C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

That evening, Charles, Lord Jarvis, returned from a productive session with the Prince, Castlereagh, and Foley to find Hero seated beside the empty drawing room hearth, an open book lying neglected in her lap, her gaze lost in the distance.

“What’s this?” he asked, pausing in the doorway. “No balls or routs? No boring but improving lecture at some learned society? No intellectually uplifting evening of rational conversation in the salon of a dreadfully unfashionable bluestocking?”

“No, just a quiet evening at home.”

He went to take the seat opposite her, his gaze hard on her face. “You’ve been looking tired lately.”

“Have I?” She gave him an affectionate smile. “What a dreadfully unflattering thing to say.”

She wore a sprigged muslin gown with puffed sleeves and a simple scoop neckline filled with a fine fichu. But it was the bluestone and silver triskelion pendant around her neck that drew and held his attention. Said to have been worn by the Druid priestesses of Wales, the piece had a long, troubled history that included a mistress of the last Stewart king of England and a bizarre legend to which Jarvis gave no credence whatsoever.

He had given it to her on a whim, some twelve months before. Once, the necklace had belonged to the errant Countess of Hendon, Viscount Devlin’s mother. But Hero didn’t know that. And it struck Jarvis now, looking at her, that if he were a superstitious man he would find the pendant’s history unsettling.

He frowned. “Why are you wearing that?”

She touched her fingertips to the bluestone disk. “I like it,” she said simply. “Why?”

He shook his head. “Are you still determined to wed Devlin?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

There were things he could tell her, about Devlin’s birth and about the errant Countess of Hendon; things that even Devlin himself did not know. But Jarvis had learned long ago that knowledge could be power, and he understood his daughter well enough to realize that none of these old, ugly secrets would have the effect of dissuading her if her mind was made up.

He said, “You almost—almost, mind you—make me wish I’d encouraged your scheme to travel the world.”

She rose to her feet with a soft laugh, her book clasped in one hand, and kissed his cheek. “Good night, Papa.”

He watched her walk away, his frown deepening.

He was feared from one end of the country to the other, his network of spies and the eerie omniscience it gave him legendary. Yet there was something going on here, something that involved his own daughter, and somehow the truth of its nature eluded him.

Pushing to his feet, he went to yank the bellpull beside the fireplace.

“Yes, my lord?” said Grisham, appearing in the doorway.

“As soon as she is free, send Miss Jarvis’s abigail to me.”

Sunday, 26 July

The next morning, Sebastian received a note from His Excellency Antonaki Ramadani, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James from the Sublime Port, inviting him for coffee at the Ambassador’s residence that afternoon.

Sebastian stood for a moment, the elegant cream card in his hand, a thoughtful frown crinkling his forehead. Then he wrote out a short, gracious reply, accepting the Ambassador’s invitation.

After that, he spent some time at the Mount Street burial ground, studying the lay of the land and the exact location of Alexander Ross’s empty grave. He was heading home again when he heard himself hailed by a breathless, aged voice.

“Devlin?”

Turning, he saw William Franklin shuffling up the street toward him, his walking stick tap-tapping on the flagstones of the footpath.

“Sir,” said Sebastian, going to meet him. “Are you looking for me? There was no need to put yourself to such exertion. If you’d sent round a note I would have been more than happy to come to you.”

“Poo,” said the aged American Loyalist, pausing to catch his breath. “When a man stops moving he might as well be dead.”

Sebastian smiled and nodded to the tavern beside them. “May I buy you some refreshment?”

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Now, that I will allow.”

They sat in a nook near the empty hearth, each fortified with a tankard of ale. Franklin took a deep drought, wiped the back of one hand across his mouth, and said, “You asked about Jeremy Bateman, father of Nathan Bateman.”

“Yes,” said Sebastian, sitting forward.

“He and his daughter Elizabeth have taken rooms at the Ship and Pilot, on Wapping High Street, in Stepney.” Franklin slid a piece of paper with the name and direction across the table. “I haven’t told them the details of your interest in them. But I must confess I did suggest you might be able to do something to help their son, for they were at first somewhat reluctant to speak to you.”

“I’m certainly more than willing to try,” said Sebastian. “Although my acquaintance with the First Lord of the Admiralty is slight.” He frowned down at the address. “Seems strange for someone at the Foreign Office like Ross to have become personally involved in an affair of this nature.”

“I’ve no notion how it came about. Perhaps Bateman can enlighten you.”

Before he left for Wapping, Sebastian called the various members of his household together in the servants’ hall. The official notice of his forthcoming nuptials was due to appear in the next morning’s papers, and it had occurred to him that it might be a good idea to warn his staff first.

He waited while they filed into the room, whispering amongst themselves and throwing him curious, furtive looks as they took their seats. He raised his voice. “I won’t keep you long.”

The room instantly quieted as all eyes trained upon him.

He said, “I’ve called you together because I have an announcement to make. This household will soon have a mistress: Miss Hero Jarvis has consented to become my wife. We will be wed this Thursday.”

A moment’s stunned incredulity greeted his words. Then Tom blurted out, “Gov’nor! No!”

Morey clamped a warning hand on the boy’s shoulder, silencing him, as Calhoun leapt to his feet with a hearty hurrah. “Congratulations, my lord!”

The others quickly chimed in, although in some instances Sebastian suspected he detected a forced note to their good wishes. A few, no doubt, anticipated more work as Sebastian’s carefree bachelor ways came to an end; others perhaps feared their new mistress might be unduly critical or even demand a change in staff. But only Tom sat with his arms crossed and a black scowl on his face.

Tom was not fond of Miss Hero Jarvis.

When the majordomo leaned down to whisper something in the boy’s ear, Tom squirmed from his grasp and fled the room.

“He’ll come around soon enough,” said Calhoun later, as Giles was putting in the chestnuts.

Sebastian tossed his driving coat over his shoulders and reached for his gloves. He hesitated a moment. Then he went in search of his tiger.

He found the boy in the hayloft, a forlorn, prostrate figure with his face buried in the crook of one elbow and bits of straw plastered to his livery. “Go away,” he wailed in a gross breach of etiquette when Sebastian crouched down beside him. But then, their relationship had always been more than a simple one of lord and servant. Once, the boy had saved Sebastian from the gallows, while Sebastian in turn had given Tom a new life away from the brutal dangers of the streets.

Sebastian said, “You are aware, of course, that I could by rights have you thrashed for that?”

A ragged sob shook the boy’s thin frame, and he mumbled something incoherent.

Sebastian said, “I beg your pardon, but I didn’t quite catch that.”