Chapter 36
Sebastian stood beside the stone balustrade of Blackfriars Bridge and stared out over the uneven frozen plain that had once been the River Thames. Two straggly parallel lines of gaily painted booths and tents were beginning to form, with roving vendors selling everything from gingerbread and tea to gloves and hairbrushes. Troops of jugglers, acrobats, and tumblers performed for the growing crowd, while close to one of the arches of the bridge someone was roasting a sheep over a large iron pan full of coals and charging sixpence to watch or a shilling for a slice of mutton. The air was heavy with the scent of roasting meat, hot chestnuts, and ale.
There hadn’t been a Frost Fair on the Thames since Sebastian was a boy. In his memories it loomed as a magical thing, a marvel of music and laughter and fanciful sights that seemed far more exciting than those of more humdrum fairs such as Bartholomew’s or Southwark’s. He supposed the wonder had something to do with a Frost Fair’s ephemeral, spontaneous nature, as well as the inevitable spice of danger that came from knowing the ice could at any moment crack and give way, plunging everyone into the frigid waters below.
There were tents for drinking, eating, and dancing; toy stalls and skittles alleys; even a Punch and Judy show. And near the roasting sheep, a couple of apprentices were helping their master set up a printing press in a booth decorated with gaily colored streamers. The apprentices were unknown to Sebastian, but he recognized the printer. It was Liam Maxwell.
A young mother and two small children, all wrapped up warmly against the cold, were picking their way across the ice toward Maxwell’s booth. For a moment the younger boy paused to gaze in wide-eyed wonder at a juggler tossing flaming torches high into the air, and Sebastian found his thoughts spinning away, inevitably, to Jane Ambrose’s last days.
He suspected that, near the end, she must have felt something like a juggler herself, desperately trying to control the dangerous men who threatened her world. One of them had eventually killed her. If Sebastian could figure out how and where, it might tell him which one. But at the moment his thoughts were all up in the air, going round and round in an endless, useless whirl.
He was still staring thoughtfully out over the growing fair when a slim, elegantly dressed courtier came to stand beside him, the breeze rising off the ice to ruffle the artful curls that framed his handsome face.
“A curious level of excitement, this,” said Peter van der Pals, his gaze on the bustle below. “One would think they’d never seen a Frost Fair before.”
“They don’t happen here often.”
Van der Pals shifted his posture to lean one hip against the snow-covered battlement and face Sebastian. “I’m told you’ve been making inquiries about me.”
“I have. I don’t appreciate it when people lie to my wife.”
The Dutch courtier stiffened. It was considered a grave insult, calling a gentleman a liar. “I beg your pardon?”
Sebastian kept his voice even and pleasant, his gaze on two men setting up a swing below. “When you claimed Jane Ambrose was jealous of your attentions to Lady Arabella, that was a lie. Her anger was actually provoked by your attempts to convince her to spy on Princess Charlotte. When she refused, you threatened to make her ‘sorry’ if she told anyone. But she did tell someone, and now she’s dead. All of which makes you a prime suspect in her murder.”
A weak sun peeked out through a break in the clouds, and van der Pals’s eyes narrowed against the glare off the ice. “No one murdered Jane Ambrose. She slipped and fell.”
“Someone certainly made a rather clumsy attempt to give that impression.”
“So you’re suggesting—what? That I killed her out of spite? For daring to tell some dried-up old spinster on me?” The Dutchman gave a ringing laugh. “Surely you know that everyone around Charlotte spies for someone?”
“Perhaps. Except that as a result of your rather crude overtures, Jane Ambrose learned a certain troublesome secret about the Prince of Orange. And that secret gives you a second—and considerably more powerful—motive to kill her.”
The smirk remained on the courtier’s face. “Do you realize how many men in England—not to mention on the Continent—know this supposedly powerful and dangerous ‘secret’? Yet no one is killing them. To my knowledge, Mrs. Ambrose’s death remains a singularity.”
“Jane Ambrose’s access to Princess Charlotte was also rather . . . singular.”
Van der Pals twitched one shoulder in a dismissive gesture. “At this point it doesn’t matter whether Charlotte learns the truth or not. It’s too late for her to back out.”
“Perhaps. But it does rather beg the question: If your Prince is certain of his future bride’s constancy, why were you so eager to place a spy in her household?”
“Security. There are those who would like nothing more than to see the betrothal ended before it is announced.”
“Oh? Such as?”
“Charlotte’s mother, the Princess of Wales, obviously—and those who champion her cause.”
“Namely?”
