“What did she think?”
“How could she know, after such a short time as that—and her just seventeen years old? She vas still considering how to form her answer vhen Prinny says, ‘Vhat? He vill not do?’ And my poor girl, she says, ‘I don’t say that. I like his manner—from vhat I have seen.’” Caroline shook her head, the muscles in her cheeks bunching as she thrust her jaw forward in disgust. “Now, does that sound to you as if she vas agreeing to the match? Of course not. But Vales, he’s a clever one. He throws his arms around the child and exclaims, ‘You make me the happiest person in the vorld!’ Poor Charlotte is still stuttering, trying to tell him she meant no such thing, vhen that nasty, sly bastard calls over Liverpool and announces that she has agreed! And then he brings over Orange himself, joins their hands, and gives the couple his blessing.”
Sebastian had no difficulty imagining the scene. It was just the sort of dishonest manipulation for which Prinny was famous.
Caroline made a decidedly ungenteel noise. “Needless to say, Charlotte is in a rage vith him. But it’s done, isn’t it? She can’t back out after that—not vith her father telling the Prime Minister and Orange himself that she’s agreed. And to make matters vorse, not twenty-four hours later she discovers that Orange intends to require her to leave England and live in Holland. Prinny was aware of the scheme all along, of course, but vas careful not to let her know.”
Sebastian stared at her. “Live abroad? The heiress presumptive to the throne?”
Caroline nodded. “It’s the real reason the Prince vants this particular marriage for her—to get Charlotte out of the country.” Her breathing had become agitated, her full, heavy breasts heaving above the shockingly low-cut bodice of her gown. “Part of it is because she’s so much more popular than he and he’s jealous. But it’s also because he thinks that vith Charlotte gone, I vill leave, too, so that he vill finally be able to push through his divorce. Then he vill marry again and have a son—a new heir to the throne who vill dispossess my daughter.” She gave a derisive snort. “Not that he has much chance of that. He could barely consummate our marriage nineteen years ago. And look at him now!”
It had long been whispered that Prinny’s sexual performance on his wedding night had been far from satisfactory and that Caroline had handled her bridegroom’s bruised amour propre with all the sensitivity to be expected of a woman who’d just been forced to sit down to her wedding feast in the company of her husband’s beautiful, waspish mistress. Prinny had never been able to bear being humiliated, and he held his grudges forever.
“That fat old goat vill never be able to sire a son,” Caroline was saying, “however much Jarvis might vish it.” She cast Sebastian a sideways glance that told him she wasn’t nearly as simple as she liked to appear. “You vant to know who killed poor Jane, you talk to Jarvis. He’s behind everything that happens in this country—especially if it’s underhanded and dirty.”
Sebastian said, “Why would Jarvis kill Jane Ambrose?”
“Vhy don’t you ask him?”
“I did, actually. He denies having anything to do with it.”
“Ach.” She waved one plump, clay-covered hand through the air in a dismissive gesture. “He lies almost as much as the Prince—except, of course, he’s better at it.”
Sebastian watched Caroline frown down at her sculpture and realized she was executing an extraordinarily skilled likeness of her brother, the current Duke of Brunswick.
He said, “I’m told you recommended Jane Ambrose to Lord Wallace as an instructor for his daughter Elizabeth. Is that true?”
Caroline kept her attention focused on the bust’s hairline. “I may have. To be honest, I do not recall.”
The evasiveness of the answer was telling. He said, “Did Jane bring a message from Charlotte when she came to see you last week?”
“Huh. Vhat kind of man not only prevents his daughter from seeing her mother but refuses to allow them even to correspond with each other? Hmm? Vhat kind of man?” When Sebastian kept silent, she said, “But you’re wrong about Jane. Charlotte never asked her to carry letters.”
“But she did come here?”
“Oh, yes—to visit vith me. Is that so impossible for you to believe?”
“No, Your Highness. But it doesn’t explain why you think Jarvis might be behind her death.”
Caroline rolled one round shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “Perhaps I’m wrong.”
It was obvious that she would tell him no more. And one did not press the Princess of Wales, even if she was banished from court.
But it occurred to Sebastian as he bowed himself out that, however uninhibited, unsophisticated, or careless of her dress Caroline might be, she was still very much a princess born and bred, the future queen of England, and mother of the heiress presumptive to the throne. She’d known exactly what she was doing when she’d agreed to speak to Sebastian, and she had told him the sordid tale of Charlotte’s betrothal for a reason.
She was leaving it up to Sebastian to discover for himself what that reason was.
Chapter 22
Sebastian came out of Connaught House’s snow-blanketed front gardens to find his tiger walking the chestnuts as far from the site of the old execution scaffold as he could get and still be within hailing distance.
At the sight of Sebastian, the boy swung the sleigh around with a swish that sent up an arc of fine snow crystals. He was just reining in before the house when Sebastian spotted Signor Valentino Vescovi’s lanky figure coming through the Tyburn turnpike to stride purposefully toward Princess Caroline’s gate.
“Hang on a minute,” Sebastian told Tom, and shifted to intercept the harpist.
The Italian had his head down, his attention all for the task of minding his footing on the slippery footpath. He remained utterly oblivious to Sebastian’s presence until he said cheerfully, “Good morning.”
The harpist’s head jerked
