He paused outside the drawing room door, not wanting to interrupt her. And so engrossed was she in her music that she remained unaware of him watching her until the piece ended and her fingers slipped from the keys to rest in her lap. Then, as if sensing his presence, she turned her head and saw him.
“A beautiful piece,” he said, going to rest his hands on her shoulders.
“It’s from Lancelot and Guinevere.” She leaned back until her head was resting against him. “I keep thinking about all the incredible music Jane gave the world. All that beauty and joy, yet no one will ever know it’s hers because she was a woman.”
He kissed the top of her head and went to pour himself a brandy before coming to sprawl in a nearby chair. “Are you acquainted with a woman named Lottie Jones?”
Hero swung around on her bench. “You mean the miniature painter?”
“So you do know her?”
“Not well, but yes, I know her.”
“Well enough to ask if she has any idea who might have raped Jane Ambrose?”
“Oh, Lord,” said Hero, and reached out to take a sip of his brandy.
Thursday, 3 February
It was not easy, being a woman in London’s male-dominated art world. Miss Lottie Jones had succeeded on the strength of her personality as much as her prodigious talent and by wisely choosing to focus on the one niche of her profession popularly perceived as being particularly suited to women: the painting of miniature portraits on ivory.
She was now forty-five years old, her appearance striking, her manner deftly calculated to flatter her subjects’ amour propre without being obsequious. Hero had known the artist for seven or eight years. And so Miss Jones received the Viscountess in her studio’s private parlor with a warm welcome. But her eyes were watchful and knowing, for this was a woman whose gift for capturing likenesses came as much from her ability to see behind the masks her subjects tried to present to the world as from her skill with brush and tint.
They spoke for a time of the weather, of the progression of the war on the Continent, and of an exhibition Miss Jones had planned for the spring. And then, when Hero was still working her way around to the reason for her visit, the artist fixed Hero with a steady gaze and said, “I’ve heard the palace is suppressing the truth about Jane Ambrose’s death. Is that why you’re here, my lady? Because the rumors are true and you think I might know something of use to Lord Devlin’s investigation?”
Hero met the older woman’s gaze and held it. “I understand you and Jane were friends.”
Miss Jones gave a sad sigh. “We were, yes. Our backgrounds might have been dissimilar, but we nonetheless had much in common. We both knew what it was like to be female in a profession that is not friendly to our sex.”
“Not to mention years of experience in dealing with Princess Charlotte and her father.”
A gleam of amusement lit up the older woman’s shrewd eyes. “That, as well.” The amusement faded. “But the truth is, I don’t see how I can be of much assistance to you. It is possible to know someone quite well in some ways and yet remain ignorant of the intimate details of her life. I can tell you that the loss of Jane’s two boys last year utterly devastated her, that she loved her surviving brother dearly and still missed her dead siblings and parents dreadfully. But if you were to ask me who might have killed her . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she shook her head.
“When was the last time you saw her?”
Miss Jones frowned in thought. “It must have been a week or more before she died. She came for tea one afternoon, and we spoke of the Prince’s gout and this new poem of Byron’s, but nothing of any real importance.”
“How did she seem then?”
Miss Jones was silent a moment before answering. “Actually, she did her best not to show it, but there’s no doubt she was preoccupied and unhappy in a way I don’t recall her being before. But I couldn’t tell you why. As she was leaving I asked if she were all right, and she simply laughed and said the wretched weather was making her blue-deviled.”
“Did she ever say anything to you about someone forcing unwelcome advances upon her? A man, I mean.”
The question obviously took the older woman by surprise. “Good heavens. No, never. Although . . .”
“Yes?” prompted Hero.
The artist folded her hands in her lap and looked down at them.
“Miss Jones?”
She drew a deep breath. “I don’t know if this is relevant, but I did see Jane one other time recently. I didn’t mention it before because I didn’t actually speak with her, but I was coming out of Warwick House and she was there, in the small receiving room just to the left of the entrance. I was surprised to see her because it was Tuesday—quite late—and Jane’s lessons with Charlotte were always on Monday and Thursday mornings.”
“So why was she there?”
“I don’t know, but she was engaged in a decidedly heated exchange with Lady Arabella.”
“The Duchess of Leeds’s daughter?”
“Yes. That was strange enough, given that Jane’s opinion of the vile, sneaky little girl matched my own. But what was particularly startling was Jane’s appearance. She was still wearing her pelisse, and I could see that the back was horribly smeared with some sort of muck while one sleeve was torn at the seam. Even the flounce of her walking dress was ripped, for I could see it trailing beneath the hem of her pelisse.” She paused. “If it hadn’t been for Lady Arabella, I’d have gone to her. But given the nature of their conversation, I didn’t feel it would be right for me to interrupt.”
“What were they saying?”
“I didn’t hear much—I was trying not to. But I
