Chapter 35
Sebastian was cleaning his pistol at his desk when he heard a distant door slam, followed by a shout. He looked up as Tom came skidding into the room.
“I got what ye wanted, gov’nor!” exclaimed the tiger, ignoring Morey’s loud hiss from the entrance hall. “I been askin’ around the Percy Arms about that Italian cove yer interested in, and I finally found a chambermaid says ’e went off about midday last Thursday. ’E come back fer a bit t’ change ’is clothes and get ’is ’arp, but then he went off again.”
Sebastian carefully replaced the pistol’s flint. “She’s certain about the day?”
“Aye. Says it was the day they got their chimneys swept, and the sweep’s boy got stuck up the one in Vescovi’s room for hours. Only Vescovi never knew it ’cause he didn’t come in till late!”
A respectable eighteenth-century redbrick inn with white sash windows and a tidy, symmetrical facade, the Percy Arms lay on Red Lion Square in Holborn. When Sebastian pushed open the street door and turned toward the public room, a warm atmosphere heavy with the smells of coal and tobacco smoke, roasting meat and spilled ale enveloped him. He ordered a tankard and then went to pull out the opposite chair of the table where Signor Valentino Vescovi sat eating a plate of sausages beside the fire.
The Italian froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Per l’amor di Dio. What are you doing here?”
“What do you think?” said Sebastian, settling himself comfortably.
“But I’ve told you everything I know!”
Sebastian took a slow sip from his tankard and set it on the table between them. “I think not.”
Vescovi thrust a large chunk of sausage into his mouth and chewed in silence.
Sebastian said, “You can begin by telling me where you really were last Thursday. And don’t even think of trying to convince me you were here all day, because I now know that for a lie. I did warn you, did I not?”
The Italian swallowed his half-chewed sausage, his eyes going wide.
“Where were you?” Sebastian said again.
“With the Big Princess—Princess Caroline of Wales,” said Vescovi, his voice hoarse.
Sebastian sat back in his chair and folded his arms at his chest. “You do realize I will check, don’t you?”
“Yes, yes—of course. But I was there. I swear it.”
“All afternoon and evening?”
The harpist twitched one shoulder. “Late afternoon to evening. Before that, I was skating.”
“Why so long?”
“Pardon?”
“Why were you at Connaught House so long? You were obviously there for something more than a simple music lesson.”
Vescovi sat up straighter and said with an assumption of great dignity, “Her Highness was hosting a dinner party, and I provided the music.”
“Oh? And who was at this dinner party?”
Vescovi frowned. “I’m not convinced I should tell you that.”
Sebastian met the man’s gaze and held it. “Actually, I rather think you should.”
The Italian’s gaze faltered away. “Brougham. Henry Brougham was there. Whitbread. Earl Grey. Some others.”
“Phineas Wallace?”
“No. Not him. He was supposed to attend, but he canceled at the last minute.”
Interesting, thought Sebastian. Aloud, he said, “I’ve been slowly piecing together a picture of Jane Ambrose’s last days. On Thursday, the twentieth of January—exactly one week before she died—Peter van der Pals attempted to cajole Jane into spying on Princess Charlotte for him and then threatened her when she refused. The following day she told Miss Kinsworth of the incident, unaware of the fact that the Duchess of Leeds’s nasty young daughter was listening at keyholes again. So when did Lady Arabella talk to you?”
Vescovi slumped in his seat and looked miserable. “The following Monday.”
“And Jane confronted you beside the canal in St. James’s Park that same day?”
“Yes,” said Vescovi again, obviously not seeing where this was going. “Why?”
“Because the following afternoon—Tuesday—Jane went to see a certain gentleman of her acquaintance to ask about Orange’s sexual interests. So far I haven’t been able to discover who told her about Orange. But given the timing, I’m beginning to think it was you.” Sebastian hesitated. “Am I right?”
Face tight with worry, Vescovi set down his fork with a clatter and pushed his half-eaten plate away.
Sebastian said, “Signor?”
The Italian drew a pained breath and nodded. “I was . . . angry. We both were. She made a number of unjust accusations about me, and I told her she was naive—that she didn’t understand the situation at all.”
“That’s when you told her about Orange?”
Vescovi nodded. “But she didn’t believe me. At least, she said she didn’t.”
“She may not have believed you at first. But she was concerned enough about what you said that she sought out someone she thought could confirm it.”
Vescovi swiped his hands down over his face. “And this person she went to see, did he tell her the truth?”
“He did.”
“Dio mio,” he whispered. “You think that’s why she was killed? Because someone was afraid she might pass on what she’d learned to Charlotte?”
“I think it’s a distinct possibility.”
“Dio mio,” he said again.
Sebastian studied the musician’s haggard, troubled face. “The Orange alliance is important to a number of powerful people, none of whom are the sort to take kindly to having their ambitions thwarted.”
Vescovi brought up a shaky hand to cup his mouth.
“What?” asked Sebastian, watching him.
The musician cast a quick look around, then leaned forward and dropped his hand. “Those pushing for the Orange alliance are extraordinarily ruthless and powerful. But some of those working to prevent the marriage—while less powerful—can also be dangerous.”
Sebastian frowned. “But Jane was against the marriage herself. Why would they be a threat to her?”
“You must understand that those working against the alliance do not all share the same motivations, nor do they all have the Little Princess’s best interests at heart. Some wish simply to protect Charlotte from a miserable future and are opposed to the marriage for that reason, while others would like to prevent the Dutch entanglement but not at the cost of harming the Princess. Yet there are those who will do anything to prevent the alliance and they don’t care if Princess Charlotte is hurt in the process.”
“That doesn’t make sense. How might she get hurt? If anything, it’s in her best interests if the marriage is called off.”
“That depends on why it’s called off, does it not?”
“Meaning—what?”
“Please.” Vescovi’s voice turned into an agonized whisper. “Don’t ask me. I cannot tell you.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s drawn, frightened face. “You might be safer if you did.”
“I cannot.”
And with that, the Italian pushed up from his chair and walked quickly away, his head bowed and the fingers of one hand sliding nervously up and down his watch chain.