Where Shadows Dance

by C. S. Harris

  De La Rocque pushed out his upper lip. “Don’t you feel it? It’s . . . in the air. Things are happening this summer. Momentous things.”

  “Such as?”

  De La Rocque’s gaze shifted away. “I prefer not to say.”

  Sebastian brought up his left arm and pressed it against de La Rocque’s throat, pinning him to the bookshelves. “I’ll keep your preferences in mind. Now, tell me: This danger you feel threatens you; did it also threaten Mr. Ross?”

  “One would assume so,” said the Frenchman dryly. “Seeing as how he is dead.”

  “But you didn’t kill him?”

  “Mon Dieu! What a ridiculous notion.”

  “Is it? Then why lie to me?”

  The émigré’s lips curled in derision. “If you’d had heated words with a man shortly before he was murdered, would you volunteer the information?”

  “That is one explanation. On the other hand, you could have kept quiet because you killed him.”

  “What possible reason would I have to kill Alexander Ross?”

  “I don’t know. To be frank, I haven’t found a believable reason for anyone to kill him.”

  “You haven’t?” He said it as if he were truly astonished. “Would you like a list?”

  Sebastian huffed a soft laugh and took a step back, releasing him. “Please. Be my guest.”

  De La Rocque straightened his cravat and smoothed the lapels of his worn old-fashioned coat. “Ah, bien. To begin, there are the French—by which naturally I do not mean Royalists such as myself. I refer to the agents of the usurper.” His face contorted with the violence of his hatred. “Napoléon.”

  “Why would Napoléon’s agents want to kill Ross?”

  De La Rocque cast a quick glance around and dropped his voice, although they were completely alone. “Presumably because Ross was instrumental in the transfer of some rather sensitive information to the British Foreign Office.”

  “A minute ago, you claimed your information was mere rumor and innuendo; now you say it’s ‘sensitive.’ It can’t be both.”

  “No, no! I speak not of the information he received from me. I meant information from other channels.”

  “Why not simply kill the sources of information?”

  The Frenchman blanched. “That danger also exists. Hence my request for an increase in my remuneration.”

  “Are we talking about anyone in particular here, or just some nameless, faceless French ‘agents’ and ‘channels’?”

  “Believe me, monsieur, if I had names, I would give them to you.”

  Sebastian laughed. “Of course you would. Please continue. Who’s next on your list? The Americans?”

  De La Rocque looked genuinely confused. “Why would the Americans want to kill Alexander Ross? I was thinking of the Mohammedans. Specifically, that Turk.”

  “By whom I take it you mean the Ambassador from the Sublime Porte, His Excellency Antonaki Ramadani?”

  De La Rocque gave a small bow. “Precisely.”

  Sebastian studied the other man’s hollow-cheeked, narrow face. “Are you referring to the rumor that Ross was involved with Ambassador Ramadani’s wife?”

  “So you have heard, have you?” De La Rocque tittered. “Although, somehow, I doubt any of us has actually seen His Excellency’s true wife. Or should I say, perhaps, wives? Constantinople is full of courtesans and concubines, and the Turks know as well as any the value of a beautiful woman when it comes to acquiring information from weak men.”

  Here was a new slant that Sebastian had yet to consider. If what de La Rocque suggested was true—if Yasmina was indeed a woman well practiced in the arts of seduction—then it made her conquest of Ross all the more probable. He said, “Was Ross weak?”

  De La Rocque’s lids drooped, half hiding his eyes. “All men are weak, each in his own fashion.”

  “Now you sound like a priest.”

  “One’s early training is sometimes difficult to walk away from.”

  “Is it?”

  The émigré gave Sebastian an appraising look. “As well you know.”

  Sebastian ignored the jibe. “I can see Ramadani killing a man he believed had dishonored his wife. But if Yasmina is in reality a beautiful courtesan sent here to coax information from the men she seduces, then why would Ramadani kill one of her sources?”

  De La Rocque smiled. “I can think of several reasons. The target could have become jealous of her other lovers.”

