C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

Hendon cleared his throat. “Your betrothal?”

Sebastian nodded. “I will be marrying Miss Hero Jarvis on Thursday.”

Hendon’s breath came out in a long hiss. “Jarvis?”

“Yes.”

“What madness is this?”

At that, Sebastian laughed. “The ceremony will take place at eleven in the chapel of the Archbishop of Canterbury, at Lambeth.”

Hendon stared back at him. “I am invited?”

“Yes.” Sebastian turned to leave.

“Devlin—”

He paused to look back, one eyebrow raised in silent inquiry.

“Thank you,” said Hendon.

But Sebastian found he did not trust himself to do more than nod.

Saturday, 25 July

The next morning dawned warm and clear.

Dressed in buckskin breeches, glossy black Hessians, and a drab olive riding coat, His Excellency Antonaki Ramadani, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James from the Sublime Porte, trotted sedately up Rotten Row. He might have been mistaken for any sun-darkened Englishman exercising his horse in Hyde Park. The only exotic touch came from the Ambassador’s mount, a magnificent bay Turkoman with a high pointed saddle covered in crimson velvet.

“Good morning, Your Excellency,” said Sebastian, bringing his own neat Arab mare in beside the Turk’s bay. “I was sorry we didn’t have the opportunity to meet at the Queen’s reception last night. I am Devlin.”

The Turk cast him a quick, speculative glance, then returned his gaze to the track before them. “I have heard of you.” His English was unexpectedly good, with only a faint, barely perceptible trace of accent. “You’re the peculiar English nobleman who enjoys solving murders. It’s—what? A hobby of yours?”

“I don’t know that I’d call it a hobby, exactly.”

“Oh? What would you describe it as?”

“An interest, perhaps.” Maybe a compulsion , Sebastian thought. Or a penance. But he didn’t say it.

Ramadani raised one eyebrow. “You think that young gentleman from the Foreign Office who died last week—Mr. Alexander Ross—was murdered.” It was a statement, not a question. “And you think I did it.”

Sebastian studied the Turk’s hard, closed face, with its full lips and light brown eyes. “You were seen arguing with him at Vauxhall last—When was it? Wednesday or Thursday?”

“Wednesday.” A faint smile crinkled the skin beside the man’s eyes. “As a diplomat, I am protected from prosecution in your country. Even if I did kill Ross, your government could not touch me.”

“So, did you kill him?”

The Turk huffed a soft laugh. “And if I said no, would you believe me?”

Sebastian smiled. “No.”

“Then why bother to ask?”

“Conversely, if you have immunity from prosecution, then why bother to deny it?”

“Because while I, personally, might not suffer from such an accusation, the relations between your government and mine would nevertheless be affected.”

“If it were true,” said Sebastian.

“If it were true,” agreed Ramadani. They trotted together in silence for a moment. Then the Turk said, “How was Ross killed?”

Sebastian watched the Ambassador’s face. “A stiletto thrust to the base of the skull. Know anyone who uses that method to dispose of his enemies?”

The Turk widened his eyes. “It’s an assassin’s trick.”

“An assassin’s trick common in the East, yes?”

Again, that faint hint of a smile. “I don’t know if I’d say it’s exactly common . But it is known there, yes.” He paused. “Personally, I prefer the garrote.”

“I’ll remember that,” said Sebastian.

The Turk laughed out loud and turned his horse to trot back up the Row.

Sebastian fell in beside him again. “Your argument with Ross at Vauxhall; what was it about?”

Ramadani threw him a quick, sideways glance. The smile was still there, but it had hardened. “Perhaps you should ask Mr. Ross’s superiors about that.”

“Somehow I get the impression the Foreign Office is being less than forthcoming about the events surrounding Ross’s death.”

“And you’re surprised?”

“No.”

“You would be ill suited to diplomacy, my lord. You are far too blunt and direct.” He gave Sebastian a sideways, appraising glance. “Although I think you can play a role when it suits you, yes?”

“Are you going to tell me the nature of your disagreement with Mr. Ross?”

“There is little to tell. Ross had approached me earlier, as the emissary of your Sir Hyde Foley. Let us just say that pressure is being brought to convince the Sultan to join the Czar of Russia in an alliance against Napoléon.”

“The Russians and the Porte did recently sign a treaty of peace,” said Sebastian.

“True. But a peace is not the same as an alliance. You must remember that the friendship between Paris and the Porte stretches back generations.”

“Yet Napoléon has shown he has designs on Egypt.”

“And the English do not?”

When Sebastian remained silent, the Ambassador said, “Who told you that I was seen arguing with Ross at Vauxhall?”

“I’m sorry; I can’t say.”

Ramadani nodded. “Yes. I can understand that.” He drew up sharply, the glossy bay fidgeting beneath him. “It is always possible that your assassin does indeed lurk somewhere in the foreign diplomatic community, Lord Devlin. But if I were you, I would search for him closer to home.” He inclined his head. “Good day, my lord.”

S ebastian arrived back at Brook Street to find Sir Henry Lovejoy awaiting him.

“Sir Henry,” said Sebastian, clasping the magistrate’s hand. “I hope you’ve not been waiting long?”

“Not long, no.”

“Good. You’re just in time for breakfast. Join me?”

Sir Henry cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Thank you, but I have already breakfasted.”

“A cup of tea, then,” said Sebastian, ushering the magistrate into the dining room and pouring him a cup. “I know better than to offer you ale.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

Plate in hand, Sebastian surveyed the selection of dishes set out on his sideboard. “So, what brings you to Mayfair?”

Sir Henry cleared his throat again. He was a small man, barely five feet in his socks, with a squeaky, almost comically high-pitched voice. But his unprepossessing appearance disguised a sharp mind and a true dedication to justice. He had come to the magistracy in the middle years of his life, after achieving a modest success as a merchant. Once, he had hunted Sebastian as a murderer. But from those strange beginnings had grown respect and friendship.

Now the magistrate took a sip of his tea, then said, “I’ve just come from St. James’s Street.”

Sebastian paused in the act of spooning buttered eggs onto his plate. “Oh? Has something happened?”

“It’s difficult to say, actually. You see, last night—at something like half past one in the morning—a young gentleman with rooms over the Je Reviens coffeehouse notified the watch that he’d come home to find a dead body lying on the stairs outside his door.”

“A dead body?”

“Yes. A gentleman, dressed in evening clothes. With a broken neck.”

“As if he’d taken a tumble down the stairs?” asked Sebastian, selecting a slice of bacon.

“One might suppose so, yes. Only, here’s the odd part: When the constables arrived, there was no body to be found. Just a gentleman’s shoe.”

“One shoe?”

“One shoe.”

Sebastian added grilled mushrooms and tomatoes to his plate. “Perhaps it was all a hum. I assume the gentleman who reported the body was foxed? He could have been seeing things.”