“Wallace. Brougham. You know as well as I with whom Caroline associates.”
“Who else?”
The courtier raised one haughty eyebrow. “How would I know?”
“Because it’s your business to know.” Sebastian studied the courtier’s handsome smiling face. “The betrothal’s announcement is being delayed because Orange fears he has yet to adequately solidify his position in the Netherlands. That tells me there are forces within your own country that are as opposed to the match as Caroline and her associates. So who amongst the Dutch in London might be working to prevent the alliance?”
“None, to my knowledge. Apart from which, why would any of them want to kill Jane Ambrose? The woman was against the betrothal herself.”
“So she was. Although I wonder how you came to know that.”
“She told me.”
“Oh? When did she tell you this?”
“The last time I saw her.”
“Which was—when?”
“You seriously think I recall?”
“You claim to recall what she said.”
Van der Pals pushed away from the balustrade to stand with his hands dangling loosely at his sides, his chiseled jaw set so hard he was practically spitting out his words. “That makes twice you have insulted my honor by calling me a liar. It is only my respect for what is owed the dignity of my Prince that prevents me from calling you out here and now. But I will not be so forbearing next time. Good day to you, my lord.” And with that he strode off, the hem of his elegant caped greatcoat flaring in the icy wind.
After he had gone, Sebastian remained on the bridge, his gaze on the makeshift booths and tents below. Of all the Whigs gathered around the Princess of Wales, Lord Wallace was probably the most likely to stop at almost nothing if he thought he could scuttle the projected alliance between Britain and the Netherlands. But did that include murdering a talented pianist?
Perhaps. The problem was, Why? In what way could Wallace have seen Jane as a threat to his machinations? Jane was every bit as opposed to the proposed Orange marriage as Wallace. Vescovi had hinted at something hidden, something sinister. But what?
What?
Playing a hunch, Sebastian drove to Lord Wallace’s house on Mount Street. Only, instead of knocking at his door, Sebastian stayed with the horses and sent his tiger, Tom, to question his lordship’s house servants and grooms.
Unassuming, subtle, and beguilingly cheerful, Tom was very good at eliciting information without raising a whisper of either understanding or alarm.
Sometime later, Phineas Wallace was crossing the snowy forecourt of the House of Lords when Sebastian fell into step beside him.
“Now what the devil do you want?” demanded the Baron as they turned onto Margaret Street toward Whitehall.
“I’m wondering where you were the afternoon and evening of Thursday, the twenty-seventh of January.”
“Really? Why on earth would you want to know that?”
“That’s the day Jane Ambrose was killed.”
Wallace drew up abruptly and swung to face him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I’m afraid I am.” When the Baron continued to simply stare at Sebastian, he said again, “So where were you?”
Wallace turned and kept walking. “You think I remember? That was a week ago.”
“Not quite. As it happens, Her Highness the Princess of Wales gave a dinner party that evening. All your friends and close associates—Brougham, Whitbread, Earl Grey—were there. But you weren’t. Why was that? I wonder. And before you claim to have been at home, I should warn you that your servants say otherwise.”
“My God. Have you stooped to suborning a man’s own servants?”
“Not suborning. Merely questioning.” Sebastian studied the Baron’s tightly held face. “It’s no secret that you are strongly opposed to the marriage Prinny has arranged between his daughter and the House of Orange.”
Wallace threw a quick look around and lowered his voice. “Of course I am opposed to this ridiculous alliance. But what has that to say to anything?”
“I don’t think Jane Ambrose came to see you about music lessons for your daughter. I think something else was involved—something linked to either Princess Charlotte or her mother. Or both.”
Lord Wallace paused at the kerb. “Did it ever occur to you that you are wrong? That Jane Ambrose simply slipped on the ice, hit her head, and died? That her death, while tragic, is not part of some grand and nefarious international conspiracy?”
Sebastian shook his head. “Jane Ambrose didn’t die alone in the middle of Shepherds’ Lane.”
“That doesn’t mean her death necessarily had anything to do with the Princesses.” Wallace turned his head to stare thoughtfully up the snowy street, his eyes narrowing against the glare. “I’m told Jane Ambrose was as much against this marriage scheme as anyone. If you are right and she did not simply die by accident, then I suggest you look for her killer amongst those dedicated to seeing the alliance go through. Not amongst those who are opposed to it.”
“Perhaps. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Jane Ambrose would never do anything that might harm Princess Charlotte. Can you say the same?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” scoffed the Baron, and walked away.
But Sebastian noticed he didn’t deny it.