Sebastian found himself faintly smiling. “True.” The smile faded. “Do you ever think that sometimes these things might best be left to fate?”
“‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord’?” Lovejoy studied him with wise, compassionate eyes. “Neither Edward Ambrose’s death nor Christian Somerset’s is on your hands, if that’s what you’re suggesting.”
“Not exactly. And yet . . . my determination to bring murderers to justice has always been driven by the obligation I believe we the living owe to the dead. Yet I can’t believe Jane Ambrose would have wanted to see her only surviving brother die, even if he did accidently kill her. It wasn’t deliberate. And my attempts to uncover what happened to her led directly to her husband’s death.”
“Perhaps. But the fault was all Somerset’s, not yours. The Bible also says, ‘All things work together for God to them that love him.’”
“You think in this instance things worked ‘for God’?” asked Sebastian.
Lovejoy turned his face into the wind, his eyes troubled. “Only God has that answer.”
Later that afternoon, Sebastian found himself sitting in one of the worn pews of St. Anne’s, Soho. He tilted back his head, his gaze on the gloriously hued light streaming in through the stained glass window above the altar. He was not a religious man; his belief in the teachings of his youth had been swept away by six brutal years at war. Yet he was not immune to the sense of enveloping peace that a church could bring to those in need. And he was in need.
After a while he heard the echo of a distant door opening and closing, followed by soft footsteps. Liam Maxwell came to sit beside him, his elbows on his spread knees and his hat in his hands. They sat in silence for a time. Then Maxwell said, “I heard about Christian’s death. He’s the one, isn’t he? It was Christian who killed Jane.”
“Yes. By accident. And then he panicked. He was terrified of being sent back to prison. Or hanged.”
Maxwell stared straight ahead, his jaw held tight. Sebastian expected him to ask next about Ambrose’s death, but he did not. And Sebastian realized it was because the journalist must already have figured it all out.
He’d obviously known his friend very well indeed.
The sun was slipping lower in the sky, the vibrant colors of the stained glass darkening to somber tones as the light began to fade. “I’ve loved her nearly half my life,” said Maxwell, his voice a raw whisper. “I don’t think I know how to go on living my life without her in it to love.”
“Yet you will,” said Sebastian.
Maxwell nodded, his lips pressed together, his throat working hard as he swallowed.
“I honestly believe she had decided to leave Ambrose for you,” said Sebastian. “I don’t know if that makes everything easier or harder to bear.”
Maxwell’s chin quivered. “Maybe both.”
Sebastian nodded. This time he was the one who couldn’t quite trust his voice to speak.
He stood, his hand resting briefly on the other man’s shoulder. Then he turned and left him there, with his grief, and his memories of the past, and his yearning for a tomorrow that would never be.
“Oh, I do so wish I could have gone to the Frost Fair,” said Her Royal Highness Princess Charlotte Augusta of Wales. She stood between Hero and Miss Kinsworth at the side of Blackfriars Bridge, one finely gloved hand resting on the stone parapet, her cheeks rosy from the fresh air, her eyes shining as she looked out over the broken ice of the Thames. The wind was warm out of the south, the sun so bright that the glare off the melting snow dazzled the eyes. One of the fair’s remaining tents shuddered out on the ice and then tipped sideways as the section beneath it collapsed, and a sigh went up from the crowd gathered on the bridge.
Watching the young Princess gaze longingly at the ruins of the Frost Fair, it struck Hero just how cruel it had been for the Regent to keep his daughter away from what had surely been one of the grandest spectacles of her age. She really was a coddled version of Cinderella—without the promise of a handsome Prince Charming to someday sweep her away from a dark, narrow existence in a gilded cage to which Prinny had doomed her.
“Miss Kinsworth told me how Jane died,” said Charlotte, casting a quick stricken glance at her companion. “That this all happened because of those letters.”
“I believe they truly have been destroyed,” said Hero.
“It was unforgivably foolish of me to have written them,” said Charlotte. “And now Jane is dead because of my folly.”
Hero’s gaze met Ella Kinsworth’s, and the older woman looked away, blinking hard. Charlotte stared out over the icy waters. Her features were solemn, but the agitation of her breathing betrayed the extent of her inner turmoil.
“Don’t marry him,” Hero said in a sudden rush. “Orange, I mean. Forgive me, Your Highness, for speaking so boldly. But without the Hesse letters hanging over you, you are no longer as vulnerable as you were before.”
Eyes wide and hurting, Charlotte turned to face her. “But how can I not?”
“Drag out the negotiations over the marriage contract. I’ve heard Orange’s father is anxious for his son to marry and beget an heir. That means it’s not unlikely he’ll tire of the delay and look elsewhere for his son’s bride. This dreadful war will be over soon, and then so
