C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

Everyone else in the room stood.

“Viscount Devlin,” intoned the powdered footman.

A tall woman in emerald silk who was conversing with a group that included the Foreign Secretary, Castlereagh, looked around at Sebastian’s entrance. Their gazes met across the crowded room, and Sebastian saw his betrothed’s eyes widen with surprise before narrowing speculatively.

“Well, this is unexpected,” said Miss Hero Jarvis, separating herself from her circle and walking up to him. “Whatever are you doing here?”

If she felt any awkwardness at their meeting, she didn’t show it. But then, in Sebastian’s experience, her coolness and selfpossession came close to rivaling her father’s. Sebastian was only just beginning to realize that in her case, at least, all was not exactly as it seemed.

“I received an invitation,” he said, accepting a glass of wine proffered on a tray by a circling waiter.

“London’s hostesses are always sending you invitations. You only accept them when you have some ulterior motive.”

Sebastian gave a soft laugh. From where he stood, he was able to watch the new Russian Ambassador, Count Christoph Heinrich von Lieven, bowing low over the Queen’s hand. “Perhaps I’ve developed an interest in Russia.”

She followed his gaze. “So it’s true, is it? You are investigating the death of Alexander Ross.”

“Word does get around, doesn’t it?”

“When the topic of conversation is murder? What do you expect?” She stood beside him, her gaze, like his, drifting over the assembled company. “I must say, I am relieved to hear someone is looking into it. I personally found his sudden death beyond suspicious.”

Sebastian glanced at her in surprise. “You knew him?”

“He was engaged to marry one of my cousins.”

“Ah. The wellborn but impoverished gentlewoman sold off to the highest bidder by her gamester father. She’s a relative of yours, is she?”

“She was. My mother’s cousin Charlotte. Dreadful woman. I always thought old Peter Cox got far more than he bargained for with that match. Her son, Jasper, is just like her. But I rather like her daughter, Sabrina.”

“And how is Miss Cox taking Ross’s death?”

“She is dreadfully cut up about it, as one would expect. Why do you ask? Surely you aren’t seriously considering Sabrina as a suspect?”

“At this point, I’m not ruling out anyone.” He nodded across the room to where an animated young woman with dark hair and a long, graceful neck was charming the Prince Regent. “What can you tell me about the new Russian Ambassador?”

Miss Jarvis followed his gaze. “Well, I see you’ve already identified his beautiful and captivating wife.”

“She is rather difficult to miss.”

“There are those who say Countess Lieven is the Czar’s real representative, that her husband is just a placeholder. But I think that’s rather harsh. He’s a shrewd man, ruthless on the battlefield and at the negotiating table. They make a good team.”

“You’ve met them?”

“We had the senior members of the Russian delegation to dinner two nights ago.”

Sebastian took another sip of his wine. “So which of the military-looking gentlemen accompanying the Count is Colonel Dimitri Ivanovich Chernishav?”

“There,” said Miss Jarvis, nodding to a uniformed officer with a ceremonial sword buckled across a blue coat dripping with gold—gold sash, gold braid, gold plumes. “The blond gentleman with the mustache.”

Sebastian studied the Colonel’s broad, big-boned face. “You had him to dinner, as well?”

“Several times.”

“Good,” said Sebastian, setting aside his wine. “Then you can introduce us.”

The Russian Colonel was studying a massive, full-length portrait of George II when they walked up to him.

“Devlin, is it? I have met your father, the Earl,” said the Colonel, when Miss Jarvis had made the introductions. “He tells us he is a friend of Russia. Yet when it comes to Napoléon, all he is prepared to offer us is words of encouragement. No men.”

“Our troops are rather busy these days,” said Sebastian, “what with fighting the French in the peninsula and defending our interests in India and the New World.”

The Colonel laughed. “You can’t seriously consider the Americans a threat?”

“To Canada, yes.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” said Miss Jarvis, adroitly withdrawing.

The Russian watched her walk away. “A formidable woman, that one.”

“Definitely,” agreed Sebastian. He studied the Russian’s cheerful, full-cheeked face, with its soft blue eyes and swooping cavalry mustache. He looked to be in his late twenties, his high rank obviously less an indication of experience on the battlefield than of wealth and birth. Britain and Russia were much alike in this sense, if not in others.

Sebastian said, “I understand you were acquainted with a friend of mine at the Foreign Office. Mr. Alexander Ross.”

Chernishav’s smile faded. “You knew Alexander?” He gave the name its Russian pronunciation, Aleksandr . “A shock, wasn’t it? We were to meet at Cribb’s Parlour the very evening he died.”

“But you did not?”

The Russian shook his head. “No. He never showed up. I finally went round to his rooms and knocked at his door, but he didn’t answer.”

“What time was this?”

“Midnight? Perhaps a little earlier, perhaps a little later. I thought it strange at the time but wrote it off as a matter of miscommunication. Then I heard he’d been found dead in his bed, and it struck me as all the more peculiar. And now ... Now you are asking me questions, and I have been in London long enough to know what that means.”

He stared at Sebastian expectantly, but Sebastian only said, “You were friends?”

“For some years now, yes. We met in St. Petersburg when Alexander was with your embassy there. It’s not easy, being a stranger in a strange land. This time, I am the one who’s far from home. We would meet occasionally for a drink. Talk of Russia.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

The Russian looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose it must have been that Wednesday night, at Vauxhall. I formed part of the Ambassador’s party, while Alexander was there with his fiancée and her brother. Lovely young woman—and fabulously wealthy, I understand.” He gave a rueful smile. “I was quite jealous of my old friend’s good fortune, you know. And then, just a few days later—” He kissed his bunched fingers and then flung them open in an ironic gesture. “Alexander is dead. Fate is a strange thing, is it not? Fickle and cruel.”

“Know of anyone Ross had quarreled with recently? Anyone who might have wanted him dead?”

The Colonel’s gaze shifted to the painting beside them. “It’s a thought that naturally occurs to one, is it not?”

“And?”

He kept his gaze on the painting. “Alexander was a diplomat by profession. It can be a dangerous game, diplomacy. A dance of shadows in the darkness.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, I know some of what Alexander was involved in. But not all.”

“Yet you know something.”

Chernishav hesitated, then said, “That night, at Vauxhall, I chanced to come upon Alexander in a heated conversation with Ambassador Ramadani.”

“Ramadani?”

The Russian cast a significant glance toward the dark-eyed, dark-bearded man wearing long crimson robes, goldembroidered slippers, and an elaborately wrapped turban, who was now engaged in conversation with the Marchioness of Hertford. “Mr. Antonaki Ramadani. The Ambassador from Constantinople.”

Sebastian recognized the man. He’d frequently seen him—in different clothes—exercising a magnificent Turkoman in Hyde Park early in the morning. “Ross was involved with the Ottomans?”