C Harris - Where Shadows Dance

She looked up at him. “I believe it’s a harp wire.”

“A harp wire?”

“Mmm. Which suggests your murderer may be the husband of a woman who plays the harp—or the woman herself.”

Devlin looked doubtful. “ Could a woman strangle a man?”

“If she were tall enough and strong enough, I don’t see why not.” Hero nodded to the bloated-faced corpse beside them. “De La Rocque was not an excessively large man.”

“True.”

She said, “Harp players typically develop calluses on their fingertips. Did you happen to notice the hands of any of the females implicated in your investigation?”

“Actually, there aren’t that many women involved in this.”

“But there are some.”

“There’s your cousin, Miss Sabrina Cox. Does she play the harp?”

“Sabrina? You can’t be serious. She’s a tiny woman. And full of sensibility.”

“Her brother is not.” He regarded her steadily. When she remained silent, he said, “Well? Does Miss Cox play the harp?”

Hero stared back at him. It had been only days since she visited her young cousin and held Sabrina’s hands in hers. Yet to her chagrin, she could not recall noticing either if the girl’s fingertips were calloused or even if there had been a harp in the room. She said, “To be honest, I don’t know; but I can find out. What about some of the other females involved?”

“I’ve met the Turkish Ambassador’s wife, but I confess I didn’t pay a great deal of attention to her fingertips.”

Hero decided to keep her own recent visit to the Ambassador’s residence to herself. She said, “ Would a Turkish woman be likely to play the harp?”

“Why not? Do you think they don’t have harps in the seraglios of the East?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said Hero, “not having ever been in a seraglio.” She studied him thoughtfully. “Have you?”

“I have not.”

“Besides,” she added, “Yasmina plays the ude . And she is also very tiny.”

“Ramadani is not. And I have it on the best authority—his own—that he’s partial to the garrote.”

“He told you that?”

“He did. He also—” He broke off as the sounds of a carriage and men’s voices carried from the front of the building.

“Ah,” said Hero, pushing to her feet. “Bow Street has arrived.”

She was aware of him studying her with an inscrutable expression on his face. He said, “Your father isn’t going to like this—your involving yourself in another murder, I mean.”

She gave her skirts a businesslike twitch that released a small cloud of dust. “Considering that we are soon to be wed, he’s going to have to get used to it, isn’t he?”

At that, Devlin gave a surprised huff of laughter. “You do have a point.”

His smile faded, their gazes meeting as awareness of all that their coming marriage would mean settled on them both.

Then Sir Henry Lovejoy drew up in the doorway, his gaze riveted on the corpse’s swollen purple countenance as he said with a gasp, “Merciful heavens!”

“What can you tell me?” asked Sebastian, watching Paul Gibson study the body laid out on his slab.

The Irishman wiped his hands on a stained rag. “Right now? I can tell you Antoine de La Rocque was strangled. If you want more, you’re going to have to wait.”

Sebastian blew out a harsh breath, his gaze on the dead Frenchman’s waxy profile. “For some reason, I feel as if we’re running out of time.”

Gibson grunted. “From what you’ve told me about Monsieur de La Rocque, his murder may not be related to the death of Alexander Ross at all. Those mixed up in the trade between France and England do tend to be a pretty rough lot.”

“The deaths are related,” said Sebastian, his gaze drifting to the shelf that ran along the far wall, where another silent form hidden by a sheet lay awaiting collection by the authorities. “Did you discover anything when you looked at Carl Lindquist?”

“Nothing of note. The cudgel found beside the body was definitely the murder weapon. He was hit from behind. In all likelihood he was dead within a few minutes; I doubt he even knew what happened.” Gibson reached for a scalpel and held it aloft. “Now, are you certain you want to stay for this?”

Sebastian beat a hasty retreat to the unkempt yard.

He stood for a moment, the afternoon sun beating down hot and golden on his shoulders. He was aware of the buzzing of flies, the distant cry of some street hawker, the faint but inescapable scent of death that haunted this place. A new idea was beginning to take shape in his mind, hazy still, but tantalizing in its promise.

The time had come, he decided, for him to pay a visit to the charming young Lady Foley.

Hero was in the library of the house on Berkeley Square, an ancient tome on the dissolution of the monasteries lying open on the table before her, when she heard the distant peal of the front bell. A moment later, Grisham appeared in the doorway.

“Excuse me, Miss Jarvis, but the Earl of Hendon is here to see you. I have taken the liberty of showing him to the drawing room.”

“Yes, thank you, Grisham,” she said, curiosity mingling with wariness as she rose to her feet and hurried up the stairs. She paused just outside the drawing room door to smooth her skirts, then entered with her hand outstretched. “Lord Hendon. I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. May I offer you some tea? Or would you prefer a glass of wine?”

He arose from his seat near the fireplace, a big, barrel-chested man with a shock of white hair and the famous blue eyes so noticeably lacking in his heir. For years she had known him as one of Jarvis’s fiercest and most determined rivals; it struck her suddenly that she would need to begin to think of him as the father of the man who would be her husband.

“No, nothing, thank you,” he said gruffly. “I won’t keep you long.” He clasped her hand, and she was aware of his gaze hard on her face, as if he were searching there for something that might make sense of the incomprehensible. Then he released her and cleared his throat. “It’s no secret that your father and I have had our differences in the past, and I’ve no doubt we will continue to do so in the future. But, well, I’m here to assure you this coming marriage has my blessing, for all that.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she said, unexpectedly touched.

“I won’t deny it comes as something of a surprise,” he continued. “In fact—well, never mind that. The truth is, it’s long been my wish to see my son and heir settled in life before I die, and I am grateful that it has come to pass.”

Hero found herself smiling. “Even if you can’t help but wish he might have chosen to ally himself with a different house.”

An answering gleam shone in the Earl’s blue St. Cyr eyes. “I won’t deny that, no! But it doesn’t alter the fact that I wish you well, and I just wanted you to know that.”

Even if I don’t understand what the bloody hell it’s all about. The unsaid words hovered in the air between them.

She said, “Won’t you please reconsider and have a glass of wine?”

“No, no; I’ve a meeting with Castlereagh at the Foreign Office.” He reached into an inner pocket and drew forth a small trinket box. “I also wanted to give you this. It’s not much, but it belonged to my great-grandmother.”

Hero found herself holding an exquisite relic from a previous century, its enameled top worked in a style she’d never seen before. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I shall treasure it.”

“Yes, well . . .” He tightened his grip on his hat. “Until Thursday, then.”

After he had gone, she went to lean against the window frame, her gaze on the square below. She was still standing there, her thoughts far away, when she saw her father alight from his carriage and enter the house.