by C. S. Harris
Chapter 21
A new bank of heavy white clouds was beginning to roll in over the city as Sebastian drove the sleigh out to Connaught House, the current residence of the Prince of Wales’s estranged wife.
She’d been born Caroline of Brunswick, daughter of the late Duke of Brunswick—an enlightened Continental ruler who was also a famous and respected German general—and his somewhat silly wife, Princess Augusta, sister of Britain’s own George III. At the age of twenty-seven, Caroline had been sent to England to marry her first cousin, whom she had never seen.
Things had gone badly from the very beginning.
In a move that was surely deliberately calculated to humiliate his bride, the Prince had sent his mistress, Lady Jersey, to meet Caroline’s ship. He’d further shown his contempt for his new wife by taking Lady Jersey along on their honeymoon and forcing the Princess to accept his mistress as her Lady of the Bedchamber. Simple, good-natured Caroline—homesick and lonely and not particularly wise—was no match for the exquisite, brilliant, and thoroughly nasty Lady Jersey. Sebastian thought it a tribute to Caroline’s fortitude that she’d not only survived her husband’s mistreatment but managed to win the love and support of the British people. Of course, the more they loved Caroline, the more the people hated the Prince of Wales. It became one more thing her royal husband held against her.
They had lived apart now for seventeen years. At first the Prince had allowed Caroline to see her daughter once a day. Then he’d restricted their visits to once a week, then once a fortnight, then every three weeks. Frequently the visits were suspended entirely for months at a time, while correspondence between mother and daughter was strictly forbidden. Sebastian suspected it was one of the main reasons Princess Charlotte’s tutors, servants, and ladies were always being sacked—because they were suspected of smuggling letters between the lonely young Princess and her mother.
Caroline’s newest residence, Connaught House, lay on the northern side of Bayswater Road, overlooking the ancient hanging site of Tyburn and the rolling expanse of Hyde Park beyond that. “Gor,” said Tom, his face tight and solemn as he stared at the former location of the infamous scaffold. “I wouldn’t want t’ look out me window every mornin’ ’n’ see that.”
Sebastian handed his tiger the reins and dropped to the ground. “Perhaps princesses aren’t as intimidated by gallows as the rest of us.” Although even as he said it, it occurred to Sebastian that this particular princess probably had more reason to fear than most. If the Prince of Wales—with Jarvis’s assistance—could have connived it, Caroline would have been dead long ago.
Given Sebastian’s connections to Jarvis, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she had refused to receive him. But after a few minutes’ wait, he was shown up to a small, light-filled room with a row of tall windows overlooking a snowy rear garden. Caroline—wearing a plain old fustian gown and a decidedly ratty mobcap—stood at a low table near the windows and was busy sculpting a man’s head out of clay.
“I hope you don’t mind if I keep vorking,” she said, grinning as she held up hands stained with clay. Despite being the descendant and niece of British kings and a resident of England herself for almost nineteen years, Caroline’s German accent was still quite heavy.
“Your Royal Highness.” Sebastian executed a low, courtly bow. “Thank you for agreeing to see me.”
She gave a loud, hearty laugh. “If you knew how few visitors I receive these days, you vould not be as surprised as you appear.”
Sebastian found himself smiling. There was nothing arrogant, pretentious, subtle, or subdued about Caroline. She had never been a beauty, although most people acknowledged that in her youth she was pretty, with a fresh complexion, deep-set blue eyes, and fine fair hair. But the intervening years had coarsened her figure and ground down her once sunny, effervescent good humor beneath the endless pressures of heartache, loneliness, boredom, frustration, and fear. Prinny had twice tried to divorce her by unsuccessfully charging her with adultery—the penalty for which would have been death.
Now her eyes narrowed as she looked Sebastian over with a frankly assessing and openly curious gaze. “Vhy are you here?”
