“So the rape was not only a punishment, but also a warning?”
Devlin nodded. “Jane ignored van der Pals when he threatened her the first time. So the rape was his way of showing her that he was deadly serious. I suspect he warned her that if she made the mistake of telling the Princess about Orange’s sexual exploits, he’d kill her. And then, out of pure spite, he told her about Edward Ambrose’s mistress.”
“After which Jane went to Covent Garden to see the woman for herself. Oh, heavens. Poor Jane.”
Devlin leaned forward again. “That’s the same evening she was arguing with Ambrose on the steps of the Opera. When I asked Ambrose about it, he claimed they were quarreling about her recent visit to Caroline at Connaught House. But looking at this, I think he lied. I think she confronted him about his mistress.”
“Given the timing, it makes sense,” said Hero. “It also might explain the strange things she said to Liam Maxwell the next day.”
Devlin nodded. “I think she’d decided to leave her husband.”
Hero looked up at him. “So Maxwell is lying?”
“Perhaps. Although it’s also possible she simply hadn’t told him yet.”
“You think that’s why Ambrose killed her? Because he found out she was going to leave him?”
Devlin scrubbed his hands down over his face. “On the one hand, it seems to make sense. The problem is, if he did, then who killed Ambrose and Vescovi?”
“Maxwell. He realized Ambrose had killed the woman he loved, and murdered him for it.”
“He could have. Although if he didn’t, I suspect whoever left that Indian dagger in Ambrose’s chest wants me to think that.”
“So you doubt it? Why?”
“Mainly because Maxwell had no reason that I can see to kill Valentino Vescovi.”
“Van der Pals could have killed Vescovi,” reasoned Hero. “For telling Jane about Orange. Or his death could somehow be linked to the letters. For a harpist, he was involved with some nasty, dangerous people.”
“He was indeed. As was Jane—through no fault of her own.”
“As was Jane,” Hero said softly, her gaze meeting his.
Phineas, Lord Wallace, was eating a beefsteak in the dining room of Brooks’s when Sebastian came to sit opposite him.
His lordship glanced up, then calmly went on cutting a thick slice of meat, merely saying, “And if I prefer to eat in solitary splendor?”
“Answer my questions, and I’ll be gone,” said Sebastian. “I know why Jane Ambrose came to see you the week before she died.”
“Oh?”
“She thought you had in your possession certain letters—sensitive letters stolen from a trunk entrusted by a handsome young Hussar captain to his friend in Portsmouth. She was hoping to convince you to return them to the young lady who wrote them.”
A faint smile curled the Baron’s lips as he swallowed. “An interesting theory.”
“I notice you don’t claim ignorance of the letters.”
“Oh, no, I am fully aware of the existence of the Hesse letters, and have been for weeks now. As it happens, Mrs. Ambrose did indeed accuse me of being involved in their disappearance. Unfortunately, I don’t have them.”
“Why should I believe you?”
“Why?” His smile turned into something cold and gritty. “It’s rather simple, actually: because if I had them, I would have used them by now to put an end to this ridiculous betrothal. As you so accurately observed the other day, I am more than willing to sacrifice one pampered eighteen-year-old girl for the good of the nation.”
“I’m not sure anyone who knows the truth about Charlotte’s miserable upbringing could call it ‘pampered.’”
“I seriously doubt she’s ever gone to bed hungry—which is more than one can say about millions of her grandfather’s subjects.”
Sebastian watched the Baron cut another piece of his steak. “I can think of several reasons why you might not have used the letters yet.”
“Oh? Do tell.”
“Timing. Leverage. Second thoughts.”
His lordship chewed thoughtfully and swallowed. “Mmm. I suppose all are possible—with the exception of ‘second thoughts.’” He paused to point the tines of his fork at Sebastian. “Are you seriously suggesting that I might have killed Jane Ambrose?”
“I am.”
Wallace gave a loud laugh. “Why on earth would I?”
“Because the game you’re playing—and the individuals you are playing it against—are dangerous. Most men prefer to do their dirtiest work from the shadows.”
Wallace was no longer laughing.
Sebastian said, “It would give you a similar reason for killing the harpist Vescovi if he somehow knew you had the letters. And you could have killed Edward Ambrose in a futile attempt to convince me that Jane’s death was simply the result of a wretched lovers’ triangle.”
“Oh? Was Jane Ambrose involved in a lovers’ triangle? That I did not know.”
“No? In my experience, men like you have a tendency to keep abreast of such things.”
“How . . . flattering.”
“Someone stole those damned letters, and Jane seems to have suspected you. Why was that? I wonder.”
“I’ve no idea.”
Sebastian studied the older man’s faintly smiling face. “So who would you have me believe did take them?”
“You credit me with far more knowledge than I possess.”
“Then speculate. Surely you’ve given it some thought.”
Wallace leaned back in his chair. “Well, given that they’ve never been published, suspicion must presumably fall on the Prince—or, rather, individuals close to him. If Brougham or Somerset or anyone else opposed to the betrothal had somehow managed to get their hands on them, the Princess’s folly would be splashed all over the newspapers by now.”
Sebastian held himself very still. “Are you suggesting Christian Somerset knows about the Orange alliance?”
Wallace gave a rude snort. “Of course he knows.”
“You’re certain?”
Wallace rested his knife and fork on the edge of his plate. “Given that we’ve discussed various possible ways to scuttle this damned alliance? Yes, quite certain.”
“Does he know about the Hesse letters?”
“As to that,
