C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

“You’re the one who keeps insisting there’s some link between Kincaid and Ross. Not I.”

“So you’re suggesting—what? That the Turkish Ambassador killed Ross in a fit of jealousy?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

Sebastian huffed an incredulous laugh and pushed to his feet. “Incidentally, where were you the night Ross died?”

“Good God. You think I remember?”

“Are you saying you don’t?”

Angry color flared in the other man’s cheeks. “As a matter of fact, I do. I was attending a dinner at the home of the Lord Mayor, in Lombard Street.”

“That should be easy enough to verify.”

“Please,” snapped Cox. “Be my guest.”

Leaving the cockpit, Sebastian turned to stroll along Birdcage Walk, his gaze drifting out over the darkened park beside him.

His first inclination had been to dismiss out of hand the suggestion that Alexander Ross had taken the Turkish Ambassador’s wife as his lover. Everything Sebastian had learned about Ross—his honor, his integrity—argued against it. And yet ...

And yet, Sebastian had known otherwise honorable men who took mistresses. Hadn’t the Earl of Hendon himself fathered Kat Boleyn by an actress he had in keeping? And then there was the legendary behavior of Sebastian’s own beautiful, faithless mother.

But he jerked his mind away from that.

There was no denying that for a woman of Yasmina Ramadani’s position and culture to welcome another man’s advances would be dangerous; if Yasmina and Ross had in truth become lovers, then both had knowingly courted death. Was it improbable? Yes. But they would hardly have been the first to count the world well lost for love.

Sebastian’s thoughts kept circling back to the inescapable fact that Cox’s rumor fit rather tidily with what Sebastian had already been told. Something had obviously caused enmity between Ross and the Turkish Ambassador. Something Ross had preferred not to disclose to his Russian friend.

In the end, Sebastian decided that until he knew for certain what that “something” was, it behooved him to keep an open mind.

Arriving back at Brook Street, he found a scrawled note from Paul Gibson that read simply, Complications. The word was heavily underscored.

Throwing down a quick glass of wine, Sebastian called for his curricle to be brought round. Then he set off once more for Tower Hill.

S ebastian was raising his fist to knock on Gibson’s door when it opened to emit Mrs. Federico. She came bustling out, her shawl pulled up over her head against the cool breeze that had kicked up after dusk. Her habitual scowl was, if anything, fiercer than ever.

“The goings-on we’ve had here today!” she exclaimed, glaring at him. “I meant to be out of here hours ago, and more’s the pity that I wasn’t. Havy cavy , that’s what I call them people. Havy cavy!” She tied the ends of her shawl in a knot and stomped off down the hill without looking back.

Letting himself in, Sebastian found Gibson sprawled in one of the ancient cracked-leather armchairs beside the parlor hearth, a brandy in one hand, the stump of his bad leg propped up on a stool.

“No, don’t get up,” Sebastian said when his friend struggled to do so.

Gibson sat back with a grunt. “Is that god-awful woman finally gone?”

“She is.” Sebastian went to pour himself a glass of wine from the carafe near the window. “What havy-cavy ‘goings-on’ have you been subjecting poor Mrs. Federico to now?”

“Poor Mrs. Federico, indeed,” said Gibson. “I’ve had Jumpin’ Jack here today, is all.”

“Came to collect the body, did he?”

“Uh . . . no.”

Sebastian swung to face him. “No?”

“There’s a wee catch, you see. Someone has set a guard over their loved one’s new grave in St. George’s burial ground.”

Sebastian came to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the empty fireplace. “Well, that’s the devil’s own luck.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Can we bribe the guard? I mean, it’s not like we’re wanting to steal—”

Gibson shook his head. “Jumpin’ Jack looked into that. Seems the fellow’s a high stickler. Some old Quaker or some such thing.” He sighed. “The irony is, we came so close. The girl’s body was held for more than two weeks in a funerary chapel before interment, which means it’s so far gone, there’s not much danger of anyone stealing it at this point. They’ve only paid the guard for two nights, and tonight is the last night.”

“So what’s the problem? The exhumation isn’t scheduled until Monday.”

“Jumpin’ Jack leaves for Brighton tomorrow. It’s his annual holiday.”

Sebastian choked on his wine. “What the hell? He can’t delay his departure for one more day?”

“Monday is his daughter Sarah’s birthday. He says they always spend her birthday at the seashore, and he’s not going to disappoint her.”

“Not even for two hundred pounds?”

“I offered him three hundred. He says he wouldn’t do it even for a thousand pounds.” Gibson drained his glass. “Do you have any idea how much money a good resurrection man can pull in over the course of a year? I wouldn’t be surprised if Jumpin’ Jack is worth considerably more than Dr. Astley ʹHave You Read My Article?’ Cooper.”

“Bloody hell,” said Sebastian, pushing up to refill their glasses.

“He did offer to find someone to go along with him tonight and kosh the guard over the head,” Gibson said. “He wasn’t willing to do it personally, mind—not being a violent man himself. But he figured he could look the other way while someone else did it.”

Sebastian glanced up from his task, his eyes narrowed with amusement. “He didn’t actually say that?”

“He did. But when I told him I couldn’t condone that sort of damage to one of my fellow men, he said there was nothing for it. If I was that particular about getting Ross back into his tomb, then I was just going to have to do it myself.” Gibson’s chest shook with his soft laughter.

Sebastian stared at him.

Gibson stared back, his smile fading. “Oh, no. Don’t even think about it.”

“Why not?’

“ Why not? You can’t be serious.”

Sebastian poured a healthy measure of wine into their glasses. “Can you think of another way?”

The Irishman was silent a moment. “We-ell, I know some other sack-’em-up boys. But none I’d trust to actually do the deed. Doesn’t do us any good to pay someone to put Ross back in his grave, only to have them tip the bits into the Thames.”

“You did get all the bits back, didn’t you?”

“Most of them.”

“ Most of them?”

“I’m working on it.”

Sebastian handed his friend the refreshed drink. “We’ll just have to put back what we have. If he’s arranged artfully in his casket and Lovejoy sends the lot to you, there’s no need for anyone to be the wiser.”

Gibson stared up at him. “You can’t seriously mean to do this?”

“If we’ve any hope of bringing Ross’s murderer to justice, the authorities are going to need his body.” Sebastian sank back into his chair. “I even have some experience in the resurrection trade, remember? I went with Jumpin’ Jack last year.”

“But you were stealing a body that time. This is going to be a wee bit different.”

“How much different can it be?”

Gibson drained his glass again in one long pull. “I don’t suppose you’ve forgotten that you’re getting married in just a few days’ time?”

Sebastian had forgotten, of course. But all he said was, “As long as we don’t get taken up by the watch, that shouldn’t be a problem.”