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.