favored suitor. For his part, Orange was said to be more than eager to wed the woman who would someday reign as Queen of England. “When was this?”
“That Jane realized what he wanted? One day last week—last Thursday, I believe. Needless to say, she refused. He then tried to bribe her. And when that failed, he turned ugly. Quite ugly.”
“How do you know this?” said Hero.
“Because Jane came to me the next day and told me. She thought I needed to know in case he should approach other members of the Princess’s household. It seems that when she refused, he threatened her.”
“Threatened her how?”
“He warned her not to tell anyone, and said she’d be sorry if she did.” Miss Kinsworth turned to face Hero, her arms still hugged close to her chest. “She was quite shaken.”
“Did you tell anyone else about van der Pals?”
“No.”
“Not even the Duchess of Leeds?”
Miss Kinsworth grimaced. “Technically, I suppose I should have. But I thought it best to keep it to myself.”
“Could Jane herself have told someone?”
“Perhaps. Although I warned her not to.”
It was a statement that spoke volumes about the degree of mistrust, suspicion, and backstabbing in the Princess’s household. Hero said, “Would it be possible for me to ask Princess Charlotte about her last lesson with Jane?”
Miss Kinsworth made a scoffing sound deep in her throat. “Not if Lady Leeds has anything to say about it.” She looked thoughtful a moment, then said, “Charlotte and I frequently go for walks in the afternoon. If I sent you word, perhaps you could contrive to come upon us . . . quite by accident, of course.”
Hero smiled. “Yes, I believe I could manage that.”
Chapter 9
The Dutch courtier Peter van der Pals had arrived in London the previous December in the train of his good friend William, the Hereditary Prince of Orange. A strikingly handsome man with a strong jawline, softly curling auburn hair, and a wide boyish smile, the courtier was—like Orange—quite young. His English was extraordinarily good, for he had attended Oxford with his prince and also, like Orange, served as aide-de-camp to Arthur Wellesley. Yet he had chosen to remain in London when Orange returned to the newly liberated Netherlands. At the time, Hero had wondered why.
Now she thought she understood.
On leaving Warwick House, she turned her steps toward the residence of the Dutch ambassador, intending to make inquiries there into the young courtier. But as she neared the ambassador’s stately town house, she was fortunate enough to find van der Pals himself carefully descending the embassy’s icy front steps.
At the sight of Hero, he drew up, a faint expression of puzzlement crossing his handsome features before being hidden away behind a courtier’s practiced smile. “Lady Devlin,” he said, his elegant bow somewhat spoiled by his refusal to let go of the railing beside him. “You are beyond courageous, venturing out in this weather. Unfortunately, His Excellency the ambassador is not at present here.”
“That’s quite all right,” said Hero, smiling. “As it happens, I was actually looking for you. Shall we go inside for a moment? I’d like to ask you some questions.”
Van der Pals hesitated the briefest instant. But one did not rebuff the daughter of the most powerful man in the Kingdom. He bowed again. “Of course.”
Nodding to the liveried footman at the door, he ushered her into a small overheated withdrawing room just off the grand entrance hall. “Please, my lady, do take a seat. Shall I ring for tea?” His recitation of the requisite polite formalities was everything it should have been—except that the courtier made no attempt to remove his greatcoat and simply stood inside the door, his hat in his hands in a none-too-subtle message.
“Neither will be necessary. Thank you.” Hero eased open the throat latch of her fur-trimmed pelisse as the heat of the room enveloped her. “I assume you know why I’m here.”
The courtier gave a startled laugh. “Actually, no. I fear you find me quite at a loss. Should I?”
“When a man threatens a woman who later turns up dead, he must surely expect to be the object of scrutiny.”
Van der Pals shook his head in a credible show of confusion that Hero might have assumed was real if she hadn’t known his type as well as she did. “I don’t understand,” he said. “What dead woman?”
“Jane Ambrose.”
“Ah.” He raised one hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as if overcome by distress. “But Mrs. Ambrose’s death was caused by a fall. It was in the papers this morning. The streets have become beyond treacherous with all this snow and ice.”
“They have indeed. Yet Jane Ambrose did not slip on the ice and hit her head. It appears that she was in all likelihood murdered. Quite viciously.”
“Murdered?” His expression of shock was everything it should have been—and potentially every bit as false as his earlier show of confusion. “How perfectly ghastly. But I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”
The heat from the room’s fireplace was becoming overwhelming; Hero quietly tugged off her fur-lined mittens. “Perhaps I should explain that we know you tried to charm Jane Ambrose into spying on Princess Charlotte for the House of Orange. When charm failed, you attempted bribery. And when that, too, was unsuccessful, you warned her that if she told anyone of your overtures you would make certain that she— How did you put it? Ah, yes, you said she’d ‘be sorry.’”
“Who told you this?” he hissed. He was no longer smiling.
“You don’t seriously expect me to answer that, do you?”
