by C. S. Harris
Sebastian paused with a hand on the latch. “What do you know of her relationship with Liam Maxwell?”
“I assume she knew him through her brother—although he was always far more radical than even Christian, let alone Jane.”
“Yet he and Jane were close friends.”
“Were they? I didn’t know that. I’ve always been better acquainted with Somerset than with his former partner. Maxwell’s far too much of a rabble-rouser for my taste. I’ve never believed in initiating change through violence—even before the French Revolution showed us just how ugly that approach can be.”
“But Maxwell does?”
“He does, yes—although he’ll tell you he favors the American model over the French version.”
Sebastian found himself remembering Maxwell’s bitter words on the House of Orange and the destruction of the Dutch Republic, and knew a deep disquiet. “What’s the man’s background?”
“Maxwell? I believe he spent his early years in India. His father was in the East India Company, and his mother was raised there. But both died when he was still a lad. He went to Westminster as a King’s Scholar.”
“That can’t have been easy.”
“No. I’ve always suspected it contributed more than a bit to his radical philosophies.”
“Probably.”
Godwin gave him a hard look. “Why do you ask?”
“I’m simply trying to understand Jane better. Did you happen to speak with her last week when she was here for your daughter’s lesson?”
Godwin shook his head. “She didn’t come. She sent a message saying she wouldn’t be able to make it.”
“Did she do that often?”
“No. Truth is, I can’t remember her having done it before. Ever.”
Chapter 15
Jarvis was at breakfast in Berkeley Square when his daughter, Hero, walked into the room and closed the door behind her.
“Did you kill Jane Ambrose?” she asked without preamble, jerking at the ribbons of her black velvet hat.
Jarvis cut a piece of ham. “I did not.”
“Obviously I don’t mean personally.”
Jarvis calmly chewed and swallowed. “The answer is still the same.”
“Do you know who did?”
“I do not. And unless her death should somehow threaten affairs of state, nor do I care.” He reached for the stout ale that always accompanied his breakfast. “Would you like a plate?”
She shook her head. “I’ve already breakfasted. Thank you.” But she did push away from the door and come to sit at the table.
She was Jarvis’s only surviving child. Once he’d had a son, a sickly, peculiar lad named David who’d died and been buried at sea years ago. All the other infants his late, tiresome wife, Annabelle, had managed to carry to term had either been born dead or died soon after. Annabelle herself had been dead four months now, and Jarvis had already dispensed with his black sleeve riband.
Hero still wore full mourning.
He had never thought his daughter a particularly attractive woman. She was too tall, her features too masculine, her gaze too direct and unabashedly intelligent. But she did look good in black, and he had to admit that marriage and motherhood had improved her. “How is my grandson?” he asked.
“Endlessly curious and fiercely determined.”
“Good.”
She placed her hands flat on the table and leaned into them.
“Is it true that Prinny has forced Charlotte to agree to marry William of Orange?”
“No one ‘forced’ her. The Princess made the decision of her own free will.”
“When given a choice between marrying Orange and being immured with a bunch of foul-tempered old women until she dies, you mean.”
“Well, at least until the Prince of Wales dies. At that point—assuming her poor old mad grandfather is also dead—she will be Queen and thus free to do as she pleases.”
“Both of Prinny’s parents are still alive. He could live another thirty or forty years.”
“He could.”
She fixed him with a fierce gaze. “Orange can’t be a proper husband to her and you know it. Such a marriage would make her life wretched.”
“This isn’t about Charlotte’s happiness. It’s about what’s good for the Kingdom—not to mention the future of all of Europe.”
“And you think a miserable union between our future queen and a man known to prefer handsome courtiers will be good for England? Did the disastrous marriage of Prinny and his poor wife teach us nothing?”
“Charlotte may be stubborn, but like her father, she understands her duty and will do it.”
“Prinny only agreed to ‘do his duty’ and marry Caroline because he was drowning in debt and he thought it would convince Parliament to grant him a higher allowance. And when he realized that wasn’t the case, he pitched a fit and refused to go near her again.”
“Yes. Well, fortunately Charlotte has been raised to be considerably less devoted to her own self-interest. She quite clearly understands that not only will a United Netherlands serve as a useful check against the French and form an important bridge between Hanover and England, but it will also separate France from an increasingly strong Prussia. With the Dutch Fleet jointed to the Royal Navy, our domination of the seas will be unchallengeable. Holland will be far more stable once it is turned into a monarchy—”
“Ah, yes: because the fates of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette certainly illustrated for all just how stable a monarchy can be,” said Hero dryly.
“—and nothing will keep this new, more powerful Dutch kingdom tied to Britain better than a marriage alliance,” he finished with a repressive frown.
Hero had never been the least troubled by his disapproval. “And if the Dutch people object to having their two-hundred-year-old republic replaced by a monarchy?”
Jarvis shrugged. “A few judicious whiffs of grapeshot will quiet any objections.”
Hero regarded him with a thoughtful expression that told him just how well she knew him. After a moment, she said, “There’s more to this than what you’re telling me.”
