Where Shadows Dance

Chapter 45

Sebastian closed the door to the old-fashioned coach and paused for a moment with one hand on the latch. The coach still stood where the kidnappers had left it, beside the lean-to of the ramshackle cottage; the body of the abigail, Marie, lay where it had been thrown by her killers, on the straw-strewn carriage floor. His fists tightening around the hack’s reins, he turned to walk back to where Miss Hero Jarvis watched him from the center of the yard.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She nodded and glanced away, her lips held in a thin, tight line, her throat working as she swallowed. He had the feeling she was holding herself together with a gritty combination of pride and determination.

He said, “I can still put the horse to. You could ride on the box with me if you don’t want to be inside with ... her.”

“No. Let’s just . . . go.”

He swung into the saddle, then slipped his foot from the stirrup and leaned down for her. She put her hand in his, and he gripped her forearm and hauled her up in a scrambling rush of ripping muslin skirts and rucked-up petticoats.

She settled easily behind him, but he was aware of her gaze drifting back to the carriage.

He said, “It’s not your fault.”

“No. But perhaps if I had been kinder to her ...”

Gathering the reins, he turned the horse’s head toward the lane. “I find it difficult to believe you were ever unkind to her.”

“Perhaps not unkind, exactly. But if I’d been less impatient, more understanding, then perhaps she wouldn’t have ...”

He said again, “It’s not your fault.”

They rode through shadowy woods and empty, moon-silvered fields, the steady plodding of the horse’s hooves the only sound in the stillness of the grass-scented night.

He was aware of her holding herself stiffly behind him, her hands barely touching his waist. And he found himself wishing she would simply relax and lean into him, take some measure of comfort from his warmth and his nearness. He could only guess at the horror of all that she had been through in the last twelve hours or the extent to which she was still struggling to come to terms with her own capacity for violence and the need to make that knowledge a part of her understanding of herself.

She said, “I keep thinking I should feel some measure of remorse or at least regret over the deaths of those men. But I don’t. I’m glad I killed them.”

“Personally, I find that perfectly understandable. I see no reason for you to feel remorse. But then, my own propensity for violence is considered by some to be excessive.”

She surprised him with a soft, ragged chuckle. “And you are a man. Our society expects women to be gentle and forgiving. Not ruthless and . . . lethal.”

“Gentleness and forgiveness have their place. This was not one of them.”

Her hands shifted subtly at his sides. She said, “I’d like to think I killed them because of what they did to Marie. But that’s not true. I killed them because they made me afraid. I don’t think I’ve ever been that afraid.”

Her admission both touched him and surprised him. He said, “I was afraid too.”

There was an awkward pause. Then she said stiffly, “Under the circumstances, I will understand if you wish to withdraw your offer of marriage.”

It took him a moment to grasp what “circumstances” she was referring to. “That’s very kind of you,” he said, keeping his voice light with effort. “But I have no intention of allowing you to cry off at this late date.”

“I am not attempting to cry off,” she said with some heat. “But you must realize that what happened today will inevitably become known.”

“Your kidnapping is known already.”

“So.”

“So?”

“You know what people are like—what is no doubt being whispered at this very moment in nearly every drawing room and club in London. People will say you married soiled goods. And in time there will be sly suggestions that this child is not yours.”

He drew up and swung to face her. “Do you seriously believe I would refuse to marry you because of today?”

“People will say—”

“Not if they value their lives.”

“What are you suggesting? That you challenge half of London to a duel?”

“Somehow I doubt it will come to that.” He moved the bay forward again.

She said, “I would like to make it quite clear that those men did not ... I mean, that nothing of that nature occurred ...”

“Miss Jarvis, believe me when I say that even if it had—”

“It did not!”

“Even if it had, it would in no way influence my determination to make you my wife.”

Silence fell between them again. This time, he was the one to break it. “Did you hear nothing that might indicate who hired those men?”

“No.”

“Your father sees the dark hand of Napoléon’s agents.”

“Napoléon?”

“It does make sense.”

“The idea being that some French agent is the killer, and if you were busy looking for me then you wouldn’t have time to pursue him?” She paused as if considering this. “It’s possible, I suppose, if the intent were to buy time for the murderer to flee the country. Otherwise, what would be the point? De La Rocque and Ross are already dead.”

