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  “Maxwell?” She shook her head. “Only what was in the papers at the time of the trial, and I suspect that was biased against him. Most journalists at the time were anxious to be seen as currying favor with the Prince.”

  He slipped an arm around her waist to draw her closer. “Fess up now: Did you know Princess Charlotte was already betrothed to Orange?”

  “I did not. Although it certainly helps explain why Peter van der Pals was so anxious to get Jane to spy on the Princess—particularly if Charlotte is now regretting having given her consent to the match.” She shifted to loop her arms around his neck. “Speaking of which, you never did tell me precisely what it was about Orange and van der Pals you didn’t find it proper to discuss in the middle of Bond Street.”

  “Let’s just say that if there were no need for Orange to beget an heir, I seriously doubt he would ever marry.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you think the Regent knows?”

  “Oh, he knows, all right. Orange has always surrounded himself with attractive, ambitious men like van der Pals. I suspect the real question is, does Charlotte know? And if she doesn’t, how would she react if she found out?”

  Hero’s gaze met his. “Not well, I suspect. That poor girl.”

  Sebastian nodded. “I can see someone killing Jane Ambrose if they thought she’d learned the truth about Orange and was planning to tell the Princess.” He didn’t add that the person most likely to order such a killing was Hero’s own father.

  But then he saw the stricken look in her eyes and knew that she had guessed it anyway.

  Chapter 14

  Saturday, 29 January

  Sebastian began the next morning with an unfashionably early call on Phineas Wallace, second Baron Wallace, the notorious Whig politician mentioned by Liam Maxwell as someone Jane had recently visited.

  Wallace had first entered the House of Commons as a young man of only twenty-two, freshly down from Cambridge. Brilliant, opinionated, and self-confident to the point of abrasive arrogance, he was the fourth son of a famous general known for his ruthless prosecution of war against everyone from Jacobites and American rebels to the French. As a younger son, Wallace never expected to inherit his family’s modest holdings in Northumbria. And so he had poured his energies and considerable talents into Whig politics, championing everything from the abolition of slavery and Catholic emancipation to public education and electoral reform.

  Wallace’s elevation to his father’s newly created peerage had come about unexpectedly when his three elder brothers died childless. In contrast to his brothers, the second Baron was the father of a prodigious number of offspring: eight sons and seven daughters by his wife, plus a young woman he claimed as his little sister but who was known by everyone to be the result of a torrid long-ago affair between Wallace and Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, the beautiful, tragic Whig hostess.

  He was close to fifty now, still trim and attractive in a very English way, with a sharp nose, a small thin-lipped mouth, and shrewdly analytical eyes. Sebastian knew him slightly through Hendon—who heartily despised the arrogant, outspoken Whig. There was no denying that on a personal level, the man could sometimes be abrasive, although Sebastian himself couldn’t help but admire Wallace’s intelligence and dedication to reform. But what interested Sebastian most about Jane Ambrose’s recent visit to Phineas Wallace was the fact that, like his colleague Henry Brougham, Wallace had for years served as adviser and protector of the Prince’s estranged wife, Caroline.

  “Frightfully cold morning,” said Wallace with a grimace when he received Sebastian in the simply furnished drawing room of his Mount Street home. “May I offer you some wine?”

  “Please,” said Sebastian, going to warm himself before the fire.

  “I saw Lady Devlin’s recent article on climbing boys,” said the Baron, pouring wine into two glasses. “She does excellent work. If she were a man, I’d recommend she run for Parliament.” He laughed when he said it, as if the idea of a woman in Parliament were a ridiculous notion.

  “I’ve no doubt she would be extraordinarily effective there,” said Sebastian, accepting the glass held out to him. “Even as a woman.”

  “Yes, well . . .” Wallace took a judicious sip of his own wine. But over the rim of his glass, his eyes were watchful and assessing. “I’m told her ladyship had the misfortune of coming upon Mrs. Ambrose’s body in the street the other day. Dreadful business, that. I trust she suffered no ill effects?”

  “You knew Jane Ambrose?” said Sebastian.

  “Not really, no.”

  “Oh? I was under the impression she came to see you recently.”

  “She did, yes. When one is the father of fifteen sons and daughters, it seems one is constantly looking for music instructors, dance instructors, tutors—it never ends.”

  “She taught your children?”

  “She was considering it, yes.” His lips relaxed into a self-conscious smile of paternal pride. “My wife and I like to think our Elizabeth is exceptionally talented. But nothing was ever formalized, and now the poor woman is dead.”

  “Except that Jane Ambrose didn’t simply die,” said Sebastian. “She was killed. It’s unclear yet whether it was manslaughter or murder, but her death was not the innocent accident the palace would have the public believe.”

  Wallace’s eyes bulged in a credible display of shock. “Good heavens. How terribly disturbing. Is that why you are here? Because you think I might shed some light on what happened to her? I wish I could be of some assistance, but the truth is, I barely knew the woman.”

  “Who recommended her to you?”

  “Ah,” said the Baron. “That was Princess Caroline.”

  “So the Princess of Wales knew Mrs. Ambrose?”