“Yet you expect me to respond to these absurd accusations?”
Hero raised one eyebrow. “You deny the encounter took place?”
“Of course I deny it!”
“So you’re suggesting—what? That Jane Ambrose made up the entire tale out of whole cloth?”
“Either Mrs. Ambrose or whoever regaled you with this nonsense, yes.”
“And precisely what would be the purpose of such a deception?”
“Presumably to discredit me—and, by extension, the House of Orange.”
“Oh? And why would Jane Ambrose wish to discredit you or your prince?”
The Dutchman’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, my lady, but why are you here asking these questions? As Lord Jarvis’s envoy? Or for some other reason?”
It was an astute question and one that forced Hero to be more honest than she would have liked. “I am here because Jane Ambrose’s association with Princess Charlotte precludes a more formal investigation of her murder.” She gave him an icy stare. “Is there a reason you’re avoiding answering my questions?”
Van der Pals went to stand facing the room’s fireplace, one fist resting on the mantel, his gaze on the blaze on the hearth. After a moment, he said, “This is a trifle delicate, but the truth is that Mrs. Ambrose and I enjoyed a light flirtation. Nothing serious, you understand. But I fear she must have read more into my gallantry than was intended, for when she chanced one day to see me laughing—quite innocently, I assure you!—with Lady Arabella, she flew into a frightful rage. It was really quite shocking.”
He glanced up at Hero in a way that caused a boyish shock of hair to fall over his forehead. He was an extraordinarily attractive young
man, and he not only knew it, but was accustomed to using his looks to disarm and cajole.
Hero was not easily disarmed. “Who is Lady Arabella?”
“Lady Arabella Osborne, daughter of the Princess’s governess, the Duchess of Leeds. The Duchess recently introduced her to Warwick House in the hopes of providing the Princess with a friend close to her own age. But the girl is still quite young and rather unsure of herself, so I sought to try to put her at ease. I never imagined Jane would react so . . . violently.”
His use of the dead woman’s given name was both suggestive and, Hero suspected, deliberate. She said, “You would have me think that you and Jane Ambrose were lovers?”
His wonderful white teeth flashed as he gave an embarrassed laugh. “Good heavens, no. Ours was a flirtation only, as I said—although Jane obviously thought things more serious than I had intended.” He tipped his head to one side as if struck by a sudden thought. “Have you considered that she might have been killed as the result of a lovers’ quarrel?”
“You’re saying Jane Ambrose had a lover? Who?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Yet you have no difficulty suggesting that she might have one?”
He spread his arms wide as if in surrender. “It wasn’t my intention to offend you, my lady—simply to give you a hint as to the nature of the woman we’re discussing.”
“You mean that she was the type of woman who might have been unfaithful to her husband?”
Rather than answer, he glanced significantly at the clock on the mantel and gave a faint, startled exclamation, as if suddenly becoming aware of the passage of time. “I fear you must excuse me, my lady; I’ve an appointment I cannot miss.”
Hero drew on her mittens with quick, jerky movements. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your information.”
He sketched another of his elegant bows. “Please do not hesitate to let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I shall,” she said with a smile.
It was when he was escorting her to the door that van der Pals said, “Have you by chance spoken to Valentino Vescovi?”
She paused to glance over at him. “The musician? No. Why?”
“He teaches the harp to Princess Charlotte, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. Is there a particular reason you think I should speak with him?”
Van der Pals scratched one cheek as if in some embarrassment. “Actually, yes. You see, he and Jane had quite an angry confrontation just this past Monday.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because they were unwise enough to engage in an undignified shouting match beside the canal in St. James’s Park. Vescovi is an ice-gliding enthusiast, and he’s been going there every afternoon to take advantage of our current freezing conditions.” When Hero remained silent, he added, “A number of others were present, and the argument was quite heated. I doubt I was the only one who saw them.”
“And what was the nature of their quarrel?”
“I fear I couldn’t hear well enough to understand what was being said. Although—” He broke off.
“Yes?”
“I did hear Vescovi tell her she needed to be careful.”
“About what?”
“That I didn’t hear. Only ‘you need to be careful.’”
“Perhaps Vescovi was warning her about you,” suggested Hero, and had the satisfaction of seeing van der Pals’s self-satisfied, confident smile slip.
Chapter 10
The Prince Regent’s powerful cousin Charles, Lord Jarvis, was smiling faintly as the men carrying his sedan chair staggered through the deep drifts that continued to render even such vital streets as Whitehall, Cockspur, and Pall Mall impassable to anything except foot traffic.
The snow was undoubtedly a nuisance. But Jarvis—who’d had a busy morning and was heading back to Carlton House after a meeting at Downing Street—was concerned with far weightier matters, namely the looming, inevitable defeat of Napoléon and the enormous task of restructuring Europe. Things were going well in that quarter. Quite well indeed.
