C Harris: Where Shadows Dance

“Charming young man. Terrible tragedy, his dying like that.” She opened her eyes wider. “Good heavens, is that why you’re interested in the Rosses? Dear me.”

It was beginning to occur to Sebastian that he had only to express an interest in someone who’d recently died for anyone hearing him to assume that individual had been murdered. He said, “That’s all you can tell me about the younger Ross? That he was a ‘charming young man’?”

Henrietta frowned. “Well, he’d recently become engaged to an heiress. Miss Sabrina Cox.”

“Cox?”

“Mmm. Not one of the Coxes of Staffordshire, mind you. Her father was Peter Cox—the one who was Lord Mayor, and then Member of Parliament for London until his death.”

“So he was a Cit?”

“A very rich Cit. The girl’s mother was gently born, however. A sister of Lady Dorsey. But her father ran with the Hellfire crowd and plunged so deep that he was forced to sell his youngest daughter to the highest bidder.”

“How high a bid are we talking about here?”

“Towed the old reprobate out of the River Tick—or so they say. In his day, Peter Cox was said to rival Golden Ball. Divided his wealth between his son and daughter.”

Sebastian frowned. “Her brother is Jasper Cox?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“I’ve met him,” said Sebastian noncommittally.

Henrietta huffed a sharp laugh. “And couldn’t stand the man, obviously. Few can. But he’s dreadfully well off. Manages his sister’s portion until she weds, as well. Together they’re major shareholders in the Rosehaven Trading Company, amongst other ventures. It was quite a brilliant match for Ross, even if the wealth does come from trade.”

“Thank you, Aunt,” said Sebastian, pushing to his feet. “You’ve been most helpful.”

She frowned up at him. “You said you were here for two reasons; Ross is the first. What is the second?”

He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I’m getting married next week.” He turned toward the door.

“You’re what?” Her teacup hit its saucer with a clatter. “Sebastian, you come right back here and sit down. You can’t just fling something like that at me and then walk away! Sebastian, it’s not—Oh, Sebastian; you’re not marrying Kat Boleyn?”

He paused with one hand on the doorframe to look back at his aunt, his jaw set hard. “She’s already married, remember?”

He tried hard not to resent the ill-disguised relief he saw flood across his aunt’s face. “Then who—” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Good heavens. It’s Miss Jarvis, isn’t it?”

It was his turn to stare. “How the devil did you know that?”

She raised her teacup to her lips and gave him an arch look over the brim. “Well, you have been seen together rather a lot lately.”

They’d been seen together because they’d been discussing murder, but he wasn’t about to tell his aunt that. He said, “I’d like you to be there for the ceremony, if you’re willing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I shall be delighted.” She hesitated. “You’ve told Hendon?”

“No.”

ʺSebastian ... however difficult it may be for you to believe, you must realize that Hendon’s love for you is real. You have always been his son in every way that counts. That has not changed, and it never will.”

Sebastian swallowed the inevitable retort and turned away. “I’ll let you know when the time and place have been finalized.”

His next stop was Lambeth Palace on the south bank of the river Thames, home to John Moore, the aged Archbishop of Canterbury.

“So,” said the Archbishop, pouring a shaky stream of tea into two delicate china cups. His movements were slow and deliberate, for he was an old man, pale and gray haired, his thin body racked by the final stages of consumption. “If you’ve already procured a special license from Doctors’ Commons, you don’t need me.”

Sebastian stood before the marble mantelpiece in the Archbishop’s chambers, his hands clasped behind his back. “Nevertheless, I would be honored to have Your Grace perform the ceremony. This is, if you feel you’re up to it.”

“It would be a pleasure.” Moore paused to carefully set the heavy teapot aside. “Odd that the Duchess of Claiborne made no mention of any approaching nuptials when I encountered her in Bond Street yesterday.” The Archbishop and the Duchess were old friends.

“She didn’t know then. She does now.”

“Ah. I see.” Archbishop Moore held out one of the cups. “Well, here’s to your health and happiness.” He raised his own cup in a wry toast. “I wish it were something more suitable, but doctor’s orders, you know. At any rate, cheers.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Sebastian took a polite sip of the tea.

The Archbishop’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “If I might be so bold as to ask the name of the lady?”

“Miss Hero Jarvis.”

The Archbishop choked on his tea and fell to coughing violently.

Sebastian started forward. “Are you all right, sir? Shall I call—”

“No, no.” Moore put out a hand, stopping him. “One would expect that by my age I’d know better than to try to drink and breathe at the same time.” He fortified himself with more tea. “Miss Hero Jarvis, you say? A fine young woman, to be sure.” He cleared his throat. “And when would you like the ceremony to take place?”

“Sometime this week, if possible.”

Moore nodded. “Thursday, shall we say? At eleven in the chapel here, at the palace. You may arrange the details with my secretary.” He stared down at the murky liquid in his cup, a strange smile curling the edges of his lips. “Well, well, well,” he said as if to himself. “How very interesting.”

Leaving the Archbishop’s palace in Lambeth, Sebastian made his way back to the Je Reviens coffee shop on St. James’s Street.

This time he found Madame Champagne seated at a small round table placed so that it caught the sun streaming in through the oriel window overlooking the fashionable thoroughfare. She was an attractive woman somewhere in her late forties or fifties, petite and slender, with pale blond hair just beginning to fade gracefully to white. Her features were fine boned and elegant, their delicacy thrown into sharp relief when she turned her head and he saw she wore a black silk patch over her right eye.

She watched him cross the room toward her, a wry smile curving her full, generous mouth. “Viscount Devlin, I assume?” She gave the title its French inflection, vicomte , her accent still pronounced despite the years of exile from her native land. “I was told you were inquiring after me.”

“May I?” he asked, drawing out the chair opposite her.

She spread her hands wide. “Please. I know why you are here.”

Sebastian sat. “You do?”

“Monsieur Poole and I had an interesting conversation.” She gave a barely perceptible nod to the burly, gray-bearded man behind the counter, who set to work preparing two coffees. “Alexander Ross was murdered; is this not so?”

“I never said that.”

“It was unnecessary.” She tilted her head to one side, her remaining eye narrowing as she assessed him. He noticed she tended to keep the right side of her face turned away. She said, “I trust you have a good reason for this assumption?”

“I have.”

She nodded. “Me, I suspected as much.”

“Why is that?”

She shrugged. “When a healthy young man who is involved with dangerous people dies suddenly ... Well, let us just say that if there’s one thing I have learned in this life, it is not to take anything at face value.”

Sebastian waited while the gray-bearded man placed the coffee on the table before them, then withdrew. “How long have you been in London?”