C Harris: Where Shadows Dance

As Sebastian scrambled up behind Miss Jarvis, a tall, dark-haired man with a craggy face dominated by a large nose nodded to the engineer. A shrill whistle cut through the air, eliciting a shriek from those nearby. The engineer opened a valve. There was a rush of steam, and the engine’s wheels began to turn. With a sharp jerk, the carriage lurched forward.

“How fast can it go?” shouted Sebastian over the whoosh of steam leaving the cylinders and the roar of the crowd.

“Twelve miles an hour,” she shouted back, her hand tightening on the handle of her parasol. “But you didn’t come here to talk to me about steam engines, did you, Lord Devlin?”

Sebastian met her gaze squarely. “You know why I’m here.”

Two months before, they had faced death together, trapped in the subterranean vaults beneath the abandoned gardens of a long-vanished Renaissance palace. In a moment of desperate weakness, they had sought comfort in each other’s arms. Only, they had cheated death. And now it had become apparent that those moments of unexpected intimacy had resulted in an unintended consequence.

Thus far, Lord Jarvis’s indomitable daughter had determinedly resisted all Sebastian’s efforts to convince her to accept the protection of his name. But he was not one to give up so easily. He said, “Have you reconsidered my proposal?”

She held his gaze without flinching, although he noticed her throat tightening as she swallowed. “In point of fact, I have.”

“And?”

“I have decided you are right; it is in the best interests of all concerned that I accept your generous offer. Therefore, I would be honored to be your wife, my lord.” She paused, then added, “Preferably as soon as possible.”

Her response caught Sebastian so completely by surprise that for a moment he could only stare at her in stunned silence.

A wry sparkle lit up her eyes. “Didn’t expect that, did you?”

“To be honest? No. But believe me when I say that I will never give you cause to regret this decision.”

She responded with what sounded suspiciously like a derisive snort. “Personally, I’ve no doubt we shall both have multiple occasions on which to ponder the wisdom of this moment.”

He huffed a soft laugh. Then his smile faded. “What made you change your mind?”

When she’d refused his offer, before, she told him she’d decided to leave England. Travel the world. Give birth to their child in some exotic locale and then return after several years, claiming the infant as an adopted foundling. It was a suggestion that had revolted Sebastian on many different levels—not least because it touched on the secret but raw wound of his own cloudy parentage.

“It would not have been”—she hesitated, as if searching for the right word—“good for my mother had I left England. She needs me here.”

Sebastian had heard that in her youth, Lady Jarvis was a pretty, vivacious thing, dainty and gay and different from her daughter in most ways imaginable. Then an endless series of miscarriages and stillbirths had ruined her health and debilitated her mind, leaving her easily frightened and more than a little addlebrained. Of the relationship between mother and daughter he realized he had no knowledge at all.

“Will she be unhappy to see you wed?” he asked.

“My mother? Hardly. The first time she sees you, she will doubtless fall on your neck and shower you with her undying gratitude. She never could understand my refusal to marry.”

“Most women do wish to see their daughters established in life.”

She started to say something, then obviously changed her mind and looked away.

He studied her carefully schooled profile and acknowledged a moment of deep disquiet. They may have faced death together; they may have joined their bodies to create a new life. Yet they were still, in essence, wary strangers—while he and her father were sworn enemies. He said, “I thought I would ask the Archbishop to officiate. Would sometime next week suit you?”

“Arrange the time and place, and I will be there.”

“I suppose it only appropriate that I also formally approach Lord Jarvis.”

Something flickered in her eyes, although whether it was amusement or a quite different emotion he could not have said. “That should be an interesting encounter, seeing as how in the past eighteen months you have at various times broken into his house, held him at gunpoint, and thrown a knife at him.”

“Don’t forget that I also kidnapped his daughter,” Sebastian reminded her. It’s how they had first met, when Sebastian had been a fugitive unjustly accused of murder and Jarvis had been doing his best to avert a scandal by having Sebastian summarily killed.

She said, “That too.”

The steam engine’s shrill whistle sounded again, drawing new shrieks from the crowd. She said, “I believe he has meetings with the Prince early this afternoon. But he should be in his chambers at Carlton House later.”

Belching steam and soot, the engine picked up speed, chugging round and round the tightly circling tracks, the carriage swaying rhythmically from side to side. Sebastian kept his gaze on the woman before him. “I don’t intend to give him the option of forbidding the match.”

“I should think not. I am five-and-twenty, after all.”

“He could disinherit you.”

“He won’t. You are hardly unsuitable. Just ...”

“His enemy.”

“My father has many enemies.”

The carriage swung around the track, and she adjusted her parasol against the shifting angle of the sun. “I should like to make it clear at the onset that I have every intention of continuing with the various projects in which I am currently involved.”

He found himself smiling. Miss Jarvis’s “projects”—which ranged from an analysis of the economic stresses driving women into prostitution to an ambitious study of possible ways of improving the survival rates of infants left on the parish—alternately puzzled, infuriated, and bemused her father. Sebastian said, “I would not have expected otherwise, Miss Jarvis. After all, I intend to continue with my own involvement in murder investigations.”

She regarded him with interest. “Are you involved in an investigation now?”

“No one’s been murdered, have they?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

A great cracking noise cut across the circle. The craggy-faced, dark-haired man started forward with a shout. The wheels of the engine froze with a sliding screech.

Sebastian craned around. “What the hell?”

“I believe the track has broken,” said Miss Jarvis calmly as the carriage lurched sideways. The bench pitched wildly to the right, and she flung out a hand to maintain her precarious perch. “I heard Mr. Trevithick expressing some concern that the engine might be too heavy for the rails.”

A great gasp went up from the crowd of spectators as the steam engine and its carriage came to a shuddering, lopsided halt.

Sebastian said, “Are you all right?”

She used the back of her wrist to push her hat out of her eyes. “Quite all right, thank you. But I fear for the success of Mr. Trevithick’s New Steam Circus.”

“Keep a smile on your face,” said Sebastian, sliding off the seat. Boots firmly on the ground, he reached up to help her alight.

She came down beside him in an unruffled swirl of petticoats and artfully balanced parasol. “Oh, that was such fun,” she exclaimed loudly for the benefit of the excited, jabbering crowd.

He leaned forward to whisper, “One of the staves of your parasol has snapped.”

“Oh.” She quickly closed it. “Thank you.”

“My dear Miss Jarvis!” exclaimed the craggy-faced man, descending on them. “Please accept my heartfelt—”