Where Shadows Dance

Chapter 19

Sebastian rose slowly to his feet, his breath coming hard and fast. He started to close the door to Alexander Ross’s rooms, only to pause and reach in to snatch up his hat from where it had fallen. Then he charged down the stairs.

He found the man sprawled near the base of the flight of steps, his eyes open and fixed, his neck bent back at an unnatural angle.

“Hell and the devil confound it,” said Sebastian softly.

He realized he was still holding the man’s shoe; a gentleman’s shoe, barely worn, made of fine leather with a silver buckle. He dropped the shoe beside the body and eased the knife from the man’s tight fist. It was always possible the man had friends waiting outside.

Descending the remaining flight of stairs, Sebastian carefully let himself out. A mist was rolling in from the river. Standing on the flagway, he threw a quick glance up and down the street.

Nothing.

He drew the night air deep into his lungs and felt a twinge where the broken wood of the smashed table had raked across his side. Adjusting the set of his hat, he strode rapidly up the street toward Piccadilly. But when he reached the corner, he hesitated.

Since learning the bitter truth of his parentage, Sebastian had refused all attempts at communication from his father—from the Earl of Hendon, he corrected himself. But Kat was right. There was something he needed to do.

He turned his steps toward Grosvenor Square.

Once, the vast granite pile of the Earls of Hendon on Grosvenor Square had echoed with the shouts and laughter of a large, boisterous family. Now, all were alienated from one another, or dead, the house inhabited solely by one lonely old man and his servants.

Dismissing his father’s butler with a silent nod, Sebastian paused in the doorway of the library, his gaze on the man who sat dozing in his habitual, comfortably worn chair beside the hearth. He was still a large man, despite his sixty-odd years, his features blunt, a shock of thick white hair fallen over his forehead. He had his head tipped back, his mouth slack with sleep, his eyes closed. A book—doubtless The Orations of Cicero or some such work—lay open on his lap.

Of the three young boys Hendon called son, only the youngest, Sebastian, had shared the Earl’s love of classical literature. Sebastian’s enthusiasm for the works of Homer and Caesar had delighted the Earl, even if Sebastian’s reading tastes did range further afield than Hendon would have liked, to Catullus and Sappho and Petronius.

Yet the Earl’s pleasure in this youngest child’s precociousness had always been tinged with an element of odd perplexity that at times bordered on resentment. It was an attitude that both confused and hurt Sebastian, as a child. He’d never understood the sudden, icy aloofness that could tighten the Earl’s jaw and cause him to turn away.

Now he did.

For a long moment Sebastian simply stood in the doorway, awash in a complex swirl of emotions—anger and resentment mingling with hurt and an unwanted but powerful upsurge of love that startled him by its intensity. Then the Earl’s eyes fluttered open and the two men stared at each other from across the room.

Sebastian said stiffly, “I expected to find you abed.”

“I would have been, soon.” Hendon wiped one hand across his mouth but otherwise held himself quite still, as if afraid the least unstudied motion might cause his son—or, rather, the man he’d called son for nearly thirty years—to vanish from his sight. “Come in. Pour yourself a brandy.”

Sebastian shook his head. “I’m here to tell you that the notice of my engagement will appear in Monday’s Post.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded tight, stilted.

He saw the delight mingled with surprise and wariness that leapt in the old man’s eyes. For years, Hendon had pressed Sebastian to marry, to beget the next St. Cyr heir. A supreme irony, given that the only St. Cyr blood flowing through Sebastian’s veins had come to him from his mother, the errant Countess who had in that way of noble families married her own distant cousin.

Hendon cleared his throat. “Your betrothal?”

Sebastian nodded. “I will be marrying Miss Hero Jarvis on Thursday.”

Hendon’s breath came out in a long hiss. “Jarvis?”

“Yes.”

“What madness is this?”

At that, Sebastian laughed. “The ceremony will take place at eleven in the chapel of the Archbishop of Canterbury, at Lambeth.”

Hendon stared back at him. “I am invited?”

“Yes.” Sebastian turned to leave.

“Devlin—”

He paused to look back, one eyebrow raised in silent inquiry.

“Thank you,” said Hendon.

But Sebastian found he did not trust himself to do more than nod.

Saturday, 25 July

The next morning dawned warm and clear.

