Chapter 47
Devlin was seated behind his desk, a disheveled lock of dark hair falling over one eye, his pen scratching furiously across a sheet of paper, when Hero came to stand in the library doorway.
“What are you doing?”
Looking up, he spun the page—covered with a rough graph of horizontal and vertical lines—around to face her. “Trying to make sense of four very tangled threads.”
As she drew closer, she could see that across the top of the page he’d written Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday . . . “With a calendar?” she said, coming to lean over the desk.
He nodded. “Of the last weeks of Jane Ambrose’s life. As far as I can tell, her trouble started here.” He pointed to the first Tuesday in January.
“The last day of the Great Fog,” said Hero.
Devlin leaned back in his chair. “That’s the day Jane accidently overheard Rothschild discussing his gold shipments to France, as a result of which he both dismissed her and threatened her.”
“Which had the unintended effect of sending her to visit her uncle Sheridan,” said Hero. “The first time.”
Devlin pointed to the following week. “This is when Jarvis sent one of his men to pick up Jane from Warwick House and bring her to him at Carlton House. He warned her to shut up and threatened dire consequences not only to her but to anyone else she should tell about the gold.”
“And it worked,” said Hero. “She shut up.”
“She did. She doesn’t appear to have told anyone else—not her brother, not Liam Maxwell.”
“Because she didn’t want to risk their lives,” said Hero quietly. “So she kept it all to herself. The poor woman. She must have been so frightened, and with no one to turn to for advice or support.”
Devlin pointed to the following Sunday. “It was just a few days after that when Princess Charlotte received word that the packet containing her letters to Hesse had been stolen from his trunk in Portsmouth. By the time Jane came for their lesson on Monday, the Princess was in a panic, and Jane offered to ask Caroline if she knew what had happened to the letters. She went out to Connaught House the very next day—Tuesday. But Caroline said she’d had nothing to do with the letters’ theft.”
Hero studied the calendar. “Then what?”
Devlin tapped the square representing the day after Jane’s visit to Connaught House, a Wednesday. “This is when Jane went to see Lord Wallace. Given the timing, I seriously doubt it had anything to do with piano lessons for young Miss Elizabeth Wallace.”
“Jane suspected Wallace was involved in the letters’ theft?”
“I think so. And if she was right—if Wallace actually was behind both the theft of the letters and now all these deaths—then how the devil do we prove it? Because you can be certain his lordship isn’t doing his own dirty work.”
“Something obviously made Jane decide to ask Wallace about the missing letters but not the other Whigs around Caroline—not Brougham, not Earl Grey, but Wallace. Why?”
“Because she knows him for the nasty piece of work he is?”
Hero gave a startled huff of laughter. “Perhaps. Although I can’t help but wonder what she hoped to accomplish by going to see him. Surely she didn’t expect him to actually admit to the theft, let alone give her the letters?”
“Probably not. Although she might have thought she could convince him not to publish them by appealing to his better nature.”
“Does Lord Wallace have a better nature?”
“He must. His belief in everything from the evils of slavery to the need for public education suggests a basic core of decency—somewhere deep down below all that massive self-regard and natural abrasiveness.”
Hero frowned as she studied the rough calendar. “Your handwriting is appalling. What happened on that Thursday—exactly one week before she died?”
“That’s the day Peter van der Pals asked Jane to spy on Princess Charlotte for Orange—and promised nasty repercussions if she told anyone about it.”
“Only, this time Jane didn’t keep silent. She felt honor bound to speak up, and so she warned Miss Kinsworth.”
“She did. Unfortunately, she didn’t realize the lovely Lady Arabella was listening at the keyhole. Which is why on the following Monday—just days before Jane was killed—she and Vescovi had that argument beside the ice-skating pond in St. James’s Park.”
“That’s when Vescovi told Jane about the Prince of Orange’s sexual interests.”
Devlin nodded. “Jane went the very next day to see her uncle Sheridan and ask him for the truth. It was as she left Savile Row that van der Pals waylaid her and raped her.”
“To punish her for telling on him,” said Hero.
“To punish her, yes. But it could have been more than that. I suspect he knew Vescovi told Jane about Orange. Van der Pals was familiar with their argument by the canal, remember? And while he claimed he didn’t know most of what was said there, I think we can be fairly certain that was a lie.”
“So the rape was not only a punishment, but also a warning?”
Devlin nodded. “Jane ignored van der Pals when he threatened her the first time. So the rape was his way of showing her that he was deadly serious. I suspect he warned her that if she made the mistake of telling the Princess about Orange’s sexual exploits, he’d kill her. And then, out of pure spite, he told her about Edward Ambrose’s mistress.”
“After which Jane went to Covent Garden to see the woman for herself. Oh, heavens. Poor Jane.”
