Where Shadows Dance

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 Ambassador 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?”

“Let’s just say there is something about Monsieur de La Rocque that does not inspire confidence in his veracity.”

“That I can understand,” she said dryly. “And after Ross’s meeting with de La Rocque? Then what?”

“Ross left to attend a séance at the home of a Swedish trader by the name of Carl Lindquist, who may or may not be an agent of the Swedish government.”

“A séance?”

“Are you insinuating you don’t believe Mr. Lindquist either?”

“Hardly. This is obviously where the gold comes in.”

It was Devlin’s turn to stop abruptly. “The gold?”

“Ah. Didn’t know about that, did you?”

“No.”

“According to Sabrina, at the time of his death, Ross was involved in the transfer of gold to a foreign state. She didn’t know to which state, or for what reason. But from the sound of things, I’d say the state is Sweden.”

“How much gold are we talking about?”

“A considerable sum, I think. The payments were being delivered in staged transfers.”

“Do you know the dates of these transfers?”

She shook her head. “All I know is that one occurred the Friday night before Ross died.”

He cast her a steady, assessing look. “How long have you known about this?”

“Since I visited my cousin yesterday afternoon.”

“And when, precisely, were you planning to tell me about it?”

“I am telling you now.” She returned his accusatory gaze with unruffled serenity. “You aren’t going to claim you’ve told me everything, are you?”

Rather than respond, he turned to walk along the churchyard again. He said, “When was the last time your cousin saw him?”

“She claims Friday night. They quarreled when he was late for Lady Dorsey’s ball.”

Her use of the word “claims” did not escape him. He said, “But you don’t believe her?”

“I think she’s hiding something, but I don’t know what. She also says Ross recently had a serious quarrel with Sir Hyde. She doesn’t know exactly when it occurred, but I had the impression it was only a day or two before he was found dead.”

“For an easygoing man, Alexander Ross seems to have quarreled with an unusual number of people his final week.”

“He does, does he not?” Hero stared out over the crowded array of gray, moss-covered tombstones beside them. “In my experience, most male quarrels are over two subjects: money and women.”

“And honor. We also fight over honor.”

“True. But not nearly as often as over money and women.” She paused, then said, “You are right, you know. I do know things that I haven’t told you. But before I tell you more, there’s someone I must discuss it with, first.”

“You mean, your father.”

Turning, she took the folio of maps and her notebook from her maid. “I go to dinner tonight at the Spanish Ambassador’s residence, then to the theater and Lady Weston’s ball. I should be able to tell you more at that time.”

“I’ll look for you at Lady Weston’s, then.” He sketched a bow. “Miss Jarvis.”

She watched him walk toward his waiting curricle, a tall, elegant figure with broad shoulders and a languid way of moving that for some reason brought to mind that fateful afternoon in the ruined gardens of Somerset House. Horrified by the direction of her thoughts, she opened the folio of maps and gave all appearance of studying it intently.

It was a full minute before she realized she held the maps upside down.