C Harris: Where Shadows Dance

S ebastianʹs gaze went again to the invitation to that evening’s reception at St. James’s Palace. The quiet murder of the unknown Mr. Ross had demanded investigation. But the stealthy assassination of a young gentleman from the Foreign Office opened up a host of disturbing possibilities.

“At what time did Mr. Ross return from the Foreign Office that evening?” asked Sebastian.

Poole frowned with the strain of remembrance. “A little later than the usual time, I believe. Although it’s difficult to remember for certain, now.”

“Did he go out again that night?”

“I couldn’t say, my lord. You see, it wasn’t long after his return that Mr. Ross informed me he wouldn’t be needing me for the remainder of the evening.” Poole hesitated. “Actually, I had the impression he was expecting someone later that night.”

“A man or a woman?”

“I was not informed.”

“Is your chamber here, on the second floor?”

Poole shook his head. “No, my lord; I am in the attic.” He nodded to a bellpull near the hearth. “Mr. Ross could summon me whenever I was desired, but he did like his privacy.”

“How long have you been with Mr. Ross?”

“Ever since his return from Russia.”

“Ross was in Russia?”

“Yes, my lord.”

Once again, Sebastian’s gaze returned to the invitation tucked into the gilded frame. As heir to the Earl of Hendon, he had received a similar invitation. He’d had no intention of attending—before. But now ...

He realized Noah Poole was still speaking. “And I’ve more than twenty years of experience as a gentleman’s gentleman,” he was saying, “so if you would by chance know of anyone who is in need of a valet, I’ve excellent recommendations.” The valet stood with his hands together as if in prayer, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his eyes wide and hopeful.

“If I hear of anything, I’ll be certain to pass your name along.”

Noah Poole gave a grateful nod and bowed.

Sebastian was turning to leave when Poole cleared his throat again and said, “You might try speaking to Madame Champagne.”

Sebastian paused to glance back at him. “Who?”

“Angelina Champagne—the proprietor of the coffee shop on the ground floor. She owns the entire house, actually. She sits by that oriel window most of the day—and half the night, as well.” Poole swallowed, both his chins pulling back into his neck so that they nearly disappeared. “In my experience, there is little that escapes her attention.”

“Thank you. That might be helpful,” said Sebastian, and went in search of Madame Champagne.

But when he entered the fragrant, noisy coffee room on the ground floor, it was to be told that madame had stepped out and was not expected back until late in the afternoon.

Sebastian slipped his watch from its pocket and frowned.

It was nearly eleven o’clock.

Driving himself in his curricle, Sebastian arrived in Bloomsbury to find the big square just to the north of the New Road filled with an enormous circular wooden enclosure that looked for all the world like some primitive fortress in the wilds of America. Vertical boards twelve to fifteen feet high discouraged the efforts of a motley crowd of curious onlookers from sneaking a peek at the steam locomotive without actually paying to enter the gate.

“If I’m more than ten minutes, walk ’em,” Sebastian told the young groom, or tiger, who clung to his perch at the rear of the curricle. From the far side of the palisade came a belch of steam and the shriek of a whistle. The chestnuts snorted and tossed their heads nervously.

“Easy, lads,” crooned Tom, scrambling onto the seat. A half-grown urchin of thirteen years, he was gap-toothed and scrappy and utterly devoted to Sebastian. “Meybe I’d best walk ’em now.”

“As you wish,” said Sebastian, hopping down. “Actually, you might use the time to see if you can discover where Foreign Undersecretary Sir Hyde Foley takes his nuncheon.”

“Aye, gov’nor.”

Dutifully handing over his shilling entrance fee, Sebastian pushed his way into the vast enclosure to find an open space circled by a single line of tracks laid just inside the wall. On the far side of the ring stood a small black steam engine mounted on wheels, with a modified open carriage bolted behind it. The engine’s boiler smoked and steamed, filling the air with the hot pinch of burning coal.

Some forty to sixty brave souls ranging from well-dressed ladies and gentlemen to gawking artisans and apprentices milled about the enclosure. But the carriage remained empty. It was one thing, obviously, to pay one’s shilling for a look at the throbbing, hissing machine, but something else again to actually risk life and limb by going for a ride.

Sebastian let his gaze drift around the assembled crowd, looking for Miss Hero Jarvis. It was nearly half past eleven; perhaps she had already come and gone.

“I’d no notion you took an interest in the advances of modern science,” said a well-bred female voice behind him.

He turned to find Miss Jarvis regarding him with an expression he found impossible to decipher. She was a tall young woman, nearly as tall as her powerful father, Lord Jarvis. No one would ever describe her as “pretty,” although she was handsome in her own way, despite having also inherited her father’s aquiline nose and haughty expression. She wore a carriage gown of soft moss with a matching parasol she held tipped against the glare of the sun, and a jaunty, velvet-trimmed hat from which escaped wisps of soft brown hair. A frightened-looking abigail hovered behind her, for a single gentlewoman never went anywhere without her maid.

“We don’t know much about each other, do we?” said Sebastian. He did, in fact, have a passing interest in modern science—but not, as it happened, a fondness for steam engines.

“True.” She let her gaze rove the crowd of curious onlookers. “Mr. Trevithick hasn’t attracted much of a crowd, I’m afraid. And even those who’ve paid to take a look seem to lack the courage to actually go for a ride.”

“Perhaps they’re waiting for someone else to be the first?”

She brought her gray eyes to his face and smiled. “I’m game if you are.”

He stared at her . “Me?”

“Surely you’re not afraid too?”

Sebastian studied the engine’s fiercely glowing fire. “You do know why Watt insists on the use of low-pressure steam, don’t you?”

“Yes. Because high-pressure steam engines can be dangerous. But they can be made so much smaller. This” —she gestured with one elegantly gloved hand toward Trevithick’s steaming engine—“ this is the future.”

Sebastian rubbed the side of his nose with his bent knuckles. “I hear one of his engines exploded, killing four men.”

Her lips tightened. “That was an earlier design. I tell you, one day engines such as this will propel passenger-carrying vehicles on our roads.”

“I like horses,” said Sebastian.

“So do I. But I also recognize their limitations. Imagine what working steam locomotives could accomplish— if people could only learn to accept them.”

With a wry smile, Sebastian stepped to the side of the empty carriage and held out his hand. “Very well, Miss Jarvis; shall we set an example?”

She put her hand in his.

“Oh, Miss Jarvis!” cried the abigail, her fists clenched tight against her bosom. “You’re never going to make me ride in that thing?”

Miss Jarvis glanced back at her. “You may await me here. It’s no different, surely, from going with his lordship for a drive around the park.”

The abigail heaved a visible sigh of relief. “Oh, thank you , Miss Jarvis.”