Chapter 48
Sebastian found Christian Somerset standing before the side altar in St. Anne’s, Soho, his head bowed, his hat in his hands. A weak winter sun had come out to stream a rich palette of green and gold light through the stained glass window above the main altar. But the stones of the church radiated a dank cold that was numbing.
Jane’s brother stayed in prayer for several more minutes before heaving a heavy sigh, opening his eyes, and raising his head. His gaze focused on Sebastian standing quietly nearby, and he said, “I take it you’re looking for me?”
Sebastian nodded. “Can we talk?”
“Of course.”
They left the church to walk along a well-packed path that wound through the churchyard’s snow-covered tombs and ancient headstones. Somerset said, “You’ve discovered something?”
“Perhaps.” Sebastian paused, choosing his words carefully. “You said you didn’t know about Princess Charlotte’s betrothal to the Prince of Orange. But I’ve now discovered that’s not true.”
Somerset glanced over at him. “Who told you that?”
“Are you saying you didn’t know?”
Somerset was silent for a moment, then shook his head. “No; I knew. I denied it before because—oh, I suppose out of loyalty to Jane. She shouldn’t have told me about it, but she was upset at the time and needed to talk. Afterward she begged me to forget she’d ever mentioned it, so it seemed wrong to betray her.”
“Yet you discussed the Orange alliance with other Whigs?”
“I did, yes—but without acknowledging that I’d also discussed it with Jane. It’s no secret in certain circles, you know. I’m sorry for misleading you, but . . . Are you suggesting this damned betrothal could have something to do with her death?”
“Perhaps. I don’t know for certain. When did you say was the last time you saw her?”
“When she brought me the ballads I was going to publish.”
“Do you remember what day that was, precisely?”
Somerset frowned. “Let’s see . . . I’d been out of town visiting friends in Kent and returned home on a Sunday. I believe she came to see me the following afternoon.”
“So, Monday the seventeenth?”
“Yes, I suppose it must have been. Why?”
Monday the seventeenth was the day Jane Ambrose learned from Princess Charlotte that the Hesse letters were missing and the day before she went out to Connaught House to see the Princess of Wales. Was that significant? Sebastian wondered. Or not?
But all he said was “I’m simply trying to understand the sequence of events that occurred in the last several weeks of your sister’s life. Did she talk to you that day about Princess Charlotte?”
“Not that I recall, no. But the truth is, I remember very little about our conversation that day. I don’t think it was in any way remarkable; we mainly spoke of music.”
“Did she say anything to you about a packet of letters?”
“Letters? I don’t believe so. From whom?”
“The Princess.”
“No.” Somerset gave Sebastian a hard look. “You obviously do think Jane’s death has something to do with the Princess.”
“At the moment it’s simply one of several possibilities.”
“And Edward Ambrose? How does his death fit into this?”
“I wish I understood.”
Somerset blew out a harsh breath. “I won’t pretend to feel sorrow at his passing, but I wouldn’t have wished death on the man—especially not murder.”
Sebastian said, “I’ve discovered Jane did find out about Ambrose’s mistress—just two days before she died.”
Somerset drew up and swung to face him. “My God. You think she confronted him and he killed her?”
“You told me the other day you didn’t think she would confront him if she found out.”
Somerset stared off across the snow-covered tombstones. “I know. But I’ve been thinking about it some more. There’s no doubt that at one time she never would have mentioned it to him—that she would have quietly accepted the pain, humiliation, and betrayal of a husband taking a mistress as one more of the many burdens women must bear. But lately . . . I don’t know quite how to put this, but ever since Lawrence’s death, I’ve sensed a change in Jane. As if she were rethinking her beliefs, challenging some of the old assumptions and rules by which she used to live.”
“I’m told she’d recently read Mary Wollstonecraft’s The Rights of Women.”
“Did she?” said Somerset with a shaky laugh. “That is radical reading, indeed. Although given her friendship with the Godwins, I’m surprised she hadn’t read it years ago.”
“Perhaps she was afraid to before, and somehow dealing with her children’s death gave her the courage.”
“Perhaps.” Somerset pressed his lips together. “I still can’t believe she’s dead. I keep thinking . . . wondering if there wasn’t something I could have said—something I could have done—that might have kept her safe. Alive.”
“I understand the impulse to believe you might have been able to save her,” Sebastian said quietly. “But you need to move beyond it.”
“Perhaps.” Somerset brought up a hand to rub his eyes with a spread thumb and forefinger. “But still . . .”
The bell in St. Anne’s tower began to ring out the hour, the dull clangs reverberating across the still graveyard. Sebastian said, “You know Liam Maxwell—have known him for years. If he found out Ambrose had murdered Jane, do you think he would be capable of killing Ambrose in revenge?”
The church bell gave a final dong and then fell silent. In the sudden hush Sebastian could hear a street hawker’s distant shout and a melting clump of snow slide from a branch overhead to hit a nearby tomb with a sodden plop.
Somerset’s face went slack, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in a quick, deep breath. “Surely you don’t expect me to answer that?”
Sebastian said, “I think you just did.”
There was a freshening quality to the wind that surprised Sebastian as he walked the icy, winding streets of the Frost Fair. Now in its fourth day, the fair was more crowded than ever, the air filled with shrieks and laughter and the roar of thousands of voices. He caught the pungent scents of cinnamon and cloves as he passed
