by C. S. Harris
“One can never have too many informants.”
“Perhaps not. Especially when you’re plotting to maneuver Princess Charlotte out of the country so that the Regent can replace Caroline with a new wife and beget a new heir.”
“Now, wherever did you hear that?”
“From Caroline.”
“Really? Interesting.”
“She’s no fool.”
“That’s debatable.”
“She says Prinny was virtually impotent nineteen years ago—which is quite believable given the rumors one hears about his current so-called mistresses.”
When Jarvis remained silent, she said, “If what she says is true, the chances of the Prince producing a male heir at this point are decidedly slim.”
“Slim, perhaps, but not impossible.”
“What’s wrong with Charlotte? She’s far more stable, responsible, and just plain likable than her father. And the people love her—they cheer her every time they see her.”
“She is a woman.”
“So was Queen Elizabeth.”
“Queen Elizabeth lived in a far different age.”
“Are you suggesting the Elizabethan era was more enlightened than our own? Or simply less challenging?”
Jarvis drew up and turned to face her. “The last thing the nineteenth century needs is a woman on the British throne—especially one who believes in Catholic emancipation and Irish independence.”
“Ah. So young Charlotte actually is a Whig, is she?”
“Fervently so. Her becoming queen would be an unmitigated disaster.”
“And so you’re marrying this innocent eighteen-year-old to a foreign prince with a known preference for handsome courtiers? How can you do that to the poor girl?”
“I’m not interested in what’s best for Charlotte. My concern is what is best for Britain.”
Hero studied him through narrowed eyes. “Why would someone kill Jane Ambrose?”
“I’ve no idea.”
He was aware of Hero’s gaze still hard upon him. “I don’t believe you,” she said.
At that, Jarvis laughed out loud and looped his arm through hers. But all he said was “So are you planning to bring your son to see your grandmother this afternoon? I’ve no doubt she’ll complain that he’s interrupting her nap and fatiguing her in every way known to man, but I doubt she’ll live to see many more of his birthdays. . . .”
Chapter 25
That evening Alistair James St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon and the man known to the world as Sebastian’s father, paid a visit to Brook Street.
He came to wish young Simon a happy birthday and to present the boy with a mechanical turtle, which the child adored. Afterward, Sebastian set up the chessboard on a table by the library fire and the two men sipped fine brandy while an icy wind howled around the house. There’d been a time not so long ago when Sebastian had believed the breach between them would never be healed. But things were easier these days. Not exactly the way they had been before, but easier.
It didn’t take Sebastian long to realize that the Earl’s mind was not on his game. After Hendon lost first a rook, then his queen in careless moves, Sebastian said, “Somehow I don’t think you came here simply to see Simon and play a game of chess.”
The Earl drew his pipe from his pocket and leaned back in his chair as he began to fill the bowl. He was a big man, with thinning white hair and a heavy-featured, jowly face. Lately he’d begun to shrink as his shoulders rounded. But as Chancellor of the Exchequer he was still a force to be reckoned with in the government. Like Jarvis, he was a strong Tory. He was also one of the few men in London sometimes willing to stand up to the King’s powerful cousin.
“Stephanie came to visit me yesterday,” said the Earl, tamping down the tobacco with his thumb.
Sebastian took a long, slow swallow of his brandy and felt it burn all the way down. Stephanie was one of Hendon’s two grandchildren by his firstborn child, Amanda. The nineteen-year-old’s marriage the previous September to the handsome, dissolute, and deadly Viscount Ashworth had troubled everyone who had the girl’s best interests at heart. “And?”
Hendon sighed. “Officially her child is due in June. But anyone who sees her must surely know she’ll be lucky to make it to March.”
“She’ll hardly be the first.”
“True.” Hendon bit down on the stem of his pipe and thrust up from his seat to reach for a spill. He sucked on the pipe, then cast the spill into the fire. “She had a bruise on the side of her face. Claims she did it falling on the ice, but you and I both know better.”
The two men were silent for a moment. Sebastian said, “I can try talking to him. But the man doesn’t frighten easily. And the truth is, short of killing him, I’m not sure what I can do.”
Hendon sighed. “I know. It’s just so damnably frustrating. She’ll never leave him, no matter what he does to her. She can’t. You know the law—if she did, she’d have to leave the child with its father.”
“Yes.”
Hendon sank back into his chair. He stared at the chessboard for a moment, then struck out with his arm to sweep the pieces from the board with an explosive “Bloody hell!”
It was a startlingly uncharacteristic display of frustration and temper. He looked at the scattered pieces sheepishly. “I beg your pardon.”
“It’s quite all right.”
Hendon rubbed a big blunt-fingered hand down over his face. “I hear you’ve involved yourself in the death of this pianist.”
“Yes,” said Sebastian.
Hendon had spent the last three years complaining about his son’s participation in murder investigations. But now he simply shook his head and said, “It’s troublesome.”
Sebastian rose with the Earl’s empty glass and went to refill it. “Why? What do you know?”
The Earl’s jaw tightened. “You’ve heard of the Orange alliance Jarvis and the Prince are pushing?”
“I have. Are you suggesting it could have something to do with Jane Ambrose’s death?”
