C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

“Yet you’re not, obviously, averse to taking risks, when necessary.”

“When the odds are good.”

“The odds? Or the price?”

Rather than being offended, the Frenchman laughed. “Both, actually.” He hesitated a moment, then said, “There is one man you might find it productive to speak with. A Swede.”

“A Swede?”

“Tall man, blond. Name of Lindquist. Mr. Carl Lindquist.”

Sebastian frowned. “Who is he?”

“To all appearances, he is a trader.”

“Meaning that appearances in this case could be deceptive?”

De La Rocque smiled. “Appearances generally are.”

His modest round hat gripped in both hands, his mind swirling with conjecture, Sir Henry Lovejoy followed a succession of clerks through the warren of damp, badly lit corridors that led to the Downing Street office of Sir Hyde Foley.

He found the Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs seated behind a broad, old-fashioned desk, its surface covered with what looked like dispatches and stacks of reports. The room was large and darkly paneled, with a massive mantel of carved sandstone and a window of diamond-paned, leaded glass overlooking a court below. As the somber clerk bowed himself out, Foley leaned back in his chair and breathed an exasperated sigh. “Well. It’s about time. I expected you an hour or more ago.”

Lovejoy gave a slight bow. “My apologies. I was in Bethnal Green, at the scene of a murder.”

Foley grunted, obviously unimpressed. He did not invite Lovejoy to sit. “I called you here because I want to know what the devil is going on.”

Lovejoy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m referring to this business about Alexander Ross. The man died of natural causes. So what precisely is Bow Street doing, poking around and asking questions about his death? It presents a very odd appearance. Very odd indeed.”

Lovejoy dredged up a faint recollection of reports of a young man attached to the Foreign Office who had died the previous week. “To my knowledge, we’re not doing anything, Sir Hyde.”

The Undersecretary’s nostrils flared. “Don’t even think of playing me for a fool, Sir Henry. I had Devlin questioning me this morning.”

“Devlin? You mean, Viscount Devlin?”

“Of course I’m talking about Viscount Devlin. Who the bloody hell do you think I’m talking about?”

Lovejoy considered himself an even-tempered man. But he found he needed to draw a deep, steadying breath before he could trust himself to answer temperately. “Lord Devlin may have his own reasons for inquiring into the death of Mr. Ross. But if so, I am unaware of them. I can assure you that he is not doing so in cooperation with our office.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

Lovejoy simply held the other man’s cold stare and returned no answer.

Foley leaned forward. “Do you have any idea of the havoc that could be wrought if news of this were to leak out?”

“You mean, the news that Ross was murdered?”

“Good God, man; have you heard nothing I said? Ross was not murdered! I was referring to the turmoil that could result if rumors of some bizarre investigation into his possible murder were to be bandied about in the streets.” Foley pushed to his feet and swung away to where the ancient mullioned window overlooked the flagged court below. “It’s no secret that the situation on the Continent has reached a pivotal point. It would be difficult to overstate the importance of the diplomatic negotiations currently under way. The last thing we need is this sort of irresponsible nonsense mucking things up.”

Lovejoy studied the other man’s sharp-boned, tightly held profile. “I’ll discuss your concerns with his lordship.”

“See that you do,” snapped Foley, turning back to his desk. “My clerk will escort you out. Good day, Sir Henry. It’s to be hoped we won’t meet again.”

S ebastian returned to Brook Street to find a response from Jarvis House awaiting him. He hesitated a moment, then broke the seal to spread open the single sheet with its terse message.

It is convenient.

He stared at the bold, almost masculine handwriting, aware of an odd, heavy sensation in his chest. He knew he should feel something. Relief, surely, combined perhaps with a pang of loss as the future he’d once envisioned slipped forever from his grasp. Instead, he felt dead inside.

He became aware of his majordomo, Morey, hovering nearby, and looked up.

Morey cleared his throat. “Tom has been awaiting your return, my lord.”

“Ah.” Sebastian thrust the note into his pocket. “In the library?”

“Actually, I believe I last saw him headed toward the kitchens. Shall I send him—”

A loud thump sounded from the depths of the house, followed by the clatter of running footsteps and a crash as the baize-covered door flew open. Tom catapulted into the hall. Morey hissed. The boy skidded to a halt, one hand coming up to straighten his hat.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, gov’nor.”

Sebastian’s lips twitched. “Well? Any luck?”

“Aye, gov’nor. I swear, ʹe never knowed I was behind ’im at all.”

Sebastian turned toward the stairs. “So where did Sir Hyde go?”

“Carlton ’Ouse, my lord.”

Sebastian paused with his foot on the first step. Since the institution of the Regency some eighteen months before, the center of power in the monarchy had naturally shifted from the Palace of St. James’s to the residence of the Prince. There was no reason to assume—

“I ’ung around,” Tom was saying, “ ‘oping ’e’d come out again. And ’e did, not more’n ten minutes later. You’ll never guess who was with ’im.”

“Lord Jarvis?”

Tom’s grin fell. “You already knew?”

Sebastian shook his head. “A lucky guess.” He glanced at the tall clock that stood near the library door. “I’ve another assignment for you: I want you to discover what you can about a Swedish merchant named Carl Lindquist.”

“A Swede?” Tom pulled a face. The tiger did not hold a high opinion of foreigners.

“A Swede. That’s all I know about him.”

Tom swallowed his revulsion. “I’ll find ʹim, gov’nor; ne’er you fear.”

To Morey, Sebastian said, “Have Giles bring my grays around in half an hour. And Tom—”

The boy had started to run off. But at Sebastian’s voice he turned, his head cocked in inquiry.

“Lindquist could well be something more than a mere merchant. Something considerably more ... dangerous. Be careful.”

Charles, Lord Jarvis was striding up Pall Mall when Sebastian came upon him.

Guiding his grays in close to the curb, Sebastian called out, “If I might have a word with you, my lord?”

The Baron kept walking. “If you wish to see me, make an appointment with my secretary.”

“This won’t wait.”

“Unfortunate, since it will simply have to.” Without breaking stride, Jarvis turned onto Cockspur Street.

Sebastian followed along beside him, the grays held to a walk. “What I have to tell you can be said here, if you insist. But I think you’ll find it’s not the sort of thing you’d care to have shouted in the streets.”

Jarvis drew up abruptly and swung to face him.

Sebastian reined in and nodded to his middle-aged groom, Giles, who hopped off his rear perch and took a step back to await Sebastian on the footpath.

“My lord?” said Sebastian to Jarvis.

With unexpected agility, the big man leapt up into the curricle to take the seat beside Sebastian. “Very well. You may drop me at the Admiralty. Now, what the devil is it?”

Sebastian gave his horses the office to start, his attention all for the task of guiding the grays back out into traffic. “Miss Hero Jarvis has consented to become my wife.”