  “She did, yes. Caroline has always loved music—especially the piano.”

  “How close were they?”

  “That I’m afraid I couldn’t say.” He gave a faint smile that came nowhere near touching those watchful eyes. “Sorry.”

  “When precisely did you say she came to see you?”

  “I don’t believe I did say, actually. But it was a week ago this past Wednesday. Why?”

  “Are you familiar with Christian Somerset?”

  Wallace stiffened. “I know who he is, obviously. But I don’t consider him a friend, if that’s what you’re suggesting. Your father, the Earl of Hendon, may not see a difference between the Whigs and the Radicals, but there is one, believe me.”

  “Is Somerset still a radical?”

  “Perhaps not so much anymore. But are you familiar with his former associate Liam Maxwell?” The older man’s features twitched with revulsion.

  “Just how radical is he?”

  “Maxwell? Radical enough that he belongs back in prison, if you ask me.” Wallace indicated Sebastian’s glass, which was still half-full. “May I offer you more wine?”

  Sebastian set the glass aside. “Thank you, but no.”

  “Sorry I couldn’t be of more assistance,” said Wallace, walking with him to the stairs. From the upper floors of the house came the sound of children’s laughter and running feet.

  “Do you know the names of Jane Ambrose’s other pupils?” asked Sebastian, pausing.

  Wallace shook his head. “No, sorry. I can’t help you there.”

  And that, thought Sebastian as the stony-faced butler closed the door behind him, was Wallace’s most obvious lie. Because what man of the Baron’s standing would consider engaging a music instructor for his child without investigating her other students? Even if she were recommended by a princess.

  Sebastian had no idea why Jane Ambrose had visited Princess Caroline’s close confidant a week before her death. But he was fairly certain it had nothing to do with lessons for young Miss Elizabeth Wallace.

/>   * * *

  Increasingly troubled, Sebastian decided to take his questions about the politics of Jane Ambrose’s brother and his journalist friend to the well-known political philosopher William Godwin.

  He chose Godwin partially because he had a passing acquaintance with the man and he admired the writings of Godwin’s controversial first wife, Mary Wollstonecraft. But geography also played a part, for Godwin lived on the edge of Clerkenwell, not far from where Jane Ambrose’s killer had left her body.

  This was a section of Clerkenwell that in times past had been dominated by the skinning trade and the great herds of livestock driven from the countryside in toward Smithfield Market. Now rows of new, small brick terrace houses stood amidst the older timber-framed dwellings dating from Tudor or even medieval times. The vast open expanse of Spa Fields lay nearby, the walkways and ruined arbors of its abandoned old gardens hidden beneath a clean white cover of fresh snow.

  Godwin, who once had been as famous and influential a thinker as Edmund Burke and Thomas Paine, now lived above the children’s bookstore and publishing house he kept with his second wife. When Sebastian pushed open the front door with a jingle of its bell, the writer himself was straightening a stack of Greek and Roman fables displayed on a table beneath the frost-covered front window. He was in his late fifties, his hair graying and receding, his once sharp features softened by the slow accumulation of pounds. He looked up as Sebastian shut the door against a gust of frigid air, and frowned. “I assume you’re here for a reason.”

  Sebastian carefully knocked the snow off his hat. It wasn’t a particularly promising beginning. “I have some questions I’d like to ask you, if I might have a moment of your time?”

  Godwin grunted and returned his attention to the display table. “Now, why would the son and heir of the great Earl of Hendon be wanting to speak to me?”

  “A woman named Jane Ambrose was found dead near here, in Shepherds’ Lane.”

  Godwin nodded with a sigh. “Yes, I know. Sad, isn’t it? The streets have been most treacherous lately.”

  “They can be. Except that Jane Ambrose didn’t slip and hit her head. She was already dead when someone dumped her body in the snow.”

  Godwin gave up straightening the display and turned to face Sebastian, his hands dangling limply at his sides. “You can’t think I had anything to do with that.”

  “No, I didn’t mean to imply that. I’m here because I’m interested in what you can tell me about the newspaper Liam Maxwell used to publish with Jane Ambrose’s brother, Christian Somerset.”

  Godwin began shifting a pile of children’s atlases from a crate onto a nearby shelf. “Why? That was long ago. Surely you can’t think it has anything to do with what happened?”

  “At this point, I don’t know. What was the paper called?”

  “The Poor Man’s Advocate.”

  “Was it stamped?” The required stamp tax added four pence to a newspaper’s cost, which was a staggering sum for papers targeting anyone but the affluent. As a result, papers aimed at the lowest classes were typically sold illegally, unstamped.

  “Oh, it was stamped, all right, which obviously had the effect of limiting its circulation—the poor of England seldom having excess coins to spend on reading material. But then, that’s precisely why our benighted government puts such a high tax on newspapers in the first place, isn’t it? Can’t have the masses discovering that others not only share their discontent but are advocating radical solutions to the nation’s problems.”

  “How radical was it?”

  Godwin gave a slow smile. “Compared to what? They argued that Parliament should be representative of the entire Kingdom rather than a tool of the privileged and maintained that England’s true strength lies with the labor of her people rather than the activities of our rapacious aristocracy.”

