The fair was a magical place after dark, with torches flaring up golden bright against a clear, glittering black sky and strings of colored lanterns dangling between parallel rows of makeshift booths and stalls. They’d dubbed the main thoroughfare “the City Road,” a grand promenade that snaked down the frozen river from Blackfriars to London Bridge. Scores of tradesmen whose businesses were suffering from the cold and snow had seized the opportunity to reach new customers, with everyone from barbers to shoemakers setting up shop on the ice. There were gaming tents with EO tables, wheels of fortune, and rouge et noir; drinking tents where gin and ale flowed freely; cook stalls selling mutton pies and baked potatoes and gingerbread; and amusements such as knock-’em-downs and merry-go-rounds for the children. Their shrieks and laughter echoed across the ice, mingling with the wail of bagpipes, the screech of fiddles from dancing tents, and the quavering voices of ragged little girls singing ballads for a penny.
Rather than being smooth, the icy surface was rough and undulating, for the Thames had not frozen in a single sheet. And so the “streets” of the fair twisted this way and that, winding around jagged, snow-covered hillocks formed by the massive ice chunks that had floated down from upriver and collided into one another, allowing the river to freeze between them.
Liam Maxwell’s booth was only one of half a dozen or more printing presses operating on the ice, although his appeared to be the most popular, thanks perhaps to the doggerel verse printed on his cards:
Amidst the arts which on the Thames appear,
To tell the wonders of this icy year,
Printing claims a place that at one view
Erects a monument to it and you.
You who walk here and do deign to tell
Your children’s children what this year befell,
Come buy this print and it will then be seen
That such a year as this hath ne’er been.
Sebastian handed over his shilling for a souvenir card. “Clever.”
“Thank you,” said Maxwell, pulling the “devil’s tail” on the press. Unlike the more sophisticated presses in Somerset’s publishing house, this one was made on a wooden frame, with a simple platen and rounce handle.
“I need to ask you some questions. It’s important,” Sebastian added when the printer kept his attention on the press.
Maxwell hesitated a moment, then signaled one of the apprentices to take his place.
“You’ve discovered something?” he asked, wiping his ink-stained hands on a rag as they stepped away from the booth.
“Nothing definite, unfortunately. But I am curious about something: When I asked you what Jane might have been doing in Clerkenwell the day she died, you said you had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me she taught piano to William Godwin’s daughter? Surely you knew.”
Maxwell frowned as he stared at one of the booths on the far side of the row. “But Jane’s lessons with Mary Godwin were on Friday afternoons. Not Thursdays.”
“So they were,” said Sebastian, following Maxwell’s gaze to where Hero had paused with Simon before a display of colorful whirligigs. “How much did Jane tell you about her last lesson with Anna Rothschild?”
Maxwell turned his head to fix Sebastian with a hard, steady stare. “You asked me that before, and I told you she was upset to lose Anna as a pupil.”
“She didn’t say anything to you about secret gold shipments?”
“Gold? You can’t be serious.”
“I wish I weren’t.”
“Bloody hell.” Maxwell kicked angrily at the loose snow at his feet. “I knew she was keeping something about the incident from me—I even tried to press her on it more than once. But it upset her so much I gave up.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you telling me Rothschild had her killed? Because she somehow found out about his bloody gold smuggling?”
“You know about that?”
“Oh, I know. Don’t ask me how, but I know. Only, Jane didn’t tell me, if that’s what you’re asking.” Maxwell threw another glance at Hero and lowered his voice. “He was watching her, you know—Jarvis, I mean. Had his men following her for weeks before she died. I thought it was because of Princess Charlotte. But now I wonder . . .”
“Jarvis says he didn’t kill her.”
Maxwell made a disbelieving noise deep in his throat. “Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he?”
Sebastian kept his gaze on the younger man’s face. “Do you know why Jane went to see Princess Charlotte’s mother the week before she died?”
Maxwell’s gaze met his for one telling moment, then slid away. “Jane has known—knew—the Princess of Wales for years. Most people think of Caroline as half-mad and half-foolish, but she’s actually a very serious, accomplished musician.”
“That doesn’t explain why Jane went to see her.”
“Doesn’t it? I rather thought it did.”
“Yes and no. You told me Jane was upset over Charlotte’s betrothal to the Prince of Orange. And no one is more opposed to the Orange alliance than Caroline and the Whigs who’ve championed her cause.”
Maxwell snorted. “You think the likes of Brougham and Wallace have championed Caroline’s cause? I’d say they simply use her to advance their own causes.”
“Perhaps,” said Sebastian. “But that doesn’t alter the fact that both Caroline and the Whigs are united in their opposition to this marriage. So I can’t help but wonder at the timing of Jane’s visit. Did you know one of Orange’s courtiers tried to get her to spy on the Princess for him?”
“What?” Maxwell’s mingling of shock and outrage were too visceral to be anything except genuine.
“She didn’t tell you that, either?”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “No. No, she didn’t.” He rested his hands on his hips and stared off to where a group of ragged boys was playing a game of football on the far side of the crowds of merrymakers thronging the rows of tents and booths. His features were drawn and hard with thoughts and emotions Sebastian could only guess at.
Sebastian said, “You claim you want to help