Once again, he drew up to look at her over his shoulder. “You knew de La Rocque was passing the French War Ministry’s briefings to Alexander Ross?”

“I did.”

“And you didn’t tell me—why, precisely?”

“I am not in the habit of betraying confidences.”

He made a noncommittal sound and urged the horse forward again.

She said, “I hardly see how you can complain, since it’s exactly the same reason you refused to tell me how you knew Ross died from a stiletto thrust to the back of his neck.” When he remained silent, she added, “I’ve figured it out, you know.”

“You have?”

“Mmm. It wasn’t difficult, given the condition of the body when it was exhumed.”

“You heard about that?”

“All of London has heard about it.” The church spire of the village of Elstree appeared above the treetops before them. She said, “You also didn’t tell me about Ezekiel Kincaid.”

“I didn’t?”

“You didn’t.”

“That, I can assure you, was mere oversight.”

“So tell me.”

“Very well.”

She listened to him in silence, then said, “Even if the French did kill Ross and de La Rocque—and Lindquist—I see no reason for them to kill either Kincaid or Yasmina Ramadani.”

“Not unless we’re missing something,” he agreed. The horse shied at a pig scuttling across the road before them, and he steadied it with a murmured word. “I’m beginning to think that while the most recent murders are in some way related to Ross’s death, they may actually have been committed by a different person.”

“What are you suggesting? That we’re dealing with four different killers?”

“Not four, no. But there could be two.”

The cottages of the village were closing in around them. She said, “One, the mystery man with the stiletto who killed Ross and Kincaid for some reason we don’t yet know—”

“Something we don’t know? Or something I don’t know?”

“And someone else,” she continued, ignoring the jibe, “who coincidentally killed de La Rocque, Lindquist, and Yasmina? I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”

“Not coincidentally.” He turned into the yard of a rambling, half-timbered inn at the top of the village’s high street. “Tangentially.”

She stared up at the inn’s surrounding galleries. “Why are we stopping here?”

“To inform the local magistrate that he has several bodies out at Barham Wood to deal with.” He reined in beside the worn old mounting block in the corner of the yard. “And because Miss Hero Jarvis cannot ride into London on the back of a mudsplattered, hired hack.”

She slid off the bay’s back onto the high, flat stone. “I suppose we should also send word to Bow Street.”

“I already did.”

She looked up from straightening her skirts. “You did? When?”

“When I discovered where you were being held. I thought I might need help.” He met her frank gray eyes and found himself smiling. “I didn’t expect you to rescue yourself.”

“Feeling better?”

Hero smiled at her father. “Yes, thank you.”

She sat curled up beside a roaring fire in the library; Jarvis occupied the chair opposite, his gaze on her face. Around them, the house was quiet, the servants long since retired to bed. Since her return from Elstree, she had bathed and eaten a hearty meal, and spent considerable time consoling her hysterical, prostrate mother. Now she was quietly sipping a cup of tea liberally laced with brandy.

Devlin had insisted on remaining in Elstree to deal with the authorities, while sending her back to London in a hired coach. She’d argued, of course, but in the end she’d allowed herself to be persuaded. She was bone weary and emotionally drained, and beyond caring that he knew it.

“What can you tell me about whoever was behind this day’s work?” Jarvis asked now.

“Very little, I’m afraid. You may find something by investigating the contacts of that man, Sullivan. But I’ll be surprised.” She had no doubt he would be both thorough and ruthless in his determination to find the man or men responsible for kidnapping his daughter. But she also suspected that whoever they were dealing with had foreseen that—and made his moves accordingly.

Jarvis nodded. “It might have helped if you could have left one of them alive.”

She gave a soft chuckle. “So you could have interrogated him? Yes, I should have thought of that. Shockingly careless of me, wasn’t it?”

She won from him a wry answering smile. He said, “I am proud of you, you know. There aren’t many women who’d have the courage and fortitude to do what you did.”

“I think you might be surprised.”

He grunted and shifted in his chair to draw his snuffbox from his pocket. Flipping it open, he held a pinch to one nostril and sniffed. Then he sat thoughtfully for a time, one finger tapping the figured gold lid. He said, “I’ll never forgive him for this.”

