C Harris: Where Shadows Dance

“Which he did.”

Sebastian stared out over Gibson’s unkempt garden with its secret, unmarked graves. “Which, thanks to the landlady of the Bow and Ox, we know he did.”

Miss Jarvis said, “So what happened after that? Obviously—somehow—Ross heard about the declaration of war. But then what?”

“I’m not entirely certain. But we now know that Jasper Cox had a damned good reason to kill both men: to keep them quiet.”

“Jasper Cox is my cousin,” she reminded Sebastian as they drove through the crowded streets of the City in her carriage.

“All the more reason for you not to be present when I confront him with this.”

She raised one eyebrow in an expression that was unfortunately reminiscent of her father. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see that.”

He chose his words carefully. “There are times when men are simply more comfortable talking to men. Reprehensible, I know, but nevertheless true.”

He watched her nostrils flare on a quickly indrawn breath, saw her eyes narrow. But however much she might rail against the realities of their society, she was no fool and she knew he was right.

“Very well,” she said as the carriage drew up before his Brook Street house and the footman pulled open the near door. “But you will tell me what you discover.”

It was not a request. Torn between exasperation and amusement, Sebastian paused with one hand on the doorframe to look back at the woman who, in less than twenty-four hours, would become his wife. “I will tell you what I discover,” he promised. “After all, it’s the least I can do.” He hesitated a moment, then added, “And thank you.”

Some forty-five minutes later, freshly arrayed in the buckskin breeches and dark blue coat that served a gentleman of the ton as morning wear, Sebastian knocked at the shiny black door of the Coxes’ impressive house on Bedford Square.

The door was opened by a stout, disdainful-looking butler, who listened to Sebastian with a bored air before intoning dismally, “I am sorry, my lord, but Mr. Cox is not at home this morning.”

“No?” said Sebastian, pushing past him. “You don’t mind if I have a look myself, just to be certain?”

“But ... My lord!” protested the butler, staggering at the effrontery. “What are you doing ?”

Striding down the hall, Sebastian threw open the door to the library. Finding it empty, he turned to mount the stairs two at a time to the first floor.

“My lord!” wailed the butler, panting noisily as he labored in Sebastian’s wake. “Please! I do most humbly beseech you! Come back.”

“Where the devil is he?” Sebastian demanded, throwing open first one door, then the next. “The morning room? His dressing room? You may as well tell me, because I—”

“May I help you?” said a pleasantly modulated female voice behind him.

Sebastian turned.

It was the young woman from the silhouette. Small and dainty, with a winsome face framed by short dark curls, she wore a well-cut but painfully plain black mourning gown caught up high under her breasts by a simple black satin ribbon.

“Miss Cox?” he said.

She was pale but surprisingly self-possessed. “Yes. You’re Lord Devlin, aren’t you? You’re looking for my brother?”

“I am.”

“I keep telling his lordship that Mr. Cox is not at home, but he won’t listen to me,” said the butler, wheezing as he reached the top step.

“Thank you, Heath,” she said to the butler. “That will be all.” She led the way into a drawing room, where an older woman in a mob cap—whom Miss Cox introduced as her former governess—sat working on a chair cover in a seat overlooking the rear garden. The woman looked up, squinted at Sebastian, then went back to her needlework.

“My brother left yesterday for Southampton,” said Miss Cox. “Is there something I can help you with?”

Sebastian cast a questioning look at the governess.

“Mrs. Forester becomes quite oblivious when she’s involved in her needlework,” said Sabrina. “You may speak freely.”

Sebastian took up a position before the empty hearth. “A week ago last Saturday, a man came to see your brother—an American named Ezekiel Kincaid. Blond hair. Prominent teeth.”

If Sabrina Cox had been pale before, she was now ashen. “Kincaid?” she said vaguely, sinking into a nearby chair. “No, I don’t recall anyone by that name visiting us. Perhaps—”

“I beg your pardon, Miss Cox, but you are a terrible liar.”

“I think you should leave now,” she said abruptly, thrusting to her feet again.

Sebastian stayed where he was. “Did you know Kincaid is dead?”

“Dead?”

“Murdered. The same night as Alexander Ross. And in exactly the same way.”

She sank back to the edge of her chair, her hands gripped together in her lap. “No,” she said in a small voice. “I did not know.”

“Ross was here that day, wasn’t he?” said Sebastian. “He came to see you, but somehow he overheard Kincaid telling your brother that the United States had declared war on Britain.”

She shook her head back and forth, her lips pressed tightly together, her face crumpled with distress.

Sebastian said simply, “He was here.”

She bowed her head, her voice a torn agony. “I didn’t know anything about it at the time. Alexander and I were here, in the drawing room. But he went downstairs for a moment to ask Jasper some question—I don’t recall what about now. It wasn’t important. He was gone only a moment, but when he came back, he behaved strangely. It was obvious he was distressed, but he wouldn’t say what about. He left almost immediately afterward. It wasn’t until later, when Jasper told me about Kincaid’s visit, that I realized Alexander must have overheard them speaking.” She swallowed, hard. “Jasper was ... Jasper was in the midst of some delicate business transactions that would have been adversely affected had news of the declaration of war become common knowledge before he could make certain . . . adjustments. It was dreadfully important that the information be kept quiet. Not for long, you understand, just a day or two.”

Sebastian glanced up at the life-sized portrait of Jasper Cox that hung over the mantelpiece. He had no doubt that an investigation of Mr. Cox’s activities over the past twelve days would reveal an interesting flurry of buying and selling.

He said, “So you went to him that evening, didn’t you? You put on your plainest cloak and a heavy veil, and you took a hackney to Ross’s lodgings in St. James’s Street to beg him to keep what he’d heard quiet. Only, he refused.”

She nodded, her chest rising and falling with her rapid breathing. “He was horrified that I would even ask him—that I would think him capable of doing something so dishonorable, so . . . dishonest. I tried to make him understand how vitally important it was—how much was at stake. It would only have been for a few days! But he was appalled at the suggestion that he even consider putting personal financial interests ahead of his duty to his country.”

“So your brother had him killed,” said Sebastian. “Had them both killed.”

Her eyes went wide with horror. “No!”

She must have read the disbelief in his face, because she rose from her chair to stand facing him. “No, you’re wrong. Jasper would never do anything like that.”

“Even with tens of thousands of pounds at stake?”

“No! You don’t know him. He’s ruthless in business, yes, but he’s not . . . evil. Besides, he ... he couldn’t have done it. He was at a dinner given by the Lord Mayor that night!”

“I’m not suggesting he did it personally,” Sebastian said quietly.