C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

“That, I do not know. But he was most certainly involved with Mr. Ramadani in some way.”

“Any idea what the subject of their argument might have been?”

The Colonel shook his head. “Sorry. I only caught the last few words of their discussion. But what I heard was interesting, to say the least. I distinctly heard Ramadani say, ‘Don’t threaten me, you little English shit, or you will be the one to be sorry.’ ”

“Threaten him about what?” asked Sebastian.

Chernishav shrugged. “I never discovered. They saw me then. Ramadani strode away, while Ross laughed and tried to pass the incident off as nothing. But I knew he was concerned.”

Sebastian was silent for a moment.

Chernishav’s light blue eyes glinted with quiet amusement. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“Russia and Turkey are well known to be age-old enemies.”

“True,” Chernishav acknowledged. “But since the recent Treaty of Bucharest, we are no longer at war.” He shrugged. “Believe me or not, as you will. But if Alexander did not die peacefully in his sleep as we have been led to believe, you could do worse than to take a look at some of the more questionable activities of the Sultan’s representative.”

Placing one hand on the hilt of his ceremonial sword, the Russian gave a short bow and moved away.

Sebastian was watching the Colonel thread a path across the crowded room when Miss Jarvis walked up to him.

“Learn anything?” she asked.

He turned to look into her shrewd gray eyes. As Lord Jarvis’s daughter, she probably knew more than almost anyone else in London about the delicate diplomatic maneuverings swirling around Ross’s death. Yet the fact that she was Jarvis’s daughter meant that Sebastian couldn’t trust her. And it occurred to him that the implications of that lack of trust did not bode well for their future together.

“What?” she said, her gaze hard on his face.

He shook his head. “Nothing.”

She raised one eyebrow. “Are you planning to tell me what makes you suspect that Alexander Ross did not, in fact, die peacefully in his sleep?”

Sebastian cast a meaningful glance about the glittering assembly. “This might not be the most appropriate setting for such a discussion.”

“I will be spending tomorrow morning at the site of the old Grayfriar’s Priory in Newgate. We can speak more freely there,” she said, and withdrew.

He watched her walk away, torn between amusement and annoyance and the unsettling realization that his coming marriage would alter his life in more ways than he could begin to envision.

From the distance came the peal of the city’s church bells, ringing out the half hour. Soon, it would be time to pay another, more surreptitious visit to Alexander Ross’s rooms on St. James’s Street. But first he had an important stop to make.

He ordered his carriage and set off for Covent Garden.

Auburn haired and beautiful, Kat Boleyn sat at her dressing table, the flickering candlelight casting a golden glow across her bare shoulders, her slender arms raised as she eased the pins from her dark hair. She looked up when he slipped into the room. Their eyes met in the mirror, and for one telling moment her breath caught.

She was the toast of the London stage, an actress famed for both her talent and her beauty. She was also the natural daughter of Alistair St. Cyr, the Fifth Earl of Hendon, and the love of Sebastian’s life.

“Devlin,” she whispered. She did not move.

He stood for a moment, his shoulders pressed against the closed door behind him. He had loved this woman for nearly a third of his life. Once, he’d sworn to make her his wife and to hell with the consequences. Then fate and a long, sordid tangle of lies had intervened. Now she was married to a man named Russell Yates, a dashing privateer whose secret sexual inclinations remained one of the few taboos still rigidly enforced by their otherwise lax society. While Sebastian ...

Sebastian was about to marry the daughter of his worst enemy.

He said, “I’m sorry for coming here, but I had to see you.”

She studied his face in the mirror. The effects of too many sleepless nights and too many brandies would be obvious to anyone who knew him as well as Kat. She said, “I’d heard you were wounded. Are you all right?”

He touched his arm, injured the week before in a fight to catch the killer of the Bishop of London. “It’s stiff, but that is all.” He drew a deep breath. “There’s something I must tell you. I’ve asked Miss Hero Jarvis to be my wife.”

“Jarvis?” She went white, the only sound the clatter of one of her hairpins hitting the surface of the dressing table. Once, Lord Jarvis had threatened her with torture and death. She had found a refuge of sorts through her marriage to Yates, but they both knew she would never really be safe from someone like Jarvis.

She let out a strange sound that might have been a shaky laugh. “I suppose there must be a reason for this. But I can’t at the moment imagine what it is.”

“There is a reason.” It was all he could say. He supposed the reason would be obvious enough in a few months’ time, but it was not something he ever intended to confirm. He owed Miss Jarvis that.

“Does Hendon know?”

“Of the marriage? No.”

“I think you should be the one to tell him.”

When he didn’t answer, she drew in a quick breath, and then another. Yet her voice was still a harsh whisper when she said, “You know I wish you happy, Sebastian.” She hesitated, as if searching for something pleasant to say. “She ... she does not seem overly much like her father.”

“No. I don’t believe she is.” Overly much , he thought, although he didn’t say it. He watched Kat remove the last pins from her hair to send it cascading about her shoulders. The urge to reach out and touch her, to run his fingers through that heavy auburn fall, to draw her into his arms, was so intense that he shuddered with it.

She said, “I hear you are investigating the death of Alexander Ross.”

He was startled enough to smile. “Is there anyone in London who does not know of it at this point?”

“Probably not.”

He studied the familiar contours of her face, the wide, sensual mouth and childlike nose, the intense blue eyes she had inherited from her father. He knew that once she had worked for the French, passing along secrets she hoped would aid her mother’s people, the Irish. It had been more than a year now since she’d severed her connections to Napoléon’s agents. But that had been before—when they’d still been lovers, the truth of the connection between them blissfully unknown. It was possible, he supposed, that her relationship with the French had been resumed. He knew that her husband, Yates, still maintained his contacts with the smugglers who plied the perilous waters between England and the Continent.

He said, “Have you heard anything about Ross’s death?”

She shook her head. “No. But I can make some inquiries, if you’d like.”

“It might be helpful to know more about his activities.”

“I’ll let you know if I learn anything.”

She pushed up from her bench and turned to face him, her hands at her sides, her fingers curling around the edge of the table behind her. She wore only a petticoat, and a chemise beneath a short corset; he could see the heavy velvet folds of her costume thrown over a nearby chest. Her breasts were high and full, swelling above the confines of her corset. Her eyes shone wide and luminous in the candlelight, and for one dangerous moment out of time, he lost himself in looking at her.

She said, “I never would have married you. You know that, don’t you? I’ve been saying it for nearly ten years now.”