Why Kill the Innocent

by C. S. Harris

  Like all Society breakfasts, this one was held in the early afternoon, since few members of the ton rolled out of bed before midday. Most of the guests arrived wrapped in furs, and they came in droves, for invitations to the breakfast were highly coveted. Its very site—the gardens of Kensington Palace—clearly signaled to the world the Dowager Duchess’s high standing with the royal family. Not only was the aged Queen herself present, but so were four of her spinster daughters and a brace of Royal Dukes. Even the Prince Regent put in an appearance, still hobbling about with a cane, thanks to his recent attack of gout.

  The only royal of any significance noticeably absent was the young heiress presumptive to the throne.

  “Charlotte?” said the Dowager Duchess of Leeds when Devlin paused beside their hostess to inquire after the Princess. “Oh, His Highness prefers she not attend such affairs.”

  Hero had to force herself not to meet Devlin’s gaze. “But your daughter, Lady Arabella, is here?”

  “Oh, yes,” said the Dowager smugly. “She makes her Come Out this year, you know.”

  “How lovely,” said Hero.

  “And you almost sounded as if you meant it,” Devlin told Hero as they strolled along snowy paths, looking for Lady Arabella.

  Hero pulled a face. “Beastly woman.”

  He stared off across the winter-shrouded gardens filled with laughing, chatting guests. “The other day you compared Charlotte to Rapunzel, but I’m beginning to think a more apt comparison might be Cinderella. Admittedly, no one is making Charlotte sweep out fireplaces. But she certainly is forced to sit home while everyone else is out having fun.”

  “Except that in Charlotte’s case, I fear there will be no Prince Charming in her future to ride to her rescue.” Hero frowned as she scanned the crowd. “Do you see her little ladyship?”

  “There, at the table by the sundial. Which of us do you think would be most likely to intimidate her into telling the truth?”

  “I doubt anyone could intimidate that girl.”

  “I am larger.”

  “True. But if she simply refuses to answer your questions? How precisely do you intend to force a sixteen-year-old duke’s daughter to be more forthcoming? In the middle of her mama’s party?”

  Devlin thought about it a moment, then said, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”

  Hero nodded. “I thought not. Leave her to me.”

  * * *

  Lady Arabella was choosing between the relative merits of sliced roast beef and bacon when Hero walked up to her and said bluntly, “I’m going to ask you some questions about Jane Ambrose, and you are going to answer me truthfully.”

  The Duke’s lovely young daughter gave a trill of laughter. “Indeed? And if I don’t?”

  Hero made a show of studying a platter of what must have been hideously expensive greenhouse asparagus. “It’s actually quite ridiculous how easy it is to ruin a young lady’s reputation,” she said in a pleasant, conversational tone. “A little whisper here, an innuendo there, and the opprobrium quickly takes on a life of its own—whether it’s true or not, and even when the young lady in question is the daughter of a duke.”

  Lady Arabella’s beautifully molded lips curved into an arrogant smile. “I don’t believe you would do that.”

  Hero met the girl’s glittering gaze and held it. “Oh, believe me, I would.”

  It was the girl who looked away first, her nostrils flaring on a quickly indrawn breath.

  Hero said, “Something happened to Jane Ambrose the Tuesday before she died—something dreadful—and you know what it was.”

  Lady Arabella lifted her chin. She was no longer smiling. “I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea what you could be referring to.”

  “Yes, you do. She came to Warwick House right afterward, specifically to confront you about it.”

  “If you know so much about it, then why bother asking me?”

  “Don’t,” said Hero, her voice low and lethal. “Don’t even think about trying my patience any further.”

  The girl’s pointed little chin jerked up higher. “Very well. She came because—or so she claimed—the Dutch courtier Peter van der Pals had forced himself upon her, and she had the ridiculous notion in her head that I was responsible.” The girl gave another tinkling little laugh that made Hero long to slap her beautiful, spoiled face. “As if I could somehow be held to blame for her folly.”

  “You don’t think you were?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Van der Pals threatened to make her sorry if she told anyone he’d tried to get her to spy for him. I know you overheard her warning Ella Kinsworth about what he’d done because you later repeated the conversation to Valentino Vescovi. Did you also tattle to van der Pals himself?”

  “And if I did?”

  “He raped her because of you.”

  “So she claimed.”

  “Oh, it happened.”

  The girl simply stared back at Hero, jaw set hard.

  Hero said, “Where did the rape take place?”

  “I’ve no idea. Do you seriously think I inquired into the sordid details?”

  Hero searched the young girl’s lovely, cold face. “Two people are dead, in all likelihood because of you. Don’t you even care?”

  “I am no more responsible for their deaths than you are.”

  Hero shook her head. But all she could find to say was “May God have mercy on your soul.”

  She was turning away when Lady Arabella said, “Mrs. Ambrose actually thanked me, you know.”

  Hero paused. “For what?”

  “She said I’d helped her see something she should have realized long ago.”

  “And what was that?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. I didn’t ask her to particularize.”