“I don’t know what I’m suggesting. But she is the niece of Richard Sheridan.”
Sebastian paused with the brandy carafe suspended above the Earl’s glass and swung around to look at him. “She is?”
Richard Sheridan was best known as a brilliant playwright and poet, and the former owner and manager of both Covent Garden Theater and Drury Lane. But he was also until recently a longtime member of Parliament and a fiercely vocal reform-minded Whig. Although no longer in office, he had not been silent about his opposition to the idea of an alliance with the House of Orange. And along with Whigs like Henry Brougham and Lord Wallace, he was a well-known ally of the Princess of Wales in her struggles against the Regent.
“By marriage at any rate,” Hendon was saying. “His first wife was one of Thomas Linley’s daughters, as was Jane Ambrose’s mother.” Thomas Linley had been a famous tenor, music teacher, and composer whose numerous musical children were legendary.
Sebastian set the carafe aside. “That throws an entirely different light on everything.”
Hendon met his gaze. He was not smiling. “Yes, I rather thought it might.”
Chapter 26
Monday, 31 January
At ten o’clock the next morning, Hero and Alexi Sauvage passed through the forbidding portal of Newgate Prison and asked to see young Amy Hatcher. No one questioned their interest in the condemned girl, for earnest, devout gentlewomen—eager to save souls for Christ—frequently visited Newgate to pray with prisoners on the eve of their executions. Hero saw no reason to enlighten the authorities as to their true purpose.
Hero had never considered herself a particularly sensitive person. Yet there was no denying that when the heavy, barred door clanged shut behind them and the prison’s foul stench and endless cries of despair enveloped her, she fe
lt her breath catch and her stomach heave. Everywhere she looked she saw dirty faces pressed against bars and filth-encrusted hands reaching out to her for succor.
“It’s medieval,” she whispered through the scented handkerchief she held against her nose as their escort led them down a dank, noisome passage to a small, frigid room empty except for a crude table and benches.
“I suspect it hasn’t changed all that much in the last five hundred years,” said Alexi, her own voice pitched low.
Hero waited until the turnkey left to fetch the doomed prisoner, then said, “You’ve met this girl before?”
Alexi nodded. “I try to come every week or two to visit the women and children here and provide what medical attention I can. Needless to say, they don’t care if I’m officially licensed or not; they’re simply thankful for any help they can get. Amy hasn’t been at all well, and she’s so terribly frightened.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
Hero stared up at the room’s single small barred window, which looked out onto a soot-stained brick wall. “Dear God. That’s so young to die.”
“One of the worst parts is that because she’s from Devon, she has no family or friends here. She’s utterly alone.”
“Whatever possessed her to come up to London?”
“Ignorance and desperation, I suppose.”
The turnkey came back then with a heavy tread, pushing a thin slip of a girl ahead of him with a harsh “Get in there, then. Don’t want to keep the ladies waiting.”
The girl, Amy Hatcher, walked awkwardly, thanks to the heavy leg irons she dragged. She was pasty white with fear and ill health, her hair hanging in unkempt clumps, her dress a filthy, tattered rag. In her arms she held a tiny infant that mewed faintly as the young mother clutched the child tight. Then her terrified gaze slid over Hero to the Frenchwoman, and her haunted blue eyes lit up with hope.
“Oh, Mrs. Sauvage, it’s you. They didn’t tell me it was you.”
Alexi went to take the girl’s arm and draw her over to one of the benches. “Here; sit and eat. I’ve brought you bread and ham.”
The girl tore into the food as if she were starving—which she doubtless was, for provisions in Newgate were notoriously meager. While she ate, Alexi introduced Hero and explained her interest in the girl’s story.
Hero began by asking about Amy’s family—her parents were dead—and about her life in Devon. Then, slowly, she worked around to the night Amy’s husband was captured by the press gang.
“They got him one evening when he went to meet some friends at the pub,” Amy said. She’d finished eating now and was simply holding her baby with her head bowed. “I’d heard the press gang was in the village and begged him not to go out. But it was his best mate’s birthday. He swore he’d be careful. Only, he never came home. It wasn’t until I went out the next morning looking for him that I found out what’d happened. They got Mic Tiddler—his mate—too.” The girl fell silent, her gaze on the infant in her arms.
“How old is your baby?” Hero asked quietly.
“Four months.”
Hero had thought the babe much younger, for the child was painfully thin and wan-looking. But Hero smiled and said, “She’s lovely.” The girl’s answering smile cut Hero to the quick. “When was your husband impressed?” she asked.
Amy Hatcher sucked in a quick, painful breath that shuddered her chest. “Last July. We’d only been married a few months. After he’d gone, I didn’t know what to do. So once Hannah here was born, I came up to London looking for him. I know now it was foolish, but . . .”
“You walked all the way from Devon to London? Carrying your baby?”
“Yes, m’lady. I didn’t have no money for the stage. Sometimes a wagoner would stop and give me a ride, but not often.” The girl’s face crumpled, her lips quivering as they pulled back in a rictus of fear and gut-wrenching pain. “My baby’s gonna die, isn’t she? Without me to feed her and hold her and take care of her, Hannah’s gonna die.”