His answer was as blunt as her question. “Jane Ambrose was found dead on Thursday, Your Highness. All indications are that she was killed, but because she was Princess Charlotte’s piano instructor, the palace will not allow her death to be investigated.”
“It vas murder? Mein God,” whispered Caroline, her hands stilling on the bust. “Poor Jane.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Yes, of course. I’ve known Jane for years.” Caroline herself had a reputation for playing the piano extraordinarily well. In fact, when she was younger, in Germany, she’d studied with a number of famous masters, practicing faithfully four and more hours a day. Now her eyebrows drew together in a troubled frown. “Vhy vill the palace not allow an investigation?”
“Ostensibly their motive is to prevent any hint of scandal from touching the Princess. But it’s also possible they’re hiding something.”
Caroline was silent for a moment, her attention seemingly all for her sculpture again. She might have been an unexpectedly simple woman, but she was not stupid. And she’d been dealing with Prinny’s plots, machinations, lies, and schemes for the better part of two decades. Her gaze still on her work, she said slowly, “You’ve heard that fat pig of a husband of mine tricked Charlotte into agreeing to marry Orange?”
“I heard the Regent had pressured her.”
“Oh, he more than pressured her. He tricked her. He likes to say he promised never to try to force her into a distasteful marriage. But vhat do you call it when a father shouts at his daughter, calling her an obstinate, silly fool vhile threating to shut her up for life if she doesn’t marry?”
“Would he do that to her?”
“Of course he would do it. He cares for no one but himself—and that nasty mother of his, I suppose,” she added as an afterthought.
When Sebastian refrained from comment, she said, “Last December he made Charlotte agree to meet Orange at a dinner party at Carlton House and then pushed her into promising she’d give him an answer about the match that very evening.” Her nostrils flared with indignation. “Who does that?”
“So what happened?”
“Charlotte saw Orange for two hours—two hours!—at a dinner attended by a number of others including Liverpool and his vife. And then, vith everyone still there, Vales pulls her aside and says, ‘Vell, vhat do you think of him?’”
“What did she think?”
“How could she know, after such a short time as that—and her just seventeen years old? She vas still considering how to form her answer vhen Prinny says, ‘Vhat? He vill not do?’ And my poor girl, she says, ‘I don’t say that. I like his manner—from vhat I have seen.’” Caroline shook her head, the muscles in her cheeks bunching as she thrust her jaw forward in disgust. “Now, does that sound to you as if she vas agreeing to the match? Of course not. But Vales, he’s a clever one. He throws his arms around the child and exclaims, ‘You make me the happiest person in the vorld!’ Poor Charlotte is still stuttering, trying to tell him she meant no such thing, vhen that nasty, sly bastard calls over Liverpool and announces that she has agreed! And then he brings over Orange himself, joins their hands, and gives the couple his blessing.”
Sebastian had no difficulty imagining the scene. It was just the sort of dishonest manipulation for which Prinny was famous.
Caroline made a decidedly ungenteel noise. “Needless to say, Charlotte is in a rage vith him. But it’s done, isn’t it? She can’t back out after that—not vith her father telling the Prime Minister and Orange himself that she’s agreed. And to make matters vorse, not twenty-four hours later she discovers that Orange intends to require her to leave England and live in Holland. Prinny was aware of the scheme all along, of course, but vas careful
not to let her know.”
Sebastian stared at her. “Live abroad? The heiress presumptive to the throne?”
Caroline nodded. “It’s the real reason the Prince vants this particular marriage for her—to get Charlotte out of the country.” Her breathing had become agitated, her full, heavy breasts heaving above the shockingly low-cut bodice of her gown. “Part of it is because she’s so much more popular than he and he’s jealous. But it’s also because he thinks that vith Charlotte gone, I vill leave, too, so that he vill finally be able to push through his divorce. Then he vill marry again and have a son—a new heir to the throne who vill dispossess my daughter.” She gave a derisive snort. “Not that he has much chance of that. He could barely consummate our marriage nineteen years ago. And look at him now!”
