C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

“Lord Devlin,” she said, extending her gloved hand with an unaffected smile when she saw him. “What a pleasure to see you again! Have you met my younger sister, Miss Eastlake?”

He stood talking politely to the two ladies for some moments, then turned to say to Sir Hyde, “If I might have a word with you for a moment, sir?”

The Undersecretary fixed him with a dark glare. “You aren’t still going on about Ross, are you?”

“I am, actually.”

They continued along the pathway, pointedly falling back a few steps behind the ladies. Foley said, “I checked with Bow Street. There is no investigation into the murder of Alexander Ross. And do you know why? Because Alexander Ross was not murdered! So what is the purpose of this nonsense?”

Sebastian let his gaze rove over the fashionable crush of curricles, coaches, and hacks filling the carriageway beside them. “I’m curious about Ross’s dealings with the Sultan’s Ambassador, Mr. Antonaki Ramadani.”

Foley drew up short. “What dealings? I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to, but Ross was not in any way involved in our negotiations with the Sublime Porte.”

“No? My mistake.”

Foley said, “Just so,” and continued on his way.

Sebastian fell into step beside him again. “Am I to take it, then, that the shipments of gold Ross was handling were not intended for Constantinople?”

Foley let out a warning hiss and pointedly lowered his voice. “Where the devil did you hear about that?”

Rather than answer him, Sebastian said, “I understand one of the transfers took place a week ago last Friday night, barely twenty-four hours before Ross ... died.”

“How came you to know this?”

“Does is matter?”

“Of course it matters. Good God! The security of the realm is at stake.”

Sebastian studied the other man’s flushed, pointed face. “Exactly how much gold are we talking about here?”

“That is none of your affair. You hear me? None of this is.”

“Ross’s death is my affair.”

“Oh? And who made it so? Hmm? You tell me that. Who made it so?”

“‘And whatsoever you do unto the least of my brothers, you do unto me,’ ” Sebastian quoted softly.

“Oh, please,” said Foley with a scornful huff.

Sebastian said, “I’m curious: Was your argument with Ross over the gold? Or over something else entirely?”

“What argument? I had no argument with Ross.”

“The Thursday before he died. Perhaps the Wednesday. Or the Friday. But there was definitely an argument. There’s no point in denying it. Ross was troubled enough to mention it to a friend.”

Foley’s pale gray eyes narrowed. “All right; we did disagree. But over a diplomatic affair; that is all. Not the sort of thing that would lead to—” He broke off.

“To murder?” suggested Sebastian.

“Go to the devil,” snapped Foley, and strode off after his wife and sister-in-law.

This time, Sebastian let him go.

Charles, Lord Jarvis, was in his dressing room adjusting the final set of his coat when Hero came to knock on the door.

“Could I speak with you for a moment, Papa?”

“You look lovely this evening,” he said, dismissing his valet. “I like the way you’ve started doing your hair.”

“Thank you.” She closed the door behind the departing valet, then said without preamble, “Did you kill Alexander Ross?”

“I did not.”

“Did you have him killed?”

He gave her a hard, searching look, but she simply stared back at him steadily. He said, “Are you here as Devlin’s emissary?”

“He has spoken to me, yes. But that is not why I am here.”

“Then I will answer your question. No, I did not have Ross killed. On the contrary, I find his death troubling. Very troubling.”

“Why is that?”

He tucked an enameled snuffbox into his pocket, then turned to face her. “Some of what I am about to tell you, you may pass on to Devlin. But not all of it. Is that clear?”

She met his gaze and held it. “Yes.”

Before he could confront Lindquist with tales of mysterious gold transfers, Sebastian had an appointement to keep at the Turkish Ambassador’s residence in Portman Square. He was met by a wooden-faced English butler who bowed and said, “The Ambassador is expecting you, my lord.”

At that moment, Ramadani himself appeared in the vast hall. He was dressed as was his habit in the doeskin breeches, carelessly tied cravat, and riding coat of a country gentleman. “Lord Devlin,” he said. “Hoşgeldiniz. Welcome.”

“Hoş bulduk.” Sebastian handed his hat and walking stick to the butler, who gave another dignified bow and withdrew.

Ramadani’s teeth flashed in a delighted smile. “You speak Turkish!”

“No. Just, hoş bulduk .”

“Please, this way.” Ramadani led Sebastian to a small salon draped floor to ceiling with endless yards of red gauze, so that the effect was something like that of a Turkish tent. A low banquette piled with cushions surrounded three walls, with round tables of dark carved wood and figured brass scattered across the thick, colorful carpets. “You will join me for coffee? Ours is much thicker than yours, and sweet. But you will like it, I think.”

“Thank you,” said Sebastian, settling back against the cushions.

A dark-haired boy of perhaps fifteen, dressed in baggy trousers, a loose white shirt, and a sleeveless vest, brought coffee and sweetmeats, then disappeared.

The cups were delicate, of glass painted with a gold arabesque pattern. Sebastian took a cautious sip of the thick, hot brew. Ramadani watched him closely. “If it is not to your taste, I do have brandy.”

“I find it pleasant, thank you. I remember your coffee well.”

“You have visited the Ottoman world, Lord Devlin?”

“I was in Egypt, once; that is all.”

“With the Army, yes?”

“Yes.” Sebastian found it significant that the Turk had obviously gone to the trouble of looking into his background. “I would someday like to see more. My future wife is very keen to travel.”

“I have heard of your betrothal to Miss Jarvis. Please accept my felicitations.”

“Thank you.”

Ramadani sipped his coffee, his eyes alert and watchful behind half-lowered lids. “How does your investigation into the death of Mr. Ross progress?”

Sebastian kept his own expression bland. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity only.”

Sebastian raised one eyebrow. “Really?”

“You don’t believe me?”

“No.”

Ramadani gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Very well. Let’s cut to the chase, as you English say, shall we? I am curious, yes, but with a purpose. Incidents of this nature can be dangerous. There are those who might seek to use this unfortunate young man’s death to drive a wedge between our two nations.”

“Such as?”

The Ambassador reached for the tall glass and silver water pipe that stood beside him and began to prepare it, loading the bowl with tobacco and covering the tobacco with a fine metal screen. “For me to answer that question would not be diplomatic, now, would it?”

Seba stian chose his words carefully. “If you have some knowledge of the circumstances which led to Ross’s death, I would be interested to hear of it.”

“If I learn anything, you will of course be the first to know.” From a perforated covered brass box, the Turk extracted glowing coals and carefully placed them atop the screen.

“You have smoked the narguileh ? ” asked the Ambassador, handing him one of the pipe’s two hoses. “In northern Africa I believe they call it the shisha .”

“I have, yes.” The wooden mouthpiece was decorated with smoothly polished nuggets of aquamarine and garnet. Holding it between his lips, Sebastian inhaled, the charcoal flaring as the air was pulled through the tobacco and down to bubble up through the water. The smoke was cool and faintly flavored with mint.