He was only vaguely aware of the silent, snow-plastered facades sliding past, the classical pilasters, bow windows, and pediments of Mayfair giving way to the soot-grimed red brick of an earlier age as he neared the financial district. There was a heaviness in his heart, an ache that was part sorrow but also part anger. He felt an absurd, useless wish to reach back in time to that fateful Thursday afternoon and stop Jane Ambrose as she crossed the ancient bricked courtyard of Warwick House with the snow falling around her. If only he could call her name or somehow turn her away from whatever she was walking into.
Where had she been headed that day? he wondered for what felt like the thousandth time. To see Rothschild? Why then, in such dreadful weather? How had she then ended up in Clerkenwell?
Where, why, how?
He understood Jane better now. But he knew he still wasn’t seeing her clearly. For she was more than a grieving mother mourning her lost children. More than a deeply unhappy wife married to a profligate, abusive man who claimed her glorious music as his own. She was also the kind of person willing to stand as a loyal friend to a troubled young princess.
And through no fault of her own she had found herself in possession of dangerous information about powerful, ruthless men.
Nathan Rothschild was striding up the narrow medieval lane of St. Swithen, the hem of his worn greatcoat flaring in the bitter wind, when Sebastian fell into step beside him. The financier cast him one swift glance, then stared straight ahead. His pace never slackened despite the treacherous icy footing.
Sebastian said, “I’ve discovered a few things since our last conversation.”
“Oh? And do you expect me to applaud your cleverness?”
“Not yet.”
Rothschild grunted.
Sebastian said, “According to my sources, you’ve been smuggling hundreds of thousands of guineas a month to the Continent for years, with most of it going to Napoléon’s old allies. But the gold that was found aboard the Viking on the third of January was bound for France itself. For bloody Paris.”
“I take it this shocks you?”
“On the fourth of January, you were discussing the Viking’s interception with one of your agents when you realized your daughter’s piano instructor was still in the house and had overheard everything you said. That is why you dismissed her. It’s also why she was afraid—because you threatened to break every bone in her body.”
Rothschild drew up abruptly and swung to face him, pale eyes glittering with animosity. “You are dabbling in affairs about vhich you know nothing. Nothing!”
“True. But I am slowly discovering more and more.”
“Yet you still obviously have much to learn. Vhy do you think the Viking’s captain and crew were let go?”
“For the same reason your crews are always released. You bribed someone.”
The financier cast a quick look around the snowy street before leaning in close and lowering his voice. “The shipment aboard the Viking vas indeed headed for Gravelines, from vhence it would have been sent on to Paris. But vhat you do not seem to understand is that its ultimate destination vas Vellington’s army in the Pyrenees.”
“Wellington?” Sebastian stared at him for one incredulous moment, then threw back his head and laughed.
Rothschild’s jaw tightened. “You laugh, but it is true. That shipment vas simply the first part of six hundred thousand pounds bound for Vellington so that he may meet his payroll and pay the Spanish and French merchants for his army’s needs.”
“I don’t believe you.”
Rothschild gave a dismissive shrug. “Ask your own father. He is the Chancellor of the Exchequer, after all. He vas there vhen the agreements vere signed.”
“Then why all the lies?”
“Vhy do you think? Transactions of this nature are complicated and require great secrecy. Do you seriously imagine that Napoléon vould allow the transfers to continue if he knew their ultimate destination?”
Sebastian studied the financier’s homely, undecipherable face. “Did you kill Jane Ambrose?”
“I did not.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“And you think that should concern me?”
Rothschild started to turn away, but Sebastian put out a hand, stopping him. “What about Jarvis? Did you tell him that Jane Ambrose knew about the shipments to Paris?”
“I did.”
“So it’s possible he killed her.”
Rothschild glanced toward the Exchange as the bells in the clock tower began to chime, ringing out “See, the Conquering Hero Comes.” “Many things are possible. All I know is, you are delaying me. Good day to you, sir.”
And with that he strode off, a stout, homely man in threadbare clothing with the morals of a cutpurse and wealth that could beggar kings.
Chapter 34
“It pains me to have to admit it,” said Hendon as he and Sebastian walked beneath the rows of snow-shrouded plane trees in St. James’s Park. “But Rothschild is telling the truth.”
Sebastian looked over at him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I wish I weren’t. You’ll never convince me there wasn’t another way to get that money to Wellington—a way that wouldn’t have included Rothschild pocketing nearly four times as much as Wellington is receiving.”
“How much?”
“You heard me. Rothschild is earning two million pounds out of the transaction.”
“That’s obscene.”
“Oh, yes. Without a doubt.” Hendon paused, his jaw tightening as he stared out over the snowy, undulating park. “The people of England are freezing and starving to death by the tens of thousands, and this man is being paid a premium to do what he’s been doing against our laws in secret for years. The entire damn family has grown enormously rich by financing both sides of this interminable war, and now Jarvis has given their London representative the opportunity to pretend he’s a patriot.” Hendon huffed a mirthless laugh. “If he were a patriot, he’d be transferring the money for nothing rather than making
