“That was wise. Thank you,” said Sebastian, although it didn’t ease his discomfort. It wasn’t that he doubted either her knowledge or ability, for Gibson had assured him both were considerable. But once, four years before, in the mountains of Portugal, Sebastian had killed her lover, and Alexi Sauvage had vowed to kill him in revenge. Hero had managed to move beyond that and form a friendship with the Frenchwoman. But Sebastian still couldn’t be easy around her, and he knew the feeling was mutual.
He cleared his throat. “Have you learned anything yet?”
She brushed a stray lock of fiery hair out of her eyes with the back of one crooked wrist. “I can tell you that if she was hit with something, it wasn’t an iron bar or a wooden club, but something larger and more irregular in shape.”
“‘If’?”
“It’s also possible she fell and struck her head on something. Given the location of the wound, it’s virtually impossible to tell which.”
“You’re saying she might have died accidently?”
“I’m saying it’s possible. Although it’s more likely someone hit her and knocked her down. There’s a bruise just below her left eye.”
Sebastian brought his gaze back to the dead woman’s face. He could see the faint discoloration high on her left cheekbone, the size and shape of the type of mark typically left by a man’s fist. “That’s recent?”
“Yes. Probably within minutes of her death.”
“So it could be manslaughter. Someone struck her, she fell and hit her head, and died.”
“Perhaps. Although it’s possible someone struck her in the face, knocked her down, and then deliberately bashed in her skull. She also has some quite new burns on the fingers of her right hand. Not bad, but there.”
“Burns?” Sebastian came closer to hunker down and study her hand. The pads of her thumb and first three fingers were all faintly blistered. “From what?”
“No way to tell.”
He rose slowly. “How long do you think she’s been dead?”
“It could be anywhere from four to ten hours. Given the cold, it’s difficult to say with any certainty since it would depend on if she were outside in the snow all that time or kept someplace warm until shortly before we found her.”
Sebastian shifted his gaze to the pulverized side of Jane Ambrose’s head. “Would she have died instantly?”
“Almost, yes. She didn’t run down Shepherds’ Lane and then collapse, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Alexi nodded to a nearby shelf where a small earthenware bowl held a plain gold ring and the locket Sebastian had noticed earlier around the dead woman’s neck. “Are those her children?”
Conscious of a hollow sense of sadness, he went to pick up the locket. It opened to reveal miniatures of two smiling little boys aged perhaps two and five. “I don’t know,” he said after a moment, his voice tight. He glanced at the clothes neatly folded on the shelf nearby. Jane Ambrose’s gown, like her blood-soaked pelisse, was black. She’d obviously been in mourning for someone. But when he touched the shoulder of her gown, he found it dry and unstained by traces of blood.
“I think she was wearing the pelisse when she was killed,” said Alexi Sauvage, watching him. “There was no blood on anything else.”
He closed the locket with a soft click. “As soon as the palace learns she’s dead and has been brought here for a postmortem, they’ll probably send someone to seize the body. They can’t afford to allow even a hint of scandal to touch Princess Charlotte, which means they’ll also pressure you to give them the results they want and keep quiet about anything you might have seen. You need to be prepared for that.”
She gave him a strange, tight smile. “I’m just a simple midwife who is very good at pretending to be stupid when I must.”
Sebastian nodded and started to turn away. She stopped him by saying, “There is one other thing that may or may not be relevant: I think she was raped. Not today, but recently. Perhaps yesterday or the day before.”
Sebastian turned to look at her in surprise. “You’re certain it was rape? I mean, sometimes—” He broke off, annoyed with himself for feeling embarrassed and wishing like hell Gibson were there.
The narrowing of her eyes told him she both recognized and understood the cause of his discomfiture. “It isn’t simply the abrasions that suggest it. There are bruises on her wrists and thighs, as if someone held her and forced her. Bruises older than the one on her face. I’d say—”
She broke off as the gusting wind brought them the sound of a heavy fist pounding on the door of Gibson’s surgery and a man’s imperious voice demanding, “Open up in the King’s name.”
Hero sat curled up in one of the high-backed upholstered chairs beside the drawing room fire, her gaze on the little boy asleep in her arms. His name was Simon, and he was just days away from his first birthday. She watched the firelight play over his innocent, relaxed features, watched his little mouth pucker in a faint sucking motion as he dreamed, and she smiled. It was past time to carry him up the stairs to his nursemaid and bed. And yet she lingered.
She was still holding the child when Devlin came in a few minutes later, bringing with him the scent of frigid night air and coal smoke. “I hope you’ve dined,” he said, going to stand with his cold-reddened hands held out to the fire.
“Long ago. Cook saved yours, if you’re interested.”
“Not really.” He turned, his features solemn as he searched her face. What he saw there must have concerned him, because he said, “Are you certain you’re all right?”
She smoothed the drooling bib beneath their sleeping son’s chin. “Yes, although I fear you’ve caught me being rather self-indulgent. I suppose there’s nothing quite