Devlin leaned forward again. “That’s the same evening she was arguing with Ambrose on the steps of the Opera. When I asked Ambrose about it, he claimed they were quarreling about her recent visit to Caroline at Connaught House. But looking at this, I think he lied. I think she confronted him about his mistress.”
“Given the timing, it makes sense,” said Hero. “It also might explain the strange things she said to Liam Maxwell the next day.”
Devlin nodded. “I think she’d decided to leave her husband.”
Hero looked up at him. “So Maxwell is lying?”
“Perhaps. Although it’s also possible she simply hadn’t told him yet.”
“You think that’s why Ambrose killed her? Because he found out she was going to leave him?”
Devlin scrubbed his hands down over his face. “On the one hand, it seems to make sense. The problem is, if he did, then who killed Ambrose and Vescovi?”
“Maxwell. He realized Ambrose had killed the woman he loved, and murdered him for it.”
“He could have. Although if he didn’t, I suspect whoever left that Indian dagger in Ambrose’s chest wants me to think that.”
“So you doubt it? Why?”
“Mainly because Maxwell had no reason that I can see to kill Valentino Vescovi.”
“Van der Pals could have killed Vescovi,” reasoned Hero. “For telling Jane about Orange. Or his death could somehow be linked to the letters. For a harpist, he was involved with some nasty, dangerous people.”
“He was indeed. As was Jane—through no fault of her own.”
“As was Jane,” Hero said softly, her gaze meeting his.
Phineas, Lord Wallace, was eating a beefsteak in the dining room of Brooks’s when Sebastian came to sit opposite him.
His lordship glanced up, then calmly went on cutting a thick slice of meat, merely saying, “And if I prefer to eat in solitary splendor?”
“Answer my questions, and I’ll be gone,” said Sebastian. “I know why Jane Ambrose came to see you the week before she died.”
“Oh?”
“She thought you had in your possession certain letters—sensitive letters stolen from a trunk entrusted by a handsome young Hussar captain to his friend in Portsmouth. She was hoping to convince you to return them to the young lady who wrote them.”
A faint smile curled the Baron’s lips as he swallowed. “An interesting theory.”
“I notice you don’t claim ignorance of the letters.”
“Oh, no, I am fully aware of the existence of the Hesse letters, and have been for weeks now. As it happens, Mrs. Ambrose did indeed accuse me of being involved in their disappearance. Unfortunately, I don’t have them.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Why?” His smile turned into something cold and gritty. “It’s rather simple, actually: because if I had them, I would have used them by now to put an end to this ridiculous betrothal. As you so accurately observed the other day, I am more than willing to sacrifice one pampered eighteen-year-old girl for the good of the nation.”
“I’m not sure anyone who knows the truth about Charlotte’s miserable upbringing could call it ‘pampered.’”
“I seriously doubt she’s ever gone to bed hungry—which is more than one can say about millions of her grandfather’s subjects.”
Sebastian watched the Baron cut another piece of his steak. “I can think of several reasons why you might not have used the letters yet.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“Timing. Leverage. Second thoughts.”
His lordship chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Mmm. I suppose all are possible—with the exception of ‘second thoughts.’” He paused to point the tines of his fork at Sebastian. “Are you seriously suggesting that I might have killed Jane Ambrose?”
“I am.”
Wallace gave a loud laugh. “Why on earth would I?”
“Because the game you’re playing—and the individuals you are playing it against—are dangerous. Most men prefer to do their dirtiest work from the shadows.”
Wallace was no longer laughing.
Sebastian said, “It would give you a similar reason for killing the harpist Vescovi if he somehow knew you had the letters. And you could have killed Edward Ambrose in a futile attempt to convince me that Jane’s death was simply the result of a wretched lovers’ triangle.”
“Oh? Was Jane Ambrose involved in a lovers’ triangle? That I did not know.”
“No? In my experience, men like you have a tendency to keep abreast of such things.”
“How . . . flattering.”
“Someone stole those damned letters, and Jane seems to have suspected you. Why was that? I wonder.”
“I’ve no idea.”
Sebastian studied the older man’s faintly smiling face. “So who would you have me believe did take them?”
“You credit me with far more knowledge than I possess.”
“Then speculate. Surely you’ve given it some thought.”
Wallace leaned back in his chair. “Well, given that they’ve never been published, suspicion must presumably fall on the Prince—or, rather, individuals close to him. If Brougham or Somerset or anyone else opposed to the betrothal had somehow managed to get their hands on them, the Princess’s folly would be splashed all over the newspapers by now.”
Sebastian held himself very still. “Are you suggesting Christian Somerset knows about the Orange alliance?”
Wallace gave a rude snort. “Of course he knows.”
“You’re certain?”
Wallace rested his knife and fork on the edge of his plate. “Given that we’ve discussed various possible ways to scuttle this damned alliance? Yes, quite certain.”
“Does he know about the Hesse letters?”
“As to that, I couldn’t say.” Then he pushed up and walked away, leaving the rest of his meal uneaten.