He laughed out loud and reached for his ale without answering her.
The opening of the dining room door brought Hero’s head around, her features carefully wiped of all emotion when she saw the dainty woman who paused there with one hand on the knob. “Cousin Victoria,” said Hero, rising to her feet.
“Hero!” Mrs. Victoria Hart-Davis came forward with a warm smile to take Hero in an affectionate embrace. A stunningly beautiful widow in her late twenties, she was a distant cousin of Hero’s dead mother and had been visiting at the time of Annabelle’s death. Because Jarvis’s own mother, the Dowager Lady Jarvis, was too old and arthritic to leave her rooms much these days, Cousin Victoria had kindly offered to stay and help run the household until someone suitable could be found.
Jarvis was in no hurry for her to leave.
She was so tiny that even when she stood on tiptoe, her kiss didn’t quite reach Hero’s cheek, and she laughed good-naturedly. “What a pleasant surprise. You’re joining us for breakfast?”
“Sorry, no,” said Hero, reaching for her hat. “I can’t stay.”
“You and Devlin must come for dinner. Perhaps one evening when this wretched cold snap has passed?”
“Yes,” said Hero. “That would be lovely.”
After she had gone, Victoria came to stand behind Jarvis’s chair and slip her arms around his neck. “Does she know?”
“Not all of it,” he said, and smiled when she playfully bit his ear.
Chapter 16
Long the haunt of booksellers and literary men, Paternoster Row was an ancient, gloomy thoroughfare lying just to the north of St. Paul’s Cathedral. The narrow gable-fronted residence of Jane’s brother, Christian Somerset, stood not far
from Ave Maria Lane. Its ground floor was given over to Somerset’s bookstore and bindery, while his printing press operated from a workshop that opened onto a small court at the rear. Sebastian found the shop busy, with several men working two modern, iron-framed presses while young apprentices leapt to ink the blocks and then peel off the fresh, wet pages and hang them to dry. A slim, quietly dressed man stood near the front window, frowning as he held a proof sheet up to the light. When Sebastian pushed open the door from the snow-filled courtyard, the man glanced up and said, “May I help you?”
Sebastian closed the door against the icy cold and breathed in the thick atmosphere of linseed oil, lampblack, and sweat. “You’re Mr. Christian Somerset?”
The man’s hand trembled slightly as he set the sheet aside. “I am, yes.” The family resemblance was there in the finely drawn features and elegant bone structure Somerset shared with his dead sister. But if Sebastian hadn’t known the man was younger than Jane, he never would have guessed it, for Somerset’s dark hair was already laced with gray, and life had etched early lines of strain and disillusionment in his gentle face.
Sebastian held out one of his cards. “I’m Devlin.”
“Ah.” Somerset nodded as he took the card. “Liam Maxwell told me you might be paying me a visit.” He cast a quick glance at the men working the presses and said in a lowered voice, “Please, come this way.”
He led Sebastian to a small, untidy office warmed by a rusty stove and filled with stacks of invoices, reams of paper, and crates of unbound books ready to be shipped. Most publishers sold their books in plain paper wrappers with temporary sewing, for permanent bindings were typically left to booksellers or to private buyers who took the books to their own binders and had them covered in leather to match their personal libraries. But Sebastian could also see stacks of inexpensive guidebooks bound in plain cloth covers, which was something of an innovation.
Somerset nodded to the bench of an elegant pianoforte, which stood like a calm in the midst of a storm. “Have a seat. Please.”
“I should probably stand,” said Sebastian, swinging off his greatcoat. “I’m rather wet.”
Somerset pressed one splayed hand against the top of his cluttered desk as if bracing himself for what he was about to hear. “Is it true, then? Jane was murdered?”
“It’s either murder or manslaughter. It’s difficult to say which.”
“Oh, dear God.” His voice cracked, and he swiped a hand across his mouth and looked away, blinking. “Poor Jane.”
Sebastian said, “When was the last time you saw your sister?”
Somerset sighed. “I’m afraid it’s been some time—perhaps as much as ten days. She came here.”
“For any particular reason?”
Somerset nodded. “I publish her music. She brought a collection of new ballads she’d written.”
Sebastian glanced at the piano. “You play?”
Somerset gave a wry, self-deprecating smile. “I do—for my own pleasure. But I’m nowhere near Jane’s level, if that’s what you’re asking. Growing up with Jane and James ahead of me was rather intimidating, I suppose. Besides, I always wanted to be a writer.”
“Do you still write?”
“Oh, yes. Although I’m careful these days what I say and how I say it. I spent two years in prison for the sin of speaking my mind, and it’s not an experience I care to repeat.”
“Did Jane share your political views?”
“Jane?” Somerset gave a huff that wasn’t quite a laugh. “She taught piano to Princess Charlotte—and to Princess Amelia before she died. What do you think?”
“I think one can take advantage of the prestige afforded by instructing members of the royal family and still quietly nurture radical ideals.”
“Not Jane. Oh, there’s no denying she loathed the Regent—a free Englishman can still say that, can’t he? But she was a firm believer in the institution of monarchy.”
“Did she ever talk to you about the Princess?”
“I know she had a genuine affection for the girl.”
“She didn’t say anything to you about Charlotte’s betrothal?”
“Is she betrothed? I hadn’t heard that.”
“It’s not well-known,” said Sebastian. It was telling, he thought, that Jane had discussed her concerns about Charlotte’s betrothal with her brother’s former partner but not with her brother himself—although he suspected that said more about her relationship with Liam Maxwell than anything else. “What about her other students? Did she talk about any of them?”
“Not that I recall, no.”
“Not even Anna Rothschild?”
“No, sorry. I know she taught her, but beyond that . . .” His voice trailed away and he swallowed hard. “She was typically very discreet when it came to her pupils.”
Sebastian went to stand beside the frosted window overlooking the snow-filled court. From here he could see the narrow passage that opened onto Paternoster Row. “Do you have any idea what could have taken Jane to Clerkenwell on Thursday?”
Somerset thought about it a moment, then shook his head. “I understand that’s where they say she was found, but I can’t imagine what she was doing there.”
“Any friends or relatives in the area?”
“Well, the Godwins live there, and I know Jane teaches their daughter—taught their daughter,” he corrected himself softly. “Perhaps that’s where she was going.”
“Except that Jane’s lessons with Mary Godwin were on Fridays, not Thursdays.”
“Ah. I didn’t know that. Then sorry. I’ve no idea why she was in Clerkenwell.”
“Did your sister have any enemies?”
“Jane? I don’t think so, no.”
“She never spoke to you of the intrigues at court?”
Somerset’s face hardened. “You think that’s why she was killed? Because of something to do with the royal family?”
“It’s one possibility. Did she ever mention a Dutch courtier named Peter van der Pals?”
“No. Never.”
“What about an Italian harpist named Vescovi?”
“You mean Valentino Vescovi?”
“So she did mention him?”
“Not that I recall. But I have heard of him. He’s a brilliant musician.”
“What about the Prince of Orange? Did she ever talk about him?”
Somerset shook his head. “No. But as I said, she tended to avoid talking about the royal family around me. She knows—knew—my political opinions.”
“So they haven’t changed? Your political opinions, I mean.”
Somerset huffed another soft laugh, only this one contained little real humor. “Two years in prison might make a man more circumspect about voicing his thoughts, but it’s not likely to kindle within him warm feelings for the system that put him there, now, is it? My wife died while I was in Newgate. She’s the one who set up the bookshop and started publishing novels and guidebooks in an effort to make ends meet while I was in prison. She was amazingly successful at it, but in the end, it all got to be too much for her. She died six weeks before I was released.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sebastian, letting his gaze travel again around the office. It did much to explain the shift in Somerset’s printing business; he had simply picked up where his dead wife had left off. “I gather your sister was quite close to your former partner, Liam Maxwell.”
Somerset was quiet for a moment, as if carefully choosing his words. “I know what you’re implying, but you’re wrong. Liam and I have been friends since we were schoolboys, and he and Jane got to know each other particularly well during our time in Newgate. But our father was a profoundly religious man who brought up his children with strict Christian precepts. Most of his teachings didn’t stick so well with me, but they did with Jane. She was a sincerely devout woman who took her marri
age vows seriously. She would never have been unfaithful to her husband.”
“Did you know that Edward Ambrose used to hit her? Hit her hard enough to leave bruises?”
Somerset gave a faint shake of his head. “I didn’t know for certain, no. But I’ll not deny I suspected it.” His jaw tightened. “That bloody bastard. If he were to be found dead in the middle of the street, I wouldn’t shed a tear. I can tell you that.”
“I gather your relationship with Ambrose is strained.”
Somerset grunted. “Now, there’s an understatement. I can assure you that if I were found dead, you wouldn’t see him shedding any tears, either.”
“Was he faithful to his wife?”
Somerset hesitated.
“Was he?” said Sebastian.
Somerset sucked in a deep breath. “I’ve heard he’s involved with some actress or opera dancer. Although that could be nothing but talk.”
“Did Jane hear it?”
“I never said anything to her about it, if that’s what you’re asking. And if she heard it from someone else, she never mentioned it to me.”
“Would she, do you think?”
“Mention it to me?” He paused for a moment, then shook his head a bit wistfully. “Probably not. We were close in many ways, but I don’t think she’d tell me something like that.”
From the workshop behind them came a clatter, followed by a boy’s laughter. Sebastian said, “Do you think the rumors are true? That Ambrose is involved with someone?”
Somerset met his gaze, his features drawn and tight with what looked like anger. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Chapter 17
By the time Sebastian left Somerset’s workshop, dark, ominous clouds were once again pressing down on the city. He turned his steps west, toward the theater district of Covent Garden, intending to make some inquiries there about Edward Ambrose. But as he left Ave Maria Lane for Ludgate Street, he began to suspect he was being followed.
