Hero leaned forward. “But you don’t know what she was talking about?”
“No. It was all so awkward, I doubt I’d have asked her about it the next time I saw her. But as it was, I never had the opportunity. Two days later, she was dead.”
Chapter 41
“What the devil do you make of that?” said Devlin when Hero told him of her conversation with the miniaturist.
“I’ve not the slightest idea. But it sounds as if we need to have an urgent—and brutally frank—conversation with young Lady Arabella.”
Devlin frowned. “The problem is, how to do it away from Mama Duchess.”
Hero pushed up from where she sat to go thumb through the various invitations on the mantelpiece. “I’d utterly forgotten. What’s today?”
“Thursday. Why?”
She swung around as she found the one she was looking for. “We have an alfresco breakfast in Kensington Gardens to attend.”
“In the snow?”
“In the snow.”
The Duchess of Leeds’s decision to give a grand wintertime alfresco breakfast had been risky but inspired. A fresh white blanket of clean snow covered the sprawling lawns and empty flower beds of the royal gardens, while long icicles hung sparkling from the bare branches of the surrounding trees. In addition to tables groaning with food and copious libations of mulled wine, coffee, tea, and hot chocolate, Her Grace had also strewn the snowy gardens with braziers for those most sensitive to the cold. But even the weather cooperated: The day had dawned crystal clear without any wind, and the golden sunlight and dry air made the afternoon surprisingly pleasant despite the actual temperature.
Like all Society breakfasts, this one was held in the early afternoon, since few members of the ton rolled out of bed before midday. Most of the guests arrived wrapped in furs, and they came in droves, for invitations to the breakfast were highly coveted. Its very site—the gardens of Kensington Palace—clearly signaled to the world the Dowager Duchess’s high standing with the royal family. Not only was the aged Queen herself present, but so were four of her spinster daughters and a brace of Royal Dukes. Even the Prince Regent put in an appearance, still hobbling about with a cane, thanks to his recent attack of gout.
The only royal of any significance noticeably absent was the young heiress presumptive to the throne.
“Charlotte?” said the Dowager Duchess of Leeds when Devlin paused beside their hostess to inquire after the Princess. “Oh, His Highness prefers she not attend such affairs.”
Hero had to force herself not to meet Devlin’s gaze. “But your daughter, Lady Arabella, is here?”
“Oh, yes,” said the Dowager smugly. “She makes her Come Out this year, you know.”
“How lovely,” said Hero.
“And you almost sounded as if you meant it,” Devlin told Hero as they strolled along snowy paths, looking for Lady Arabella.
Hero pulled a face. “Beastly woman.”
He stared off across the winter-shrouded gardens filled with laughing, chatting guests. “The other day you compared Charlotte to Rapunzel, but I’m beginning to think a more apt comparison might be Cinderella. Admittedly, no one is making Charlotte sweep out fireplaces. But she certainly is forced to sit home while everyone else is out having fun.”
“Except that in Charlotte’s case, I fear there will be no Prince Charming in her future to ride to her rescue.” Hero frowned as she scanned the crowd. “Do you see her little ladyship?”
“There, at the table by the sundial. Which of us do you think would be most likely to intimidate her into telling the truth?”
“I doubt anyone could intimidate that girl.”
“I am larger.”
“True. But if she simply refuses to answer your questions? How precisely do you intend to force a sixteen-year-old duke’s daughter to be more forthcoming? In the middle of her mama’s party?”
Devlin thought about it a moment, then said, “I haven’t the slightest idea.”
Hero nodded. “I thought not. Leave her to me.”
Lady Arabella was choosing between the relative merits of sliced roast beef and bacon when Hero walked up to her and said bluntly, “I’m going to ask you some questions about Jane Ambrose, and you are going to answer me truthfully.”
The Duke’s lovely young daughter gave a trill of laughter. “Indeed? And if I don’t?”
Hero made a show of studying a platter of what must have been hideously expensive greenhouse asparagus. “It’s actually quite ridiculous how easy it is to ruin a young lady’s reputation,” she said in a pleasant, conversational tone. “A little whisper here, an innuendo there, and the opprobrium quickly takes on a life of its own—whether it’s true or not, and even when the young lady in question is the daughter of a duke.”
Lady Arabella’s beautifully molded lips curved into an arrogant smile. “I don’t believe you would do that.”
Hero met the girl’s glittering gaze and held it. “Oh, believe me, I would.”
It was the girl who looked away first, her nostrils flaring on a quickly indrawn breath.
Hero said, “Something happened to Jane Ambrose the Tuesday before she died—something dreadful—and you know what it was.”
Lady Arabella lifted her chin. She was no longer smiling. “I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea what you could be referring to.”
“Yes, you do. She came to Warwick House right afterward, specifically to confront you about it.”
“If you know so much about it, then why bother asking me?”
“Don’t,” said Hero, her voice low and lethal. “Don’t even think about trying my patience any further.”
The girl’s pointed little chin jerked up higher. “Very well. She came because—or so she claimed—the Dutch courtier Peter van der Pals had forced himself upon her, and she had the ridiculous notion in her head that I was responsible.” The girl gave another tinkling little laugh that made Hero long to slap her beautiful, spoiled face. “As if I could somehow be held to blame for her folly.”
“You don’t think you were?”
“Hardly.”
“Van der Pals threatened to make her sorry if she told anyone he’d tried to