Dressed in buckskin breeches, glossy black Hessians, and a drab olive riding coat, His Excellency Antonaki Ramadani, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James from the Sublime Porte, trotted sedately up Rotten Row. He might have been mistaken for any sun-darkened Englishman exercising his horse in Hyde Park. The only exotic touch came from the Ambassador’s mount, a magnificent bay Turkoman with a high pointed saddle covered in crimson velvet.

“Good morning, Your Excellency,” said Sebastian, bringing his own neat Arab mare in beside the Turk’s bay. “I was sorry we didn’t have the opportunity to meet at the Queen’s reception last night. I am Devlin.”

The Turk cast him a quick, speculative glance, then returned his gaze to the track before them. “I have heard of you.” His English was unexpectedly good, with only a faint, barely perceptible trace of accent. “You’re the peculiar English nobleman who enjoys solving murders. It’s—what? A hobby of yours?”

“I don’t know that I’d call it a hobby, exactly.”

“Oh? What would you describe it as?”

“An interest, perhaps.” Maybe a compulsion, Sebastian thought. Or a penance. But he didn’t say it.

Ramadani raised one eyebrow. “You think that young gentleman from the Foreign Office who died last week—Mr. Alexander Ross—was murdered.” It was a statement, not a question. “And you think I did it.”

Sebastian studied the Turk’s hard, closed face, with its full lips and light brown eyes. “You were seen arguing with him at Vauxhall last—When was it? Wednesday or Thursday?”

“Wednesday.” A faint smile crinkled the skin beside the man’s eyes. “As a diplomat, I am protected from prosecution in your country. Even if I did kill Ross, your government could not touch me.”

“So, did you kill him?”

The Turk huffed a soft laugh. “And if I said no, would you believe me?”

Sebastian smiled. “No.”

“Then why bother to ask?”

“Conversely, if you have immunity from prosecution, then why bother to deny it?”

“Because while I, personally, might not suffer from such an accusation, the relations between your government and mine would nevertheless be affected.”

“If it were true,” said Sebastian.

“If it were true,” agreed Ramadani. They trotted together in silence for a moment. Then the Turk said, “How was Ross killed?”

Sebastian watched the Ambassador’s face. “A stiletto thrust to the base of the skull. Know anyone who uses that method to dispose of his enemies?”

The Turk widened his eyes. “It’s an assassin’s trick.”

“An assassin’s trick common in the East, yes?”

Again, that faint hint of a smile. “I don’t know if I’d say it’s exactly common. But it is known there, yes.” He paused. “Personally, I prefer the garrote.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Sebastian.

The Turk laughed out loud and turned his horse to trot back up the Row.

Sebastian fell in beside him again. “Your argument with Ross at Vauxhall; what was it about?”

Ramadani threw him a quick, sideways glance. The smile was still there, but it had hardened. “Perhaps you should ask Mr. Ross’s superiors about that.”

“Somehow I get the impression the Foreign Office is being less than forthcoming about the events surrounding Ross’s death.”

“And you’re surprised?”

“No.”

“You would be ill suited to diplomacy, my lord. You are far too blunt and direct.” He gave Sebastian a sideways, appraising glance. “Although I think you can play a role when it suits you, yes?”

“Are you going to tell me the nature of your disagreement with Mr. Ross?”

“There is little to tell. Ross had approached me earlier, as the emissary of your Sir Hyde Foley. Let us just say that pressure is being brought to convince the Sultan to join the Czar of Russia in an alliance against Napoléon.”

“The Russians and the Porte did recently sign a treaty of peace,” said Sebastian.

“True. But a peace is not the same as an alliance. You must remember that the friendship between Paris and the Porte stretches back generations.”

“Yet Napoléon has shown he has designs on Egypt.”

“And the English do not?”

When Sebastian remained silent, the Ambassador said, “Who told you that I was seen arguing with Ross at Vauxhall?”

“I’m sorry; I can’t say.”

Ramadani nodded. “Yes. I can understand that.” He drew up sharply, the glossy bay fidgeting beneath him. “It is always possible that your assassin does indeed lurk somewhere in the foreign diplomatic community, Lord Devlin. But if I were you, I would search for him closer to home.” He inclined his head. “Good day, my lord.”