Where Shadows Dance (6 page)

“Are you telling me,” said Lovejoy, “that you have known this body was here since last Saturday night? And you only just got around to telling the constables about it today?”

The boy took a step back, his eyes widening. “I kept thinkin’ somebody was bound to find ʹim. Especially once ʹe started smellin’. But then ’e jist laid ’ere and laid ’ere, and finally it got so’s I couldn’t stand it no more. So I told Father Dean at St. Matthew’s, and ’e said I should own up to what I seen.”

Lovejoy frowned. “You’re certain this was Saturday night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And when you first saw it, was the body fresh? Or was it already showing signs of decay?”

“Oh, ’e were fresh, all right. Why, ’e were still warm!”

Lovejoy frowned. “What time did you say this was?”

“Jist after three, sir. I remember I ’eard the night watchman calling the hour as I was crossin’ the green.”

Lovejoy and the constable exchanged glances. “And what were you doing out at three in the morning, lad? Hmm? Speak up there.”

Jamie Durban took another step back, his previously pale face suddenly flushing scarlet.

“