  “Were there others?”

  “One hears rumors. It is conceivable, is it not, that Ross might have heard the rumors, as well? Perhaps he became remorseful. Or frightened.”

  “All right,” said Sebastian. “We’ll make Ramadani Suspect Number Two. Who’s Number Three?”

  “The Swede, of course. You have looked into Mr. Carl Lindquist, as I suggested?”

  “I have.” Sebastian studied the ex-priest’s sallow, foxlike face. “I wonder: You wouldn’t happen to know if Lindquist has an interest in spiritualism and séances, would you? An interest he perhaps shared with Ross?”

  De La Rocque laughed out loud. “Spiritualism? Is that what he told you?”

  “He did. He also claims to be nothing more than a simple trader.”

  “Lindquist is a trader, yes. But he is also an agent of the Swedish Court.”

  “Ah,” said Sebastian. “Now, that he failed to mention.”

  “Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”

  “True. But I fail to see why the Swedes would have any more reason to kill Ross than the Americans.”

  De La Rocque shrugged. “The British and the Swedes were, until quite recently, at war.”

  “And now they are at peace. On the other hand, the Americans and the British may soon be at war. Yet I can’t see that as a reason for the subjects of either nation to start killing one another in the streets ... or in their beds.”

  “True. But then, Ross was not exactly a mere innocent spectator to all of this, was he?”

  “No. Yet you could use the same argument to indict the Russians. After all, Britain and Russia were also until recently at war.”

  “Except that, by invading Russia, Napoléon now has made the two countries close friends indeed.”

  “So that’s your list?” said Sebastian. “Some nameless French agent, Lindquist, and the Turkish Ambassador?”

  “Is that not enough?”

  “You’ve left off one rather significant figure.”

  De La Rocque opened his eyes wide as if in astonishment. “I have? And who is that?”

  “Sir Hyde Foley.”

  The Frenchman gave a disbelieving huff of laughter. “What possible reason could Sir Hyde have to murder one of his own men?”

  “You don’t think Ross’s weakness for dark-eyed, exotic women might be a reason for the Foreign Office to quietly dispose of him?”

  De La Rocque pursed his lips and tilted his head, as if considering this as a new possibility. “Perhaps.”

  “I can think of another reason,” said Sebastian.

  “Oh?”

  “If Yasmina’s lover from the Foreign Office was not in truth Ross but someone else—say, Sir Hyde himself—and Ross found out about it, I can see Sir Hyde killing Ross to keep his indiscretion quiet.”

  “Ridiculous. Sir Hyde has a most beautiful young wife. Have you not seen her?”

  “Since when did the possession of a beautiful wife keep a man from straying? Ross was betrothed to a beautiful young woman himself, remember?”

  “Betrothed. Not wed,” said de La Rocque with a sly smile. “It makes a difference. Does it not, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

  “To some men. Not to others.”

  “And which sort of man was Alexander Ross? Hmm? Perhaps that is the question you need to answer before all others.”

  Sebastian stood on the flagway of Great Russell Street, his eyes narrowed against the glare of the hot sun. What sort of man was Alexander Ross, really? He had spent the better part of three days trying to find t
he answer to that question, yet he still felt as if the truth were eluding him.

  Alexander Ross was either a warmhearted, generous man, honorable, decent, and kind, or he was a weak, self-indulgent traitor who had betrayed both his country and the woman he loved. He couldn’t be both.

  Unfortunately, it would be difficult to either confirm or disprove the allegations against the Turkish Ambassador and his lady. One could not, after all, simply come right out and ask an ambassador if the woman he claimed as his wife was in truth a beautiful courtesan sent by his government to seduce the powerful men of his host country. Nor was a blunt question directed to the likes of Sir Hyde Foley likely to elicit an honest response.

  Sebastian could think of only one person who might—just might—both know the truth and be willing to talk about it. It was not exactly the type of thing a man normally discussed with his gently bred future wife. But then, Miss Hero Jarvis was an unusual gentlewoman.

