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 marriage 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
