C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

“I could cut you off.”

“You could,” she acknowledged. Under the terms of her mother’s marriage settlement, her father had obligated himself to provide any daughters born of their union with a portion of not less than ten thousand pounds. That Jarvis could not avoid. But as Jarvis’s only surviving child, Hero stood to inherit a substantial chunk of all property not entailed to the male relative next in line to inherit the barony—in this instance a plump, vapid young man named Frederick Jarvis. It was well within Jarvis’s power to change his will and leave everything to Frederick.

She said, “I’ve no doubt Cousin Frederick would be pleased.”

Jarvis made a rude noise. “Cousin Frederick is a useless, addlebrained popinjay.”

“True. I suppose you could always use your wealth to endow some charitable institution.”

“Enough of this,” said Jarvis. “I’ve no intention of cutting you off and you know it.” He pointed a thick, steady finger at her. “But I intend to drive a hard bargain on the settlement, make no mistake about that.”

“I should hope so.”

He went to pour himself a glass of brandy from the carafe kept near the hearth. “The entire kingdom trembles with fear at the thought of displeasing me,” he said. “But not my own daughter.”

She smiled. “And you know you would have it no other way.”

“Would I?” He set aside the carafe with a soft thump. “I assume you have your reasons for what you are doing.”

“You’re the one who is always pressing me to marry.”

“But Devlin, Hero? Devlin? ”

For more than thirty years, Jarvis had dedicated his life to safeguarding the stability of the British monarchy at home and expanding the nation’s power and influence overseas. Few dared to stand against him for long. Working quietly and ruthlessly through a network of informants, spies, and assassins, he was the kind of man who valued order and stability above all else, who had nothing but contempt for such maudlin concepts as “fairness” and “justice.” As far as Jarvis was concerned, the modern enthusiasm for “equality” constituted the greatest threat ever to confront civilization.

But Devlin was a man for whom power and authority were never sacred, whose values were justice and reason, not expediency and privilege. In the course of his murder investigations, he had not hesitated to probe into the murkiest corners of Jarvis’s activities. Again and again, he had not only confronted the King’s powerful cousin, but dared to thwart him.

And Hero had no doubt he would continue to do so in the future.

She said, “Can you think of another man brave enough to marry Lord Jarvis’s daughter?”

At that, her father gave a reluctant laugh. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing as he studied her pensively. She thought she held up under his scrutiny with remarkable calm.

Then he said, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

Tucking her notes under one arm, she turned toward the door and simply ignored the comment, saying, “Do you go with Mama and me to the reception for the Russian Ambassador at St. James’s Palace tonight? Or will you form one of the Prince’s retinue?”

“I dine with the Prince. Which reminds me: Sir Hyde Foley tells me Devlin is investigating the possibility that the young man from the Foreign Office who died last week—Alexander Ross—was actually murdered. Do you know anything about that?”

She looked back at him in surprise. “Ross? Whatever gave Devlin that idea?”

“He hasn’t mentioned anything to you about it?”

“No.”

“Interesting,” said Lord Jarvis, turning to pour himself another drink.

It didn’t occur to Hero until she was mounting the stairs that he had not in fact wished her happy.

“The first man up the stairs must be the one who killed Ross,” said Gibson, his hands wrapped around a pewter tankard, his head resting against the high back of an old oak bench in the corner of the pub where he and Sebastian had met for a pint. “By the time the second man came and knocked on the door, Ross was dead. No one answered the door, so he left again right away, thinking no one was home.”

Sebastian took a deep draught of his ale. “It’s possible. The problem is, we’ve no way of knowing exactly when Ross was killed. It could have been long after Madame Champagne had retired for the night.”

“Aye, there is that.” Gibson blew out a long breath. “What about the mysterious veiled woman? Think she was this Miss Sabrina Cox?”

“Gently bred young ladies aren’t generally in the habit of visiting gentlemen in their rooms—even if they are betrothed.”

“Yet some still do,” said Gibson with a wry smile.

“They do. If I could meet the lady, I might be able to judge the chances of that myself. Unfortunately, she’s in mourning, which means she’s gone into seclusion and the only visitors she’s receiving are relatives or close friends.”

“That does complicate things,” said Gibson, draining his tankard.

“Considerably.” Sebastian signaled the barmaid for two more tankards. “Although, frankly, I’m more inclined to suspect the veiled woman—whoever she was—is someone connected to Ross’s activities with the Foreign Office.”

“According to Dr. Astley Cooper, it was Sir Hyde Foley who called him in to examine Ross’s body.”

“Really? Now, that is interesting.”

Gibson waited while the barmaid set the brimming new tankards on the boards before them. Then he said, “What about this French priest—de La Rocque? Sounds like a queer character.”

“He is indeed. And whatever his dealings with Ross, I’ll be surprised if they involved old books.” Sebastian paused, listening to the tolling of the city’s church bells, counting out the hour. He took a quick swallow of his ale and pushed to his feet. “Now you’ll have to excuse me. I’m off to visit the Queen.”

Gibson raised his tankard in a mock toast. “Give her my regards.”

Returning to Brook Street, Sebastian donned the formal knee breeches and tails that were de rigueur for a gentleman attending an official function at the palace.

“I had occasion to ask around about your Mr. Ross,” said Calhoun, holding out a fresh cravat.

Sebastian glanced over at him. “And?”

“I discovered nothing of interest, my lord. From all reports, Mr. Ross was a congenial, warmhearted young man well liked by all with whom he came into contact.”

Sebastian wound the long, wide length of linen around his neck. “Except, apparently, by whoever killed him.”

“So it would seem, my lord.”

By the time Sebastian arrived at St. James’s Palace, the parade of carriages lining up to pass through the ancient brick gatehouse and into the paved courtyard had dwindled and the crowds of curious onlookers were drifting away. The Season was rapidly winding its way to an end. Almack’s had already closed; soon the Prince would remove to Brighton and the vast majority of the great noble families would depart for their country estates—if they hadn’t done so already.

Sebastian could hear the soft strains of a chamber orchestra playing one of Handel’s trio sonatas as he mounted the steps to the vast reception suite. Despite the heat of the summer, the rooms were still crowded, the leading members of society mingling with cabinet ministers, foreign ambassadors, and members of the royal family. The Queen herself, a stout, gray-haired matron splendid in blond satin trimmed in gold lace, presided over the evening from a richly carved and gilded armchair situated between the two main rooms. At her side sat her eldest son, the Prince Regent, and, standing beside him, the Prince’s plump, gray-haired mistress, the Marchioness of Hertford.