“And if I did?”
“He raped her because of you.”
“So she claimed.”
“Oh, it happened.”
The girl simply stared back at Hero, jaw set hard.
Hero said, “Where did the rape take place?”
“I’ve no idea. Do you seriously think I inquired into the sordid details?”
Hero searched the young girl’s lovely, cold face. “Two people are dead, in all likelihood because of you. Don’t you even care?”
“I am no more responsible for their deaths than you are.”
Hero shook her head. But all she could find to say was “May God have mercy on your soul.”
She was turning away when Lady Arabella said, “Mrs. Ambrose actually thanked me, you know.”
Hero paused. “For what?”
“She said I’d helped her see something she should have realized long ago.”
“And what was that?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea. I didn’t ask her to particularize.”
Hero said, “If you know anything else—anything at all—about what happened to Jane Ambrose or Valentino Vescovi—”
“I’ve told you all I know.” Lady Arabella shook back her dark, beautiful hair. “Now, you must excuse me, Lady Devlin; I see my mother the Duchess looking for me.”
And with that the girl slipped away, her head held high and a faint smile curling her lovely lips, secure in the knowledge that her wealth, birth, and beauty would insulate her from the myriad ugly fates that could befall the world’s less exalted mortals.
Chapter 42
Peter van der Pals was looking over a tray of snuffboxes in an exclusive little shop on Bond Street when Sebastian came to rest one forearm on the counter beside him.
“Leave us,” Sebastian told the slight, fastidious shopkeeper hovering nearby.
The shopkeeper took his tray of snuffboxes and scuttled to the back of the shop.
Van der Pals turned with deliberate indolence to face Sebastian. “I presume you are here as a result of Lady Devlin’s conversation with the Duchess of Leeds’s daughter?”
“Lady Arabella managed to get word to you about that already, did she? And are you planning to deny what you did to Jane Ambrose?”
The Dutchman gave a low, incredulous laugh. “Hardly. Why should I? I warned her to keep her mouth shut, and she did not.”
“You think that justifies what you did to her?”
The courtier shrugged and started to turn away. “I taught the bitch a lesson. She had it coming.”
Sebastian caught van der Pals by the shoulder and spun him around to shove him back against the nearest wall hard enough to rattle the contents of the display cases.
“Gentlemen,” bleated the shopkeeper, clutching his tray of snuffboxes against his chest. “Gentlemen, please.”
Van der Pals held himself very still. “You are physically assaulting the particular friend of the man who will someday be the prince consort of your Queen, if not king in his own name.”
“I’ll worry about the consequences when that day comes.”
The courtier raised one supercilious eyebrow. “What precisely is it you want from me?”
“Answers. First of all, where did this happen?”
“Savile Row. I believe she was coming back from a visit to her dear uncle Sheridan, but I could have that wrong.”
“So you—what? Dragged her into a convenient alley and took her there up against a wall?”
“Something like that. It was, after all, an act of punishment, not pleasure.”
Sebastian resisted the urge to slam the man against the wall again. “And then two days later you killed her.”
“Hardly. I’d already made my point. Why would I then kill her?”
“For refusing to keep quiet about the rape.”
“In my experience, women never talk about such incidents. They understand that for others to know what’s been done to them is far more damaging than the initial violation and therefore keep silent for their own good.”
“Except that Jane Ambrose wasn’t keeping silent. And given your friendship with young Lady Arabella, I have no doubt you know that.”
The courtier gave a dismissive shrug. “So she told one sixteen-year-old girl. She wouldn’t have told anyone else.”
Sebastian studied the man’s handsome, self-assured face. “This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this, is it?”
The courtier shrugged again, his smile never slipping.
Sebastian’s fists closed on the man’s lapels. “You son of a—”
“Gentlemen. Please.”
Sebastian threw a quick look at the shopkeeper, then took a step back and let the courtier go.
Van der Pals carefully adjusted his coat. “If you ask me,” he said, his attention all for his clothing, “the husband killed her.”
“Oh? And is this wild speculation on your part, or are you actually basing it on something?”
Van der Pals frowned as he studied his reflection in a nearby mirror and swiftly repaired the folds of his cravat. “Call it a logical deduction. You see, I told her about her husband’s young mistress—his enceinte young mistress.”
“How the bloody hell did you know about that?”
“It’s my business to know such things. I even gave her the girl’s name and address.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you do that?”
The courtier gave a wide smile that showed his even white teeth. “Because I knew it would hurt her. Why else?” The smile faded. “In the past, out of respect for my Prince, I have allowed your insults to my honor to slide. But such an outrage will not go unavenged.”
Sebastian turned away. “You can try.”
Chapter 43
Sebastian’s knock at the door of the rooms Edward Ambrose kept for his mistress in Tavistock Street was answered by a young housemaid no more than twelve or thirteen years old. She was a gangly thing, all arms and legs, with a head of rioting dark hair inadequately constrained by a mobcap. She was evidently so surprised to see an unknown gentleman standing at her mistress’s door that she simply stared at him, mouth agape.
“Is your mistress at home?” said Sebastian.
The girl closed her mouth and nodded, eyes going wide.
Sebastian handed her his card. “Kindly tell her Lord Devlin would like a word—”
“Who is it, Molly?” Emma Carter came from a distant room, trailing a length of delicate
