C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

Tom twisted sideways, showing him a tear-streaked face. “I said, why are you doing this?”

Sebastian rubbed the side of his nose with the back of his knuckles. “It’s quite a common thing, you know—for a man to marry.”

“But why her ? She tricked me. And she’s—” Tom broke off. But Sebastian knew what he’d been about to say. She’s Jarvis’s daughter. And, She’s not Kat.

Sebastian said, “She is quite an accomplished horsewoman, you know. And no mean whip.”

Tom sniffed, unimpressed. “Everything’s gonna change.”

“Some things will undoubtedly change, yes. But not everything. I shall still have need of a tiger.” Sebastian paused. “If you’re willing to continue in that position.”

Tom sniffed again and hung his head. “ Oh, yes, sir. I am. Please.” He gulped. “And I am very sorry, my lord.”

Sebastian pushed to his feet and began to draw on his driving gloves. “I’m off to the East End. Must I take Giles as my groom?”

“The chestnuts don’t like Giles,” said Tom, dragging his sleeve across his eyes as he scrambled up beside him.

“Then, come along,” said Sebastian.

Sebastian could remember his father—or rather, the man he’d thought of at the time as his father—taking him to Wapping as a boy of four or five, to view a famous pirate hanging in chains on the banks of the Thames. It was the custom to hang the pirates at the low-water mark and leave them there until “three tides had overflowed them.” Sebastian had a particularly vivid memory of a crow perched on the dead pirate’s shoulder, its shiny black head jerking up and down as it pecked through the iron netting that enclosed the body.

He found himself shadowed by that long-ago day as he drove through the crowded streets of Stepney. Like Rotherhithe on the opposite bank, this was an area focused on the river and its maritime trade, the narrow lanes and alleys crammed with ship and boat makers, biscuit bakers and rope makers, mast makers and anchor smiths, its taverns and alehouses overflowing with drunken seamen. Thanks to the long decades of war with the French, the settlement around the Wapping Docks had expanded and expanded again. They didn’t hang pirates here anymore.

The Ship and Pilot proved to be a modest but respectable establishment. Leaving Tom with the curricle in the inn’s yard, Sebastian tracked Bateman to the Shadwell Spa in Sun Tavern Fields.

The day was sunny but not excessively hot, the sky arcing above the open fields a pale blue scattered with puffs of high white clouds. The fine weather had brought out a score of the area’s aged, lame, and otherwise afflicted to drink the Shadwell mineral waters, whose sulfurous content was reputed to assist all manner of ills. The American was seated, alone, on a rustic bench in the shade of one of the ancient elms ringing the springs.

“Mr. Bateman?” said Sebastian, walking up to him and holding out his card. “I’m Devlin.”

Bateman squinted up against the bright sun, his hair white and sparse, the lines on his face dug deep by the passage of the years and the ravages of a life lived in the sun and weather. He took the card, but he did not glance at it.

“You’re a viscount?” he said incredulously.

Sebastian laughed and pulled up a nearby chair. “I am indeed. Don’t I look like one?”

“I suppose. But ... You’re walking . And alone.”

“Ah, I see. I left my carriage and retinue at the inn.”

“Oh.” The man still didn’t sound convinced.

He looked to be somewhere in his sixties, of medium height with slightly stooped shoulders and a ponderous belly that hung over his sticklike legs. His worn, old-fashioned clothes were those of an honest shopkeeper or tradesman down on his luck. Sebastian suspected that the desperate struggle to save his son from the horrors of the British Navy, topped off with a voyage to London and the extended stay here, had essentially bankrupted him.

Sebastian said, “Mr. Franklin tells me you’re attempting to secure the release of your son, Nathan.”

“That’s right.” The old man rubbed one hand over his swollen right knee. “Been in London near two months now, for all the good it’s done us. Seems to me we spend most of our time at this spa, drinking these nasty-tasting waters. My Elizabeth insists on it—says it’s good for my rheumatism.” He nodded over Sebastian’s shoulder. “There she comes now.”

Pushing to his feet again, Sebastian turned to see a tall, dark-haired young woman walking toward them, a glass of the spa’s famous curative waters in her hands. She wore a simple cambric gown made high at the neck. It was neither stylish nor new, but she wore it with an unconscious grace. Unlike her father, she scrutinized Sebastian’s card with care, then looked at him speculatively.

“Mr. Franklin tells us you may be able to speak to the Admiralty about Nathan.”

“I trust he didn’t raise your hopes too high. But I’ll do what I can, yes.”

She was attractive if not exactly beautiful, with a long nose and widely set brown eyes and a generous mouth. She was not the woman whose silhouette Alexander Ross had framed and hung above his bed. But she might well be the mysterious woman who had visited his rooms the night of his death.

Sebastian watched her settle on the bench beside her father. “Tell me about your brother.”

“He was originally taken by the HMS Rodney . But we understand now he’s been transferred to the Swiftshore .”

“And where is the Swiftshore?”

“With the British fleet, off Toulon. At first we tried sending his documents to Sir Edmond Pellew, the Commander in Chief of the squadron. They were hand delivered to Pellew, in person. We expected the Navy to release Nathan within days, but nothing happened. Nothing! They know he’s an American. They knew that when they kidnapped him! But it doesn’t matter. Nathan says there’s Swedes and Portuguese on board with him, all impressed, just like him.”

“You’ve heard from your brother?”

She nodded. “He’s managed to get several letters through to us.”

“Who have you spoken to here in London?”

It was her father who answered. “We’ve been to the Admiralty on any number of occasions. But we’ve only been allowed to speak to low-level functionaries. Our efforts to meet with Viscount Melville have been repeatedly rebuffed.”

“So what did you do then?”

“The American Chargé d’Affaires—Mr. Jonathan Russell— got us a meeting with the Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs. A Sir Hyde Foley.”

Something of Sebastian’s reaction must have shown on his face, because Miss Bateman said, “You know Sir Hyde?”

“I do. And I suspect my opinion of the gentleman matches your own. What happened?”

“Condescending twit,” muttered Bateman. He took a sip of his waters and shuddered. “Prattled on and on about how as ‘provincials’ we obviously didn’t understand the workings of the British government, since the Foreign Office had nothing to do with the Admiralty. I said, ‘Well, I may not know anything about that, but I do know something about war, and that’s what you lot are going to have on your hands if you keep kidnapping honest American men.”

Sebastian hid a smile. “So what did Sir Hyde do then?”

Bateman’s brows lowered. “Kicked us out, he did.”

“Is that when you met Mr. Alexander Ross?”

The old man nodded. “We were coming out of the Foreign Office just as he was going in. Elizabeth here was somewhat distressed by the encounter—”

“I was in a towering rage,” she added darkly.

“And Mr. Ross kindly paused to see if he could offer any assistance.”