Maxwell leaned back on his bench, hands braced against the table’s edge, his breath coming quick and shallow.
Sebastian said, “You were raised in India, weren’t you? As was your mother before you.”
Maxwell brought up tented hands to cover his nose and mouth as he nodded. Slowly he raised his gaze to meet Sebastian’s. “That’s not my knife. I swear to God, I’ve never seen it before.”
“One of two things,” said Sebastian. “Either you’re lying, or—”
“I’m not!”
“Or someone is trying to frame you.”
A burst of laughter from a nearby table momentarily jerked Liam Maxwell’s attention away. Then he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “There’s something I haven’t told you about. Something that might explain all of this.”
“Such as?”
Maxwell threw another quick look around the crowded tent and pushed to his feet. “Not here.”
Chapter 45
They pushed their way through the throngs of laughing, staggering, wildly celebratory fairgoers. The snow continued to fall; the scent of hot pitch from the torches mingled with the fragrant aromas of roasting chestnuts and spiced wine to hang heavy in the cold air.
“What haven’t you told me?” Sebastian demanded, swerving to avoid a woman selling baked potatoes from a barrel.
“First of all, you must understand that I kept silent about this largely because it didn’t occur to me that it might have anything to do with what happened to Jane. But also because it betrays a secret that is not mine to tell.”
Sebastian glanced over at him. “So why tell me now?”
“I . . . I haven’t been reading the papers much lately, which is why I only just heard this afternoon about what happened to that harpist Valentino Vescovi.”
Whatever Sebastian had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “Vescovi?”
Maxwell’s jaw tightened. “You must swear to me that this will go no further. Jane would never forgive me if she were somehow to become the cause of bringing harm on the young Princess.”
“This involves Princess Charlotte?”
“You must swear to me that whatever happens, you won’t betray the Princess.”
“All right. You have my word as a gentleman.”
Maxwell nodded, then hesitated as if choosing his words carefully. “About a year and a half ago, the Regent sent Charlotte down to Windsor and made her stay there for months. The Princess always hates it when he does that—it separates her from her mother and all of her instructors, and she doesn’t actually live in the castle with her grandmother and aunts, but in a separate house called Lower Lodge.”
“That’s odd. Why?”
“Who knows why? Because Prinny is a vicious, ugly human being, that’s why. Lower Lodge is a damp, isolated place, and this particular time she was there so long she became horribly lonely and depressed. And then she made the acquaintance of an officer whose regiment was billeted in the neighborhood—a Lieutenant Charles Hesse, of the Eighteenth Light Dragoons.” Maxwell paused. “Are you familiar with him?”
“Should I be?”
“He’s a natural son of the Regent’s brother, the Duke of York.”
“In other words, he is Charlotte’s first cousin.”
“Yes.” Maxwell squinted into the distance. “He’s said to be a very attractive man. Rather short of stature, but then a man’s height is not so noticeable when he’s on horseback.”
“And the Princess saw him largely on a horse?”
Maxwell nodded. “He used to ride beside her open carriage every day, when she drove out with Lady de Clifford—Charlotte’s governess before the present one. The Princess has a carriage with a team of lovely grays she keeps down at Windsor and is no mean whip, you know.”
“So I have heard,” said Sebastian. “Do I take it a flirtation developed?”
“It was inevitable, really, when one considers the way the Regent keeps the girl so isolated. What did he expect to happen the first time she met a handsome, personable young man in regimentals—especially one she was inclined to trust because he was related to her?”
“How long did this go on?”
“That they met daily in Windsor Park? Some six weeks. Then Lady de Clifford moved—belatedly—to put a stop to the growing friendship. Charlotte protested, of course, but eventually Hesse’s regiment was transferred to Portsmouth in preparation for embarkation to the Peninsula.”
“He’s there now?”
“On the Continent? Yes. With Wellington.”
“This all occurred more than a year ago. What bearing can it possibly have on what happened to Jane?”
“The thing is, you see, after Captain Hesse—he’s a captain now—after he left for Portsmouth, the Princess wrote to him. Frequently. And she continued writing to him even after his regiment was sent to the Peninsula. Some of the letters referenced incidents between them that were . . . not wise.”
“How unwise?”
Maxwell stared off across the ice. “Unwise enough to cause the Princess considerable embarrassment, should they become known.”
“Enough to cause the Prince of Orange to withdraw from the betrothal?”
Maxwell hesitated a moment, then nodded.
Sebastian said, “Go on.”
“For months now Princess Charlotte has been desperately trying to contact Hesse and convince him to return the letters to her.”
“And?”
“It turns out Hesse doesn’t have the letters with him. He left them in a trunk with a friend in Portsmouth, along with instructions to sink the trunk in the sea, should Hesse be killed.” Maxwell paused. “The Princess was thinking she’d finally be able to get the letters back. But then word came a few weeks ago that the trunk had been broken into and the packet of letters stolen.”
Sebastian had a sudden vivid recollection of a dying Valentino, his face contorted with pain, saying, I was coming to see you . . . tell you about the letters. He’d assumed the harpist was referring to the letters he had carried between Charlotte and her mother. In that, obviously, he had been wrong.
He said, “Do you know who stole them?”
“No. But the Dutch alliance is unpopular with powerful elements both here and in the Netherlands. I can see someone stealing the letters and publishing them in the hopes of embarrassing Orange enough that he’d back out of the alliance.”
“When precisely did this happen?”
“That the letters were stolen? I couldn’t say for certain. The