It had long been whispered that Prinny’s sexual performance on his wedding night had been far from satisfactory and that Caroline had handled her bridegroom’s bruised amour propre with all the sensitivity to be expected of a woman who’d just been forced to sit down to her wedding feast in the company of her husband’s beautiful, waspish mistress. Prinny had never been able to bear being humiliated, and he held his grudges forever.
“That fat old goat vill never be able to sire a son,” Caroline was saying, “however much Jarvis might vish it.” She cast Sebastian a sideways glance that told him she wasn’t nearly as simple as she liked to appear. “You vant to know who killed poor Jane, you talk to Jarvis. He’s behind everything that happens in this country—especially if it’s underhanded and dirty.”
Sebastian said, “Why would Jarvis kill Jane Ambrose?”
“Vhy don’t you ask him?”
“I did, actually. He denies having anything to do with it.”
“Ach.” She waved one plump, clay-covered hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. “He lies almost as much as the Prince—except, of course, he’s better at it.”
Sebastian watched Caroline frown down at her sculpture and realized she was executing an extraordinarily skilled likeness of her brother, the current Duke of Brunswick.
He said, “I’m told you recommended Jane Ambrose to Lord Wallace as an instructor for his daughter Elizabeth. Is that true?”
Caroline kept her attention focused on the bust’s hairline. “I may have. To be honest, I do not recall.”
The evasiveness of the answer was telling. He said, “Did Jane bring a message from Charlotte when she came to see you last week?”
“Huh. Vhat kind of man not only prevents his daughter from seeing her mother but refuses to allow them even to correspond with each other? Hmm? Vhat kind of man?” When Sebastian kept silent, she said, “But you’re wrong about Jane. Charlotte never asked her to carry letters.”
“But she did come here?”
“Oh, yes—to visit vith me. Is that so impossible for you to believe?”
“No, Your Highness. But it doesn’t explain why you think Jarvis might be behind her death.”
Caroline rolled one round shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Perhaps I’m wrong.”
It was obvious that she would tell him no more. And one did not press the Princess of Wales, even if she was banished from court.
But it occurred to Sebastian as he bowed himself out that, however uninhibited, unsophisticated, or careless of her dress Caroline might be, she was still very much a princess born and bred, the future queen of England, and mother of the heiress presumptive to the throne. She’d known exactly what she was doing when she’d agreed to speak to Sebastian, and she had told him the sordid tale of Charlotte’s betrothal for a reason.
She was leaving it up to Sebastian to discover for himself what that reason was.
Chapter 22
Sebastian came out of Connaught House’s snow-blanketed front gardens to find his tiger walking the chestnuts as far from the site of the old execution scaffold as he could get and still be within hailing distance.
At the sight of Sebastian, the boy swung the sleigh around with a swish that sent up an arc of fine snow crystals. He was just reining in before the house when Sebastian spotted Signor Valentino Vescovi’s lanky figure coming through the Tyburn turnpike to stride purposefully toward Princess Caroline’s gate.
“Hang on a minute,” Sebastian told Tom, and shifted to intercept the harpist.
The Italian had his head down, his attention all for the task of minding his footing on the slippery footpath. He remained utterly oblivious to Sebastian’s presence until he said cheerfully, “Good morning.”
The harpist’s head jerked up, one hand flashing out to grab the railing of the garden’s iron fence as his feet slid sideways in opposite directions. “Santo cielo! You startled me.”
Sebastian thought the man looked more frightened than startled, but all he said was “You’re Vescovi, aren’t you? I heard you play at one of Lady Farningham’s musical evenings last September. I’m Devlin.”
Vescovi licked his lower lip. “If this is about Signora Ambrose, your wife has already spoken to me. Yesterday.”
“I know.” Sebastian threw a significant glance toward Caroline’s tall stuccoed house. “What are you doing here?”
