The girl’s forehead puckered with confusion, as if she’d expected him to know this, since he knew so much else. “The best upstairs parlor.”
Sebastian set aside the untouched pot of ale and pushed to his feet. “Tell me about the necklace,” he said. “The silver necklace with the bluestone disk. Was her ladyship wearing it when you first saw her?”
Again, that furtive exchange of glances between mother and daughter. “No. It was on the floor, underneath her,” said Amelia. “Mum found it when she was cleanin’ her up. The clasp was bent a bit, but I was able to straighten it out enough so’s we could get it back on her.”
“And then what did you do?”
Amelia swallowed. “We rolled the lady up inside a length of canvas, and Mr. Carter and me carried her down the back steps and out into the alley. They had a cart waitin’.”
“What kind of a cart?”
Amelia lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Just a cart, like the ironmongers use. It was empty ’cept for some canvas bags filled with ice, and a big chest.”
“A chest?”
“That’s right. One o’ them fancy Chinese chests, with black lacquer work all covered with paintings of dragons and trees picked out in yellow and red.”
Sebastian gave a wry smile. He remembered noticing the chest when he’d looked around the Yellow Cabinet in the Pavilion. He’d seen the chest, and hadn’t given it a second thought. The Prince was always ordering cartfuls of oddities and trifles for the Pavilion. No one would question or even remember the delivery of yet another Chinese lacquered wood chest, while the ice…
The ice could very well have come from the inn’s own cellars. It wasn’t so uncommon these days. The extra cold would have delayed the onset of rigor mortis enough for Guinevere’s killers to haul her body down to Brighton in the cart, then stuff her into the chest and carry her into the Pavilion.
Yet all those hours in the cart had left their mark in the pattern of lividity Paul Gibson had identified so accurately on Guinevere’s body, just as the passing of the hours had left their own signs, signs that could be read by those who knew how to interpret them. But whoever had killed Guinevere Anglessey and conspired to implicate the Prince Regent in her murder hadn’t known about those signs, hadn’t known that their victim’s very body would betray them.
“Who else came to the inn that afternoon?” Sebastian asked aloud. “Do you remember?”
Amelia shook her head, her face confused as if she couldn’t quite understand where he was going with the question. “The usual crowd. The common room was full.”
“I’m not talking about the common room. I’m interested in anyone who might have gone upstairs.”
“I wouldn’t know about that. Like I said, we was busy.”
“You didn’t see a young gentleman? A handsome gentleman with dark eyes and light brown hair?”
“No. I told you, I didn’t see nobody!”
The girl was becoming agitated, her back held tight, her eyes wide. Sebastian eased up on her. “Several nights ago, some men unloaded a cargo into the inn’s cellars. One of them was a gentleman, a thin man with longish blond hair. Do you know who he was?”
“No.”
Sebastian pressed his hands flat on the tabletop and leaned into them, his arms straight. “The woman whose murder you helped to conceal was a marchioness. The Marchioness of Anglessey. Did you know that?”
Amelia looked up at him, her chest rising and falling with her quick breathing. “But we didn’t do nothin’!” She scrambled up from the bench and backed away from him. “We only did what we was told.”
“It’s enough to get you hanged. You and your mother both.” Sebastian’s gaze swept the huddled, silent children. “And then what will become of them?”
The woman beside the empty hearth let out a sharp cry. Sebastian didn’t even glance her way.
Amelia covered her mouth with one hand, her eyes squeezing shut. Then her hand slipped away and her eyes opened slowly. “I’ve seen him around the inn a few times,” she said, meeting Sebastian’s compelling gaze. “But I don’t know his name. I swear to God I don’t. He usually comes with his lordship.”
“They was both there that day. I thought you knew. He’s the one brought the cart.”
Sebastian searched her face, looking for signs of deceit. “You’re certain this other man was a lord?”
Her head nodded vigorously up and down. “A tall gentleman, with red hair. Lord…I can’t remember it exactly. It’s like that stone they use. You know the one? They use it for all the grand buildings.”
“Yes. That’s it. Lord Portland.”
Intent on intercepting the Home Secretary before he left Whitehall for the Regent’s fete, Sebastian directed his coachman toward Westminster.
The shadows were only just beginning to lengthen toward evening; the Regent’s first guests wouldn’t be arriving for hours. But the streets were already packed with crowds surging toward Carlton House in the hopes of catching a glimpse of the exiled French royal family and two thousand noblemen and -women arriving at what was being called the grandest, most extravagant sit-down dinner in the history of the European monarchy. By the time