  He stepped off the flagway and went in search of his betrothed.

  Chapter 32

  Hero spent the early hours of the afternoon in Duke’s Place, in that part of London known as Aldgate.

  Once, a century ago, Duke’s Place had been a fashionable address. But as the cream of London society moved steadily westward, the place had grown increasingly seedy. Now the open square was crowded with rickety market stalls thronged by pale, gaunt-faced women in ragged shawls and tattered skirts; the once-grand houses overlooking the market had long since fallen into a state of disrepair. Hero was careful to keep her carriage—and two stout, wooden-faced footmen—nearby, the high-bred team of blood bays sidling restlessly and flinging up their heads at every ragged urchin who ventured too close. Her abigail stood at her elbow, nervously clutching Hero’s sketchbooks, drawing implements, and parasol.

  Hero herself had her hands full, with a notebook tucked under one arm and a large folio of maps balanced against her hip. She was studying a bricked-up, arched doorway in an old stone wall when a man’s shadow fell across her. Looking up, she found Lord Devlin studying her with an indecipherable expression on his lean, handsome face.

  “Devlin,” she said in surprise. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  “Looking for you.” He transferred his gaze to the wall beside her. “What exactly are you peering at with such fascination?”

  “It’s my belief that Duke’s Place follows exactly the outline of the cloisters of the old Holy Trinity Priory, pulled down after the dissolution of the monasteries under Henry the Eighth.” She gestured toward the ancient stonework beside them. “Look at this. I think it may once have been the entrance to the original chapter house.”

  He looked instead at her. “I didn’t know you were interested in this sort of thing.”

  She handed the maps to her maid and retrieved her parasol. “Dr. Littleton is compiling a volume on the surviving remnants of medieval London, and I’ve offered to contribute a section on the traces of the city’s monastic houses. I’m finding it fascinating. It is astonishing how much is still here, if one only knows where to look. Unfortunately, it is disappearing far too quickly.”

  His strange amber eyes narrowed with amusement. “And here I thought you an advocate of modern science and technology.”

  “I am excited by the possibilities inherent in today’s scientific advances, yes. But I also believe it is important to preserve the memories and relics of the past.” They turned to walk along the edge of the square, away from the squalid racket of the market. “There must be things you’re passionate about—besides the usual male fascination with guns, horses, hounds, and wine.”

  He laughed. “I do enjoy poetry and music. Does that redeem me? And the theater,” he added, then looked as if he wished he hadn’t.

  She decided that under the circumstance it was probably best to ignore that. “And murder,” she said. “You enjoy murder.”

  “I would hardly say I enjoy it. But I am passionate about seeing justice done, yes.”

  “And are you any closer to finding justice for Alexander Ross?”

  His lips compressed to a tight, frustrated line. She was beginning to realize just how much of himself this man invested in what he was doing. “I don’t feel as if I am,” he said. “I know more about Ross’s activities in the days before his death, but that is all.”

  They entered a narrow, shadowy passage that led toward the looming bulk of the church of St. James. It was cool here, the ancient stones filling the space with a dank closeness. Behind them, Hero’s abigail shivered.

  Hero said, “So what precisely was Ross doing in his last days?”

  “Well, on Wednesday he met with a certain defrocked French priest with a passion for old books.”

  “You mean, Antoine de La Rocque?”

  “You know him?”

  She nodded. “He’s a regular at the salons of the city’s bluestockings, particularly Miss Hershey and the Misses Berry.”

  He opened his eyes wide, as if in astonishment. “Are you?”

  She gave a soft laugh. “I wouldn’t describe myself as a ‘regular.’ But I do sometimes attend, yes. Who told you about de La Rocque?”

  “The owner of the Je Reviens coffeehouse.”

  “Ah, Angelina Champagne.”

  “Don’t tell me you know her, as well?”

  “She also attends the salons of Miss Hershey and the Misses Berry—although not, of course, in the company of de La Rocque.”

