Where Shadows Dance (31 page)

“I offered to take responsibility for the deaths myself, to spare her the unpleasantness and notoriety that will inevitably result. But she would have none of it.”

“I’d like to have seen Lovejoy’s face.”

Sebastian gave a soft laugh. “I think she frightens him.”

“You’re the only man I know whom she doesn’t frighten.”

Sebastian saw no reason to shatter his friend’s illusions.

Gibson said, “There’ll be an inquest, I suppose.”

“Yes. But it will be largely perfunctory.”

They drank in companionable silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. Then Sebastian sat forward, his elbows on his knees. “You’ve seen the bodies, Gibson; do you think it’s possible we’re dealing with two killers? One who murdered Kincaid and Ross, and someone working for the French who killed Lindquist, de La Rocque, and Yasmina?”

“It’s possible, yes. But”—Gibson took a deep swallow of his brandy, his lips pursed as he considered this—“why would the French kill Yasmina?”

“Perhaps she became restive and threatened to betray what she was doing.”

“That seems unlikely.”

“The only alternative I can come up with is that we’re talking about
three
killers ...” Sebastian scrubbed his hands over his face and slumped back. “Oh, bloody hell.”

Gibson stood up, staggering slightly as his weight came down on his peg leg. “Maybe some more brandy will help.”

The pounding went on and on, loud and insistent.

It took Sebastian some moments to realize that the pounding in his head was not, in truth, in his head, but the result of a fist beating a lively tattoo against a distant door.

He opened one eye. His gaze traveled from the row of grotesque specimens lining Gibson’s mantel to Gibson’s gently snoring face. The golden light of late morning streamed in through the room’s narrow window. At some time during the night he had decided there was no point in making his way back to Brook Street. But he couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t at least made it from the damned chair to the sofa.

The pounding continued. Where the bloody hell was Mrs. Federico?

He pushed up from the chair, wincing as he straightened his cramped, stiff limbs. Rubbing the back of his neck, he wove his way down the narrow hall to yank open the door. “What do you w—”

He broke off.

Miss Hero Jarvis stood on the doorstep.

H
is betrothed was, as always, exquisitely turned out in a walking dress of teal silk with medieval sleeves slashed with strips of yellow. She wore pale yellow kid half boots that laced up the back and coordinated nicely with her yellow kid gloves and a teal silk reticule embroidered with tiny primroses. To top it off, she wore a hat trimmed with three peacock feathers. There was nothing in either her appearance or her manner to suggest that she was suffering any ill effects from either yesterday’s kidnapping or its bloody ending. The Jarvis town carriage with its two footmen waited nearby; a very young, very frightened-looking housemaid hovered at her elbow.

“Ah, there you are, my lord,” Miss Jarvis said, brushing past him into the hall. “When I couldn’t find you at Brook Street, I spoke to Sir Henry. He suggested you might be here.”

“Miss Jarvis—”

She went to stand in the doorway to the parlor. Gibson was now snoring gustily. She turned to face Sebastian, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed him critically. “I take it you haven’t heard the news.”

He scrubbed one hand down over his face, painfully conscious of the rasp of his day’s growth of beard. “Good God. Not another murder?”

“What? Oh, no. Nothing like that. My father has been closeted with the Prince and his ministers at Carlton House since dawn. A ship docked this morning from Canada with news that the United States have attacked us. According to the captain, the Americans declared war six weeks ago, on June eighteenth.”

He stared at her, his sleep-fuddled brain slowly beginning to move.

She said, “You do see the implications, do you not? According to what I have been able to discover, the
Baltimore Mary
sailed from America on June fifth.”

“But that would have been before war was declared. And it’s no use saying they could have heard rumors of war before they sailed, because the rumors have been flying for months now.”

“Yes. But I’ve also discovered that the
Baltimore Mary
didn’t sail directly to London. It stopped in Bermuda. Now, think about this: Say I’m the captain of an American ship—let’s call it the mystery ship, shall we?—with a cargo bound for Bermuda. Just as I am ready to set sail, word reaches me that Congress has declared war on Britain. I know that if I land in Bermuda after news of the war has reached there, the British colonial officials will confiscate my ship. But I also know that my government is in no hurry to send notice of their war declaration to the British, because Washington is planning an attack on Canada and they want to take the forces there by surprise. So I decide to set sail immediately, hoping to make landfall in Bermuda, unload my cargo, and be gone again before word of the war reaches there.”

“Risky,” said Sebastian. “But tempting. Yes, I can see that. So you’re suggesting—what? That this mystery ship landed at Bermuda and found the
Baltimore Mary
still there?”

She nodded. “And if so, wouldn’t I—in my role as this unknown American sea captain—warn my fellow compatriots of the outbreak of war?”

He realized suddenly that he was still in his shirtsleeves and scrambled quickly into his coat. Gibson stirred, murmured something, then fell back to sleep.

Sebastian hunted around for his cravat. “It would certainly explain why the
Baltimore Mary’
s captain was in such an unnatural rush to unload his cargo and why he sailed again without reloading or even refitting. He wanted to get away before word of the declaration of war reached London.”

She nodded. “What I don’t understand is why knowledge of the declaration of war didn’t leak out. All it would take is one drunken sailor.”

“The ships’ officers wouldn’t have told their crews—not if they could help it. They had too much riding on maintaining the secret.” He went into the kitchen, poured himself an ale, and downed half of it in one long pull. “That’s the link. The link between Kincaid and Ross. As Cox’s agent, Ezekiel Kincaid would immediately have hurried off to the West End to warn his employer of the declaration of war.”

“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.”

“J
asper 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?”

“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!”