Where Shadows Dance

Chapter 35

Sebastian arrived at Lady Weston’s ball at the unfashionably early hour of a quarter past twelve. Miss Jarvis, looking splendid in gossamer-fine silk of the palest pink with rosette-and-pearltrimmed swags around the hem, did not put in an appearance until long past one.

“I was beginning to think you must have changed your mind,” he said, walking up to her. It came out considerably less gallant and more impatient than he’d intended.

She held a painted silk fan trimmed with fine lace and had a strand of pearls woven through her hair, but there was nothing either fragile or frivolous about the way she assessed him through narrowed eyes. “Why? Have you a pressing engagement elsewhere?” she said with an insight he found unsettling.

“At this hour?” He let his gaze rove casually over the glittering rooms, the bejeweled ladies and exquisitely tailored gentlemen, and lowered his voice. “I’m hoping to hear why His Majesty’s government is transferring vast sums of gold to the Swedes.”

She made a show of fanning her face, the delicate ivory and silk confection stirring up a useless eddy heated by hundreds of dancing candles and the hot press of fashionable bodies. “It’s quite warm in here, don’t you think?” she said for the benefit of anyone who might be listening. “Perhaps you would be so good as to escort me out to the terrace for a breath of fresh air.”

He smiled and gave a short bow. “With pleasure, Miss Jarvis.”

The terrace overlooking the darkened gardens was largely deserted, thanks to a gusty wind that had blown out most of the festive hanging lanterns. Heedless of the threat to her carefully curled locks, she walked to the stone balustrade at the edge of the terrace and drew a deep breath. “Smells like rain.”

“I sincerely hope not,” said Sebastian.

She glanced over at him in surprise. “Why? We need a good rain to clean the air of dust and wash down the streets.”

“True,” he agreed. Unfortunately, rain would also make St. George’s burial ground a muddy mess.

She was silent for a moment, as if collecting her thoughts. Then she said, “I am not betraying my father’s confidence in what I am about to tell you. It is known in certain circles, yet the fewer who know, the better.”

“I understand.”

“Two weeks ago, at Örebro, Britain signed a treaty with both Sweden and Russia. It is a peace treaty without any alliance obligations, which represents something of a failure for Russian diplomacy, since the Czar has been pushing for more.”

It was difficult sometimes to remember, but Russia had officially been at war with Britain for the past five years. He said, “Go on.”

“The war between us was never vigorously pursued by either side, and had been largely maintained by the Czar in order to placate Napoléon. But by invading Russia last month, Napoléon effectively ended the need for that fiction.”

“Hence the Treaty of Örebro,” said Sebastian.

She nodded. “Likewise, the Anglo-Swedish War has essentially been a paper war for the last two years. The Swedes’ main argument is with the Russians, who seized Finland.”

“Losing the entire eastern half of your kingdom is rather difficult to swallow with equanimity,” said Sebastian.

“True. But the Swedes have now let it be known that they would be willing to allow Russia to keep Finland if they could receive some sort of compensation.”

“Meaning?”

“Norway.”

“But Norway is part of Denmark.”

“Exactly. And Denmark is an ally of France.”

“Denmark is an ally of France because we attacked Copenhagen and sank the Danish fleet,” said Sebastian dryly.

She shrugged. “Such is the price of neutrality.”

“Well, they’re certainly not neutral anymore.”

She turned to face him, so that she was leaning back against the balustrade, the wind blowing the short curls around her face. She put up a hand to push them back. “Your perspective is certainly unusual, I’ll give you that.”

Sebastian said, “Napoléon has been unhappy with Sweden because, despite being officially at war with us, the Swedes still allowed us to station our troops in the Swedish port of Hano and trade with the Baltic states. In fact, as I understand it, Sweden has remained our largest trading partner. In other words, Napoléon’s recent attack on Sweden was driven by exactly the same motive as our attack on Denmark.”

“And now Sweden is also willing to attack Denmark.”

“In exchange for Norway.”

“And certain subsidies,” she said.

“Ah. Define subsidies.”

“Gold. Transferred from the British Treasury to the Swedish Embassy here in London.”

“So that’s how it all comes together,” said Sebastian softly. He stared out over the shadowy shrubbery below. “Tell me, how are these transfers usually effected? I find myself woefully ignorant in the niceties of such details.”

“It isn’t as if you can simply appropriate the payments from the Treasury, drive a wagon up to the Swedish Embassy, and offload trunks of gold. That sort of activity would be bound to attract unwanted attention and speculation. Generally, deliveries are made in incremental amounts—”

“Say, twenty-pound bags of gold sovereigns, delivered every few days?” He was remembering the list of numbers he’d found in Ross’s copy of Marcus Aurelius. He thought he knew now what they meant: They were the dates of Ross’s deliveries of gold to Lindquist.

“Something like that. The gold is typically passed by someone attached to the Foreign Office—”

“Meaning Alexander Ross?”

“Evidently. The gold is delivered to an agent of the recipient government.”

“Carl Lindquist,” said Sebastian.

“Has Mr. Lindquist been discovered in possession of an inexplicably large number of gold sovereigns?”

“Mr. Lindquist is, unfortunately, dead.”

“Good heavens. When did this happen?”

“This afternoon.”

She looked thoughtful a moment. Then she said, “Did you kill him?”

“I did not. But he most certainly had a large trunk of gold in his possession.”

“How was he killed? In the same method as Ross?”

“Nothing anywhere near so tidy. Someone bashed in his head.”

She fixed him with a steady stare. “You say Alexander Ross died from a dagger thrust at the base of his skull. Yet you have not told me how you came to know that.”

One of the tall French doors from the drawing room burst open behind them, disgorging a tangle of laughing young women bedecked in white muslin, satin ribbons, and pearls, and trailed by a clutch of clucking mothers. In the distance, the church towers began to strike the hour.

Two o’clock.

Sebastian cast the chattering women a significant glance. “Now is perhaps not the time. May I call upon you tomorrow? There are a number of things we really must discuss—and I don’t mean simply about the death of Alexander Ross.”

She got that harried look on her face, the one that stole over her every time he attempted to bring the conversation around to their looming marriage. “Not tomorrow,” she said vaguely. “I already have several previous engagements.”

“Tuesday morning, then.”

He thought for a moment she meant to refuse him. Then she said, “Very well. Tuesday. At half past eleven?”

“Half past eleven,” he said, just as the first drops of rain splattered the stone flagging of the terrace.