  He said, “Yes, I had the distinct impression Madame Champagne is not excessively fond of de La Rocque.”

  “One could say that.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Possibly because he’s such a ridiculously affected person. Although I suspect there’s more to it than that. I think she may have known him before, in Paris.”

  “I understand her husband was Baron Champagne.”

  Hero nodded. “He was killed in the September Massacres of 1792.” She kept her gaze on the ancient, soot-stained tower of the church before them. “They were imprisoned in La Force, with the Princess de Lamballe. The mobs broke in and dragged them out into the courtyard. Champagne was killed before his wife’s eyes, while she herself was ... used harshly by the men. She lost her eye as a result of the beatings and abuse she endured.”

  Devlin was silent for a moment. Then he said, “What happened to her after that?”

  “When they realized she was still alive, they threw her back in prison. She kept expecting to be sent to the guillotine, but they never came for her. She was released after something like four years.”

  “Hence her fondness for the sun,” said Devlin quietly.

  Hero nodded. “She rarely speaks of those years. But I have heard she had a child—a small boy—who was with her when she was first thrown into prison. He didn’t survive long.”

  “It certainly explains the fierceness of her hatred for the Revolution. But then, de La Rocque claims to despise the current regime, as well.”

  “You know that he is in all likelihood a smuggler?”

  “No, although I’m not surprised.” He cast her an assessing look. “Are you certain?”

  “He’s either a smuggler or on very good terms with one. It’s how he endears himself to the Misses Berry. He brings them things like lace collars from Bruges and Sèvres porcelain snuffboxes—pretty little trinkets that are not currently allowed to enter the country through the proper channels.”

  “Ah,” said Devlin.

  “You find that significant. Why?”

  He stared back at her blandly. “Just, ah.”

  “Right.” She transferred her gaze to the soot-grimed walls of the church before them. “So what happened after Ross met with de La Rocque on Wednesday?”

  “That night, he went to Vauxhall in the company of his betrothed and her brother.”

  “That sounds innocuous enough.”

  “It does. Except that while there, he had a rather heated confrontation with His Excellency Antonaki Ramadani, the distinguished Ambassad
or from the Sublime Porte.”

  “Really? About what?”

  “Actually, I was hoping you might be able to tell me that.”

  “e?”

  “I’m curious about Ramadani’s wife, Yasmina. Have you met her?”

  “I have.”

  She was aware of him watching her intently. “And?”

  “She is a very beautiful, intelligent, remarkably well-educated woman.”

  “That’s all you know about her?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “It’s been suggested that Ross might have been having an affair with her.”

  They’d reached the iron fence bordering the narrow old burial ground around the church. Hero stopped and swung to face him. “You can’t be serious.”

  “You don’t know anything about that?”

  “Good heavens, no. It’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it? Because of what you know of Yasmina Ramadani? Or because of Ross?”

  “I don’t know Yasmina that well. But I can’t believe Alexander Ross would ever have been unfaithful to Sabrina.”

  They began to walk along the churchyard. Devlin said, “I think you might be surprised at some of the men—both married and betrothed—who succumb to the lure of an illicit affair.”

  She cast him a quick sideways glance. She was aware of an odd, uncharacteristic compulsion to ask, Would you? Instead, she said, “What happened on Thursday?”

  For a moment, he looked puzzled, as if his thoughts, too, had strayed in a different direction entirely. “Thursday?”

  “The Thursday before Ross died. You said that on Wednesday he met with de La Rocque, then went with Sabrina and her brother to Vauxhall. What happened on Thursday?”

  “Nothing that I am aware of. The next significant event appears to have been a second meeting with de La Rocque on Friday evening, during which the two men argued so loudly they were overheard by Angelina Champagne. De La Rocque claims he was merely attempting to secure an increase in his remuneration.”

  He paused, as if expecting her to ask, Remuneration for what? But Hero suspected she actually had a clearer grasp of the émigré’s activities than Devlin. She said, “You don’t believe him?”