“Devlin, you mean? He did find me.”

Jarvis’s jaw tightened. Watching him, it occurred to Hero for the first time that it rankled with her father, that despite all his spies and informants, Devlin had succeeded where he had failed.

“You wouldn’t have needed finding if his damnable habit of involving himself in murder investigations hadn’t caused you to be kidnapped.” He shot her a piercing look from beneath lowered brows. “You’re still determined to see this wedding go forward?”

“I am.”

He started to say something, then glanced away. And she suddenly thought, Good heavens; he knows about the child. Then she decided she must simply be overwrought and tired, for how could he?

Her father said, “He is my enemy. Yet you would make yourself his wife?”

“I suspect you are more his enemy than he is yours. He does not hesitate to stand against you when he believes you are in the wrong. But I do not believe he would go out of his way to cause you harm.”

He brought his gaze back to her face. “And you? Would you stand beside him? Against me?”

“I will stand for what I believe to be right, as I have always done. But I am your daughter, and ever will be.”

He pushed to his feet. “If anything should ever happen to you because of him, I’ll kill him.” He tucked his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Good night, my dear.”

She sat for a time after he had gone, her tea grown cold in her cup, the fire burnt low on the hearth. She’d told her father the truth when she said she didn’t believe Devlin would ever work against him without provocation. But she had no doubt that the day would come when the two men stood once more against each other. And what would she do then, as Jarvis’s daughter and Devlin’s wife?

She pondered the question long after she had retired for the night. But in the end she came no closer to a conclusion.

Later that night, Sebastian sat in one of the worn old chairs beside Gibson’s hearth. He had his head tipped back against the cracked leather upholstery and a brandy in one hand.

It was not his first brandy.

Gibson said, “Is she going to be all right, do you think?”

“Miss Jarvis? Aside from a measure of guilt over the death of her abigail, I think so, yes. She’s a remarkable woman.” And very much her father’s daughter, he thought, although he didn’t say it.

Gibson frowned. “Guilt? Whatever for? The abigail betrayed her.”

“I doubt the abigail knew what those men intended.”

“Probably not.” Gibson took a long drink. “I still can’t believe Miss Jarvis killed all three of them. My God.”

“I offered to take responsibility for the deaths myself, to spare her the unpleasantness and notoriety that will inevitably result. But she would have none of it.”

“I’d like to have seen Lovejoy’s face.”

Sebastian gave a soft laugh. “I think she frightens him.”

“You’re the only man I know whom she doesn’t frighten.”

Sebastian saw no reason to shatter his friend’s illusions.

Gibson said, “There’ll be an inquest, I suppose.”

“Yes. But it will be largely perfunctory.”

They drank in companionable silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. Then Sebastian sat forward, his elbows on his knees. “You’ve seen the bodies, Gibson; do you think it’s possible we’re dealing with two killers? One who murdered Kincaid and Ross, and someone working for the French who killed Lindquist, de La Rocque, and Yasmina?”

“It’s possible, yes. But”—Gibson took a deep swallow of his brandy, his lips pursed as he considered this—“why would the French kill Yasmina?”

“Perhaps she became restive and threatened to betray what she was doing.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“The only alternative I can come up with is that we’re talking about three killers ...” Sebastian scrubbed his hands over his face and slumped back. “Oh, bloody hell.”

Gibson stood up, staggering slightly as his weight came down on his peg leg. “Maybe some more brandy will help.”

Wednesday, 29 July

The pounding went on and on, loud and insistent.

It took Sebastian some moments to realize that the pounding in his head was not, in truth, in his head, but the result of a fist beating a lively tattoo against a distant door.

He opened one eye. His gaze traveled from the row of grotesque specimens lining Gibson’s mantel to Gibson’s gently snoring face. The golden light of late morning streamed in through the room’s narrow window. At some time during the night he had decided there was no point in making his way back to Brook Street. But he couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t at least made it from the damned chair to the sofa.

The pounding continued. Where the bloody hell was Mrs. Federico?

He pushed up from the chair, wincing as he straightened his cramped, stiff limbs. Rubbing the back of his neck, he wove his way down the narrow hall to yank open the door. “What do you w—”

He broke off.

Miss Hero Jarvis stood on the doorstep.