  Hero said, “If you know anything else—anything at all—about what happened to Jane Ambrose or Valentino Vescovi—”

  “I’ve told you all I know.” Lady Arabella shook back her dark, beautiful hair. “Now, you must excuse me, Lady Devlin; I see my mother the Duchess looking for me.”

  And with that the girl slipped away, her head held high and a faint smile curling her lovely lips, secure in the knowledge that her wealth, birth, and beauty would insulate her from the myriad ugly fates that could befall the world’s less exalted mortals.

  Chapter 42

  Peter van der Pals was looking over a tray of snuffboxes in an exclusive little shop on Bond Street when Sebastian came to rest one forearm on the counter beside him.

  “Leave us,” Sebastian told the slight, fastidious shopkeeper hovering nearby.

  The shopkeeper took his tray of snuffboxes and scuttled to the back of the shop.

  Van der Pals turned with deliberate indolence to face Sebastian. “I presume you are here as a result of Lady Devlin’s conversation with the Duchess of Leeds’s daughter?”

  “Lady Arabella managed to get word to you about that already, did she? And are you planning to deny what you did to Jane Ambrose?”

  The Dutchman gave a low, incredulous laugh. “Hardly. Why should I? I warned her to keep her mouth shut, and she did not.”

  “You think that justifies what you did to her?”

  The courtier shrugged and started to turn away. “I taught the bitch a lesson. She had it coming.”

  Sebastian caught van der Pals by the shoulder and spun him around to shove him back against the nearest wall hard enough to rattle the contents of the display cases.

  “Gentlemen,” bleated the shopkeeper, clutching his tray of snuffboxes against his chest. “Gentlemen, please.”

  Van der Pals held himself very still. “You are physically assaulting the particular friend of the man who will someday be the prince consort of your Queen, if not king in his own name.”

  “I’ll worry about the consequenc
es when that day comes.”

  The courtier raised one supercilious eyebrow. “What precisely is it you want from me?”

  “Answers. First of all, where did this happen?”

  “Savile Row. I believe she was coming back from a visit to her dear uncle Sheridan, but I could have that wrong.”

  “So you—what? Dragged her into a convenient alley and took her there up against a wall?”

  “Something like that. It was, after all, an act of punishment, not pleasure.”

  Sebastian resisted the urge to slam the man against the wall again. “And then two days later you killed her.”

  “Hardly. I’d already made my point. Why would I then kill her?”

  “For refusing to keep quiet about the rape.”

  “In my experience, women never talk about such incidents. They understand that for others to know what’s been done to them is far more damaging than the initial violation and therefore keep silent for their own good.”

  “Except that Jane Ambrose wasn’t keeping silent. And given your friendship with young Lady Arabella, I have no doubt you know that.”

  The courtier gave a dismissive shrug. “So she told one sixteen-year-old girl. She wouldn’t have told anyone else.”

  Sebastian studied the man’s handsome, self-assured face. “This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this, is it?”

  The courtier shrugged again, his smile never slipping.

  Sebastian’s fists closed on the man’s lapels. “You son of a—”

  “Gentlemen. Please.”

  Sebastian threw a quick look at the shopkeeper, then took a step back and let the courtier go.

  Van der Pals carefully adjusted his coat. “If you ask me,” he said, his attention all for his clothing, “the husband killed her.”

  “Oh? And is this wild speculation on your part, or are you actually basing it on something?”

  Van der Pals frowned as he studied his reflection in a nearby mirror and swiftly repaired the folds of his cravat. “Call it a logical deduction. You see, I told her about her husband’s young mistress—his enceinte young mistress.”

  “How the bloody hell did you know about that?”

  “It’s my business to know such things. I even gave her the girl’s name and address.”

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why did you do that?”

  The courtier gave a wide smile that showed his even white teeth. “Because I knew it would hurt her. Why else?” The smile faded. “In the past, out of respect for my Prince, I have allowed your insults to my honor to slide. But such an outrage will not go unavenged.”

  Sebastian turned away. “You can try.”

  Chapter 43

  Sebastian’s knock at the door of the rooms Edward Ambrose kept for his mistress in Tavistock Street was answered by a young housemaid no more than twelve or thirteen years old. She was a gangly thing, all arms and legs, with a head of rioting dark hair inadequately constrained by a mobcap. She was evidently so surprised to see an unknown gentleman standing at her mistress’s door that she simply stared at him, mouth agape.

  “Is your mistress at home?” said Sebastian.

  The girl closed her mouth and nodded, eyes going wide.

  Sebastian handed her his card. “Kindly tell her Lord Devlin would like a word—”

  “Who is it, Molly?” Emma Carter came from a distant room, trailing a length of delicate white knitting. At the sight of Sebastian, she drew up abruptly. “Oh,” she said, her free hand creeping up to cup her heavy belly. The way she was looking at him told Sebastian she not only knew who he was, but also had some idea as to why he was here.