Carlton House had been home to the Prince of Wales for more than three decades, and His Highness had spent every one of those years altering, expanding, and refurbishing it into something he considered more befitting the heir to the throne of the greatest kingdom on earth. As his dear, trusted cousin, Jarvis generally encouraged him, despite the onerous cost. The Prince’s preoccupation with art, architecture, fashion, and jewels allowed more serious—and mentally stable—men to go about the business of actually running the Kingdom.
They were approaching the palace now, and the chairmen were laboring hard, for Jarvis was well over six feet tall and increasingly fleshy as he headed toward his sixtieth year. When they turned in through the ornate classical screen that separated the forecourt of Carlton House from Pall Mall, he noticed with revulsion a ragged, skeletal woman clutching what looked like a dead child in her arms as she leaned against the base of the row of columns. He made a mental note to have her removed.
Some minutes later, having finished giving his instructions to the guards, he was walking toward the palace’s entrance when he became aware of the tall, leanly built figure of his daughter’s husband, Viscount Devlin, crossing the forecourt.
Jarvis ignored him.
“I was hoping I’d find you here,” said Devlin pleasantly.
Jarvis kept walking. “I wish I could say I’m delighted not to have disappointed you, but I fear that would be beyond even my considerable powers of dissemblance.”
The Viscount gave a huff of laughter and fell into step beside him. “I think you underestimate yourself.”
Jarvis grunted. “What do you want?”
“You mean, besides Jane Ambrose’s body?”
“You’re sadly behind the times, I fear. The inquest was held this morning—”
“Already? Without the testimony of those who found her?”
“—and the lady’s corpse delivered to her husband in Soho Square.”
“Along with a warning not to allow it to fall into my hands again, I assume.”
“Edward Ambrose is no fool.”
The footmen flanking the palace’s magnificent classical portal jumped to open the doors wide and bowed as Jarvis swept past them.
Devlin said, “Why are you so determined to prevent any real investigation into what happened to her?”
Jarvis crossed the hall toward the imposing main staircase, his boot heels clicking on the polished marble floor. “You think her death should concern me, do you?”
“You consider the murder of a young woman on the streets of London of no importance?”
“She was not murdered. But even if she were, when her death is set beside affairs of state, it is beyond insignificant.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you’re blocking any investigation.”
Jarvis drew up at the foot of the stairs. “Really, Devlin? Are you truly such a fool, or are you simply determined to play one? The last thing the Regent needs at the moment is to have Princess Charlotte’s name bandied about in conjunction with that of a woman unwise enough to get mixed up in something as tawdry as murder.”
“‘At the moment’? And why is this moment any different from all the others?”
Jarvis pressed his lips together and began to mount the sweeping marble steps.
Devlin kept pace with him. “I had an interesting conversation this morning with Nathan Rothschild. He asked if I’d spoken to you. Why is that? I wonder.”
“Stay away from Rothschild.”
“Oh? Why?”
Jarvis paused and swung to face him. He kept his voice low, his words coming out clipped and deadly. “You think because you are married to my daughter, you are safe? You’re not.”
Devlin didn’t even blink. “I
never made the mistake of imagining I was. But it does raise the question: Why are you so anxious to keep me away from Rothschild?”
Jarvis continued up the stairs. “Curiosity is a dangerous weakness. You should strive to overcome it.”
“This isn’t about curiosity. It’s about justice for a vital, talented young woman left in a snowy street with her head bashed in.”
“Justice.” Jarvis rolled the word with distaste off his tongue. “This maudlin obsession of yours with vague and essentially useless philosophical constructs is beyond tiresome. Justice comes from God.”
“So do you believe that what is morally good is commanded by God because it is morally good? Or is it morally good because God commands it? Because if the latter, then all justice is arbitrary. But if the former, then morality exists on a higher plane than God.”
“Don’t try to argue Plato with me. That’s a false dilemma and you know it.”
“Is it?”
“Apart from which, you’re simply wrong. Jane Ambrose’s death has nothing to do with Rothschild.”
“So certain?”
“It has nothing to do with Rothschild and nothing to do with Princess Charlotte.”
“Then why are you afraid of what an investigation might discover?”
“These are delicate and dangerous times. You would cause more harm than you know.”
“Oh? So explain it to me.”
Jarvis made a rude noise deep in his throat. “You’ve been warned.”
Then he walked into his chambers and shut the door in his son-in-law’s face.
Chapter 11
Frozen solid and milky white under a cloudy sky, the canal in St. James’s Park was crowded with skaters of all ages.
Hero bought a cup of hot cider from one of the booths pitched near the lake’s snow-encrusted banks and strolled along the edge of the ice, her gaze moving over the laughing, shouting mass of skaters. A few were well-dressed young bucks—mainly Scottish by the sounds of it—who belonged to skating clubs and obviously took their sport seriously. But most were considerably less practiced, either creeping cautiously along with shiny new blades strapped to their boots or else striking out in ungainly rushes that inevitably ended in spectacular crashes.