Vescovi swallowed. “Teaching the Princess of Wales to play the harp?” The excuse might have sounded more believable if the rising pitch of his voice hadn’t turned what should have been a statement into a question.
“Indeed?” said Sebastian.
“She is very musical, you know.”
“As is her daughter.”
The Italian nodded vigorously. “Yes, yes.”
“How convenient that mother and daughter share the same instructors. It must make it so much easier for them to pass letters back and forth with none the wiser.”
Vescovi stared at him in silence, his dark eyes watering and the tip of his long, thin nose red from the cold.
Sebastian said, “Do I take it Jane Ambrose also carried messages for Princess Charlotte?”
Vescovi blew out a harsh breath and looked unexpectedly troubled. “Not to my knowledge, no.”
“And would you know?”
“I think so, yes.”
“So why was Jane here last week, visiting Caroline?”
“Was she? I’ve no notion.” He tried to sidle around Sebastian toward the garden gate but had to draw up again when Sebastian shifted to cut him off.
Sebastian said, “Tell me what happened last week between Jane Ambrose and the Dutch courtier Peter van der Pals.”
He thought the Italian might try to deny all knowledge of the incident. Instead he frowned and said, “Why?”
“Because there’s a good possibility it may have something to do with Jane’s death. Was she in love with him?”
“Jane? Of course not. I suppose she was amused by him at first. He’s a clever, witty young man, and he made her laugh. But if he believed her to be captivated by him, he was mistaken. She was shocked when he tried to coax her into spying on Charlotte.”
“How do you know this? Did she tell you?”
The harpist’s thin, bony body swayed from side to side as he shifted his feet in the snow. “It’s . . . complicated.”
“Court intrigues generally are,” said Sebastian.
Vescovi nodded and sighed. “Jane Ambrose was a talented, good-hearted woman. But she was too naive, too trusting to survive at court. She made the mistake of telling one of the Princess’s subgovernesses about the entire incident with van der Pals.”
“You mean Miss Ella Kinsworth?”
“Yes.”
“And Ella Kinsworth told you?”
“Signorina Kinsworth? Ah, no. That woman is as determinedly upright and fiercely loyal as Signora Ambrose. But they weren’t as careful as they should have been. They were overheard.”
“By you?”
Vescovi gave a sharp shake of his head. “Me? No. By Lady Arabella.”
“Who the blazes is Lady Arabella?”
“The Duchess of Leeds’s daughter.”
“And this Lady Arabella told you about the conversation between the two women?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Vescovi looked confused. “Pardon?”
“Why would Lady Arabella pass this information on to you?”
“Because I am teaching her Italian.”
Sebastian studied the harpist’s thin, bony face. “That doesn’t explain why she would think you’d be interested.”
Vescovi brought up one hand to scratch his forehead with the seam of his thick woolen mitten. “She knew I’d be interested because in addition to everything else, Jane told Miss Kinsworth that Peter van der Pals said I spy for Caroline.”
“Why would van der Pals tell her that?”
“Because Jane was so shocked by what he was proposing that he laughed at her. Called her a fool and told her everyone at Warwick House spies for someone.” Vescovi scowled. “He illustrated that point with me.”
“So whom does Ella Kinsworth spy for?”
Vescovi shrugged one shoulder. “The Regent assumes she is his creature, but she’s not. Her loyalty is to Charlotte.”
“As yours is to Caroline?”
Vescovi’s eyes narrowed. “I serve both Princesses.”
“And if their interests don’t align? Who do you serve then?”
Vescovi remained silent.
Sebastian said, “You do realize you’ve just admitted you had a motive to kill Jane Ambrose.”
The Italian’s jaw sagged. “Me? What? But . . . how?”
“She knew you spy for the Princess of Wales, and she told Charlotte’s subgoverness.”
“But I didn’t hold that against her!”
“No? You resented it enough to have words with her about it. I assume that was the subject of your quarrel by the canal in the park?”