For one uncomfortable moment, Hero’s gaze met Alexi’s. What could they say? Your baby might survive? Everyone knew the death rates for children thrown on the parish ran as high as sixty percent, if not more. For an infant this young, already ailing, the chances were slim to none.
“I’ll leave money with the Keeper,” said Hero. “You’ll have good food and a bed tonight.”
The girl murmured her thanks. But Hero could tell they were half-hearted, for Amy Hatcher was moving beyond concerns for such earthly comforts.
“Last night,” said the girl, “they took us into the chapel and made us sit in the Black Pew with a coffin on the table in front of us while the chaplain read our burial service and told us how we’re being punished for our sins just the way God says we should be.”
The girl sucked in a quick, frightened breath. Hero thought it a senselessly cruel thing to do, to force condemned prisoners to listen to their own funeral service and a bloodcurdling description of the flames of hell awaiting them.
“I always used to believe in God,” the girl was saying. “But I don’t no more. Why would a God who’s truly good and kind let that press gang take my Jeremy away from me like that? We were so happy. We thought we had our whole lives ahead of us.” Tears began to slide down the girl’s dirty cheeks, but a rush of what looked like raw anger now glittered in her eyes and hardened her features. “I don’t care what the chaplain says. I won’t pray to God and ask him to forgive me. For what? For trying to keep my baby alive? Why should I have to ask God’s forgiveness for that? If there is a God and he did this to us—to my Jeremy, to my Hannah—then I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to go to heaven and live with somebody who’s that cruel and uncaring.”
She looked from Hero to Alexi, as if searching for an answer. But Hero felt her throat close up as the words of comfort she sought proved elusive. How do you console a seventeen-year-old mother who is about to die at the hands of her own government?
The truth is, you can’t.
Chapter 27
The day was turning increasingly cold. By the time Sebastian knocked at the small ramshackle brick house on Savile Row now inhabited by Richard Sheridan, a fierce wind was howling down the street.
One of his generation’s most successful dramatists and a respected member of government, Sheridan had been the toast of London for decades. But he’d taken a massive financial loss when both Drury Lane and Covent Garden burned within just a few years of each other, and he’d always had a tendency to live beyond his means. With the recent loss of his parliamentary seat thanks to an ugly quarrel with the Regent, he’d now become exposed to his creditors.
Even a few weeks in debtors’ prison were hard on someone in his sixties. The thin, hunched man who invited Sebastian into his nearly empty parlor looked haggard and ill, his nose red and his eyes watering. He clutched an old blue-and-red horse blanket around his shoulders for warmth and had a nightcap pulled down over his long silver hair, presumably for the same reason.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, indicating one of the two chairs drawn up before the fire. They were the only pieces of furniture in the room. “My creditors have taken the settees and carpet and a lovely old table that belonged to my late wife’s mother. But, fortunately, the stout lad who delivers coal next door was kind enough to hide the chairs in the attic when we saw the bailiffs coming.” The playwright grimaced as he settled again before the fire. “Unfortunately, I’ve no doubt they’ll be back. It’ll be a damnable nuisance, sitting on the floor at my age. But at least they can’t rip out the fireplace.” He fussed with the tails of his coat, then frowned up at Sebastian. “What the devil are you doing here, anyway?”
“I’m told Jane Ambrose was your niece.”
“She was, yes.” Sheridan’s eyes narrowed. He might have been impoverished and ill, but his mind was still quick and clever. “
Word on the street says she was murdered. I take it that’s true?”
“It was either murder or manslaughter. She didn’t fall and hit her head in the middle of Shepherds’ Lane. That’s for certain.”
“Well, well,” said the old man, shaking his head.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Jane? Just last Tuesday.”
“She came here?”
“She did. Does that surprise you?” He gave a bark of laughter that ended in a cough. “I still had the settees then.”
“Did she come to see you often?”
“Often enough. Even rescued me from the Marshalsea last November. It’s the worst part about losing my seat in Parliament, you know—having all these bastards hounding me night and day.”
“How did she seem when you last saw her?”
“How was she? She was bloody furious—that’s how she was. Seems someone told her that His Most Serene Highness the Hereditary Prince of Orange is extraordinarily fond of his more attractive male friends and manservants, and she wanted to know if it was a tale or not.”
“What did you tell her?”
“The truth, of course.”
“Where had she heard about Orange?”
“She never said. She was all afret about how Princess Charlotte would react, should she find out.” Sheridan exhaled his breath in a huff. “You’ve seen Orange—skinny as a straw, and those teeth! They don’t come much plainer-looking or more awkward. According to Jane, the only thing Princess Charlotte likes about the fellow is that she believes him to be direct and honest—unlike that worthless lying cad of a father of hers. Jane said it would devastate the girl, if she ever realizes how she’s been taken in by the lot of them.”
“She will find out. Eventually.”
“Oh, undoubtedly.”
Sebastian studied the aging playwright’s sagging features. His skin was slack and pale, and he needed a shave. But the ghost of his youthful good looks was still there in the strong nose, finely molded lips, and cleft, rounded chin. “Did you encourage Jane to tell the Princess?”