  She wore a high-waisted figured muslin gown with long sleeves and a pink shawl, and she looked lovely, frightened, and very, very young. Her accent was good enough to make Sebastian wonder what had brought her to this.

  He said, “If I might have a word with you, Miss Carter? I need to ask you some questions about Jane Ambrose.”

  “But I don’t know anything about what happened to her,” she whispered, her nostrils flaring with alarm. “I swear it.”

  “Did she come here last Tuesday or Wednesday?”

  Emma Carter and her housemaid exchanged quick, anxious glances.

  Sebastian said, “She did, didn’t she? What did she say?”

  The young woman’s breathing had become so agitated she was shaking with it. Her lips parted, but she seemed to find it impossible to say anything.

  “Miss Carter? What did she say?”

  It was the housemaid who answered. “She didn’t say nothin’. She jist stood there and looked at mistress. Then she whirled around and left.”

  “That’s it?”

  Mistress and housemaid both nodded.

  “Did you tell Edward Ambrose she had come?”

  Emma Carter shook her head no even as her housemaid was nodding yes.

  “When did you tell him?” demanded Sebastian, his gaze hard upon her even as her features crumpled with her tears. “And don’t even think about lying to me again.”

  “The next day. Wednesday,” said the young woman in a broken voice. “Wednesday evening.”

  “And did you see him again that Thursday?”

  “No. He was supposed to come in the afternoon, but he didn’t.”

  “Did he ever tell you why not?”

  “He said something came up. He didn’t tell me what.”

  “Thank you,” said Sebastian. As he turned away, he found himself wondering what would happen to this heavily pregnant young woman if the father of her unborn child were convicted of murdering his wife.

  Then he caught the horror in Emma Carter’s frightened brown eyes, and he knew the same thought had already occurred to her.

  * * *

  Sebastian walked the icy streets of the city, his thoughts turning over everything he’d just learned and everything he thought he’d known before.

  In the last month of a life cut tragically short, Jane Ambrose had inadvertently made some nasty, formidable enemies: Lord Jarvis, Nathan Rothschild, and the courtier Peter van der Pals. All were hard men who wouldn’t hesitate to kill a beautiful young pianist if she got in their way. She had moved through a dangerous swirl of greed and palace intrigue that Sebastian suspected he still didn’t completely understand. But he was coming increasingly to suspect that her death might actually have been the result of forces that were for the most part considerably more personal.

  What would happen, he wondered, if a woman who’d recently buried both her children were to discover that her husband was about to have a child by his young mistress—a mistress he maintained in grand style on money earned from the operas she herself had secretly written?

  What would she do?

  Sebastian found himself coming back to what Jane had told Liam Maxwell the afternoon before she died: Our society asks women to give up too much, but nothing is going to change as long as we keep meekly doing what is expected of us. When Sebastian first heard those words, they struck him as oddly out of character for the woman he thought he was coming to know. But that was before he’d learned all that had happened to Jane Ambrose in the twenty-four hours before that strange conversation, from van der Pals’s brutal rape in a Savile Row alley to her discovery of her husband’s pregnant mistress. When considered in that context, Jane’s statement to Liam Maxwell sounded like the dawning resolution of a woman who’d had enough. Who’d had enough of hiding her talent from the world because of her sex. Who was weary of denying a love that had been slowly deepening over ten long years. Who no longer believed she should endure a loveless marriage to an abusive husband simply because that’s what her religion and society expected of a wife.

  So what had she done? Sebastian wondered. Confronted Ambrose? Threatened to leave him?

  It
wasn’t difficult to imagine how a man such as Edward Ambrose, deeply in debt and known for hitting his wife, would react. And if he hit her hard enough that she fell and fatally struck her head?

  A man like Ambrose would never admit what he had done.

  * * *

  The housemaid who answered the door of Ambrose’s Soho Square town house looked less sorrowful than the last time Sebastian had seen her, but more anxious.

  “My lord,” she said, bobbing a quick curtsy. “If’n yer here t’ see Mr. Ambrose, he’s in his library. He’s been in there forever, but he don’t take kindly to us interruptin’ him when he’s working like this, and I don’t dare disturb him.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Sebastian said pleasantly as he simply walked past her toward the library door. “I’ll interrupt him myself.”

  “But, my lord—”

  She broke off in a gasp and threw her apron up over her face as Sebastian thrust open the door without knocking.

  It was the unexpected chill that hit him first—the chill and the ripe smell of blood. Edward Ambrose lay sprawled on his back beside the library’s cold hearth, one knee bent awkwardly beneath him, his arms flung out at his sides. His mouth was slightly agape, his eyes wide, as if he were startled by something. But the eyes were already filmed and flattening, and a dark sea of blood stiffened the front of the torn white silk waistcoat from which protruded the handle of an elegant dagger.

  The housemaid, who had crept up to peek around Sebastian’s side, dropped her apron and began to scream.

  Chapter 44

  “How long do you think he’s been dead?” asked Lovejoy sometime later as he crouched beside the dead man.