“They have indeed. Yet Jane Ambrose did not slip on the ice and hit her head. It appears that she was in all likelihood murdered. Quite viciously.”
“Murdered?” His expression of shock was everything it should have been—and potentially every bit as false as his earlier show of confusion. “How perfectly ghastly. But I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”
The heat from the room’s fireplace was becoming overwhelming; Hero quietly tugged off her fur-lined mittens. “Perhaps I should explain that we know you tried to charm Jane Ambrose into spying on Princess Charlotte for the House of Orange. When charm failed, you attempted bribery. And when that, too, was unsuccessful, you warned her that if she told anyone of your overtures you would make certain that she— How did you put it? Ah, yes, you said she’d ‘be sorry.’”
“Who told you this?” he hissed. He was no longer smiling.
“You don’t seriously expect me to answer that, do you?”
“Yet you expect me to respond to these absurd accusations?”
Hero raised one eyebrow. “You deny the encounter took place?”
“Of course I deny it!”
“So you’re suggesting—what? That Jane Ambrose made up the entire tale out of whole cloth?”
“Either Mrs. Ambrose or whoever regaled you with this nonsense, yes.”
“And precisely what would be the purpose of such a deception?”
“Presumably to discredit me—and, by extension, the House of Orange.”
“Oh? And why would Jane Ambrose wish to discredit you or your prince?”
The Dutchman’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me, my lady, but why are you here asking these questions? As Lord Jarvis’s envoy? Or for some other reason?”
It was an astute question and one that forced Hero to be more honest than she would have liked. “I am here because Jane Ambrose’s association with Princess Charlotte precludes a more formal investigation of her murder.” She gave him an icy stare. “Is there a reason you’re avoiding answering my questions?”
Van der Pals went to stand facing the room’s fireplace, one fist resting on the mantel, his gaze on the blaze on the hearth. After a moment, he said, “This is a trifle delicate, but the truth is that Mrs. Ambrose and I enjoyed a light flirtation. Nothing serious, you understand. But I fear she must have read more into my gallantry than was intended, for when she chanced one day to see me laughing—quite innocently, I assure you!—with Lady Arabella, she flew into a frightful rage. It was really quite shocking.”
He glanced up at Hero in a way that caused a boyish shock of hair to fall over his forehead. He was an extraordinarily attractive young man, and he not only knew it, but was accustomed to using his looks to disarm and cajole.
Hero was not easily disarmed. “Who is Lady Arabella?”
“Lady Arabella Osborne, daughter of the Princess’s governess, the Duchess of Leeds. The Duchess recently introduced her to Warwick House in the hopes of providing the Princess with a friend close to her own age. But the girl is still quite young and rather unsure of herself, so I sought to try to put her at ease. I never imagined Jane would react so . . . violently.”
His use of the dead woman’s given name was both suggestive and, Hero suspected, deliberate. She said, “You would have me think that you and Jane Ambrose were lovers?”
His wonderful white teeth flashed as he gave an embarrassed laugh. “Good heavens, no. Ours was a flirtation only, as I said—although Jane obviously thought things more serious than I had intended.” He tipped his head to one side as if struck by a sudden thought. “Have you considered that she might have been killed as the result of a lovers’ quarrel?”
“You’re saying Jane Ambrose had a lover? Who?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“Yet you have no difficulty suggesting that she might have one?”
He spread his arms wide as if in surrender. “It wasn’t my intention to offend you, my lady—simply to give you a hint as to the nature of the woman we’re discussing.”
“You mean that she was the type of woman who might have been unfaithful to her husband?”
Rather than answer, he glanced significantly at the clock on the mantel and gave a faint, startled exclamation, as if suddenly becoming aware of the passage of time. “I fear you must excuse me, my lady; I’ve an appointment I cannot miss.”
Hero drew on her mittens with quick, jerky movements. “Yes, of course. Thank you for your information.”
He sketched another of his elegant bows. “Please do not hesitate to let me know if I can be of any further assistance.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I shall,” she said with a smile.
It was when he was escorting her to the door that van der Pals said, “Have you by chance spoken to Valentino Vescovi?”
She paused to glance over at him. “The musician? No. Why?”
“He teaches the harp to Princess Charlotte, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know. Is there a particular reason you think I should speak with him?”
Van der Pals scratched one cheek as if in some embarrassment. “Actually, yes. You see, he and Jane had quite an angry confrontation just this past Monday.”
“How do you know this?”
“Because they were unwise enough to engage in an undignified shouting match beside the canal in St. James’s Park. Vescovi is an ice-gliding enthusiast, and he’s been going there every afternoon to take advantage of our current freezing conditions.” When Hero remained silent, he added, “A number of others were present, and the argument was quite heated. I doubt I was the only one who saw them.”
“And what was the nature of their quarrel?”
“I fear I couldn’t hear well enough to understand what was being said. Although—” He broke off.
“Yes?”
“I did hear Vescovi tell her she needed to be careful.”
“About what?”
“That I didn’t hear. Only ‘you need to be careful.’”
“Perhaps Vescovi was warning her about you,” suggested Hero, and had the satisfaction