  “So what sort of reforms were they calling for? A republican government?”

  Godwin finished straightening the atlases and leaned back against the counter, his arms folded at his chest. “I’ve no doubt it’s what both men wanted. But they never called for it, if that’s what you’re asking. They mainly focused on things like secret ballots and manhood suffrage—and freedom of the press, of course.”

  “Such as the right to call Prinny a fat bastard without landing in prison for two years?”

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “And Maxwell now publishes a different paper?”

  “At least one—or so they say. He’s the publisher of The Intelligencer.”

  Sebastian nodded. The Intelligencer printed unvarnished but careful reports of parliamentary debates and government acts, leavened by sensational accounts of the city’s most gruesome crimes and accidents. “And the other?”

  When Godwin simply pursed his lips and remained silent, Sebastian said, “Anything you tell me will go no further. My sole purpose is to understand how and why Jane Ambrose died.”

  Godwin gave a pained sigh. “Word on the street says he’s also responsible for The Pigs’ Trough.”

  “Good Lord,” said Sebastian. The Pigs’ Trough was a truly radical unstamped periodical calling for everything from the abolition of the monarchy to the redistribution of property. Typically hawked in alleys at night, its name was an irreverent reference to Edmund Burke’s fondness for the phrase “the swinish multitude.”

  “I’m not saying the rumors are true, mind you. How would I know? I simply write, publish, and sell children’s books.”

  “What about Somerset?” asked Sebastian. “Is he involved with The Pigs’ Trough?”

  “Christian? Not likely. These days he confines his publishing business to romances, guide books, and floral stationery. He does still write occasionally for the Chronicle, but he’s careful what he says.”

  Sebastian studied the older man’s gentle, troubled face. “Did you know Jane Ambrose?”

  Godwin drew a ragged breath that jerked his chest. “Of course I knew her. She taught my daughter Mary piano for years.”

  “She was still teaching her?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “On what days?”

  “Friday afternoons.”

  “Is it possible Jane could have been coming here on Thursday evening?”

  “I don’t think so. Why would she?”

  Sebastian could think of several reasons, but all he said was “How long have you known her?”

  “Ten years or more. I met her through Christian.”

  “So you knew her well?”

  “Oh, yes. She frequently lingered after my daughter’s lessons to argue philosophy with us. She reminded me in some ways of my first wife when she was that age—bright and quick, with a rare courage and strength of character. Except, of course, that Jane’s thinking wasn’t anywhere near as unconventional.”

  “She believed in monarchy?”

  “She did, yes. I asked her once how she possibly could, given her familiarity with the Prince of Wales.”

  “And?”

  “She said that however great Prinny’s failings as an individual—and she acknowledged that his failings were indeed great—she still believed he was dedicated to the interests of his Kingdom in a way mere politicians rarely are. I told her a man who has his subjects’ best interests at heart does not run up millions of pounds in debt on self-indulgent fripperies while his people starve.”

  “What was her reply?”

  “She insisted that Princess Charlotte would be a different kind of ruler—that unlike her father, she truly is kind and caring, as illustrated by the fact that she actually supports both Catholic emancipation and Irish independence.”

  “She does?”

  “Oh, yes, she’s quite the Whig. Jane also insisted that Charlotte is sincere in her beliefs—unlike her father in his salad days.”

  “Did Jane ever say anything to you ab
out Prinny’s plans for his daughter’s marriage?”

  “Not really. I asked her recently if the rumors we’re hearing about a possible Orange alliance are true, but she pretended to know nothing about it.”

  “What makes you think she was only pretending?”

  Godwin’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smile. “Jane was always an appallingly bad liar. The truth was writ all over her face.” The smile faded away into something bleak and sad. “And now she’s just . . . dead.”

  “Who do you think killed her?”

  Godwin went to stand at the bowed front window, his features solemn, his gaze on the wind-driven snow collecting in the corners of the mullions. After a moment, he shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”

  “She never spoke to you of any enemies?”

  “Jane? I wouldn’t have said she had any.” He gave a heavy, pained sigh. “I’ve always believed that men are not innately evil—that the evil we see in the world around us is the result of our age’s benighted social conditions and archaic institutions rather than some inherent human flaw. But my Mary never shared my belief in the perfectibility of mankind.”

  “And Jane?”

  “Jane told me once that her heart agreed with me, but her head suspected Mary was probably right.”

  “Did she read your late wife’s works?”

  “She did, yes—although only quite recently. I’ve sensed a change in her these last few months, as if she were questioning some of her earlier beliefs, searching for new answers. The loss of her two boys last year, one right after the other, hit her hard. I think she was still finding her way toward understanding and accepting it.”

  Sebastian shook his head. “How can anyone understand or accept such a loss?”

  “Perhaps one cannot.”

  Sebastian settled his hat on his head and turned toward the door. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  “Have I been of assistance? I hope so. It’s a dreadful thing, if what you say is true. She was such a talented, good-hearted young woman. Why would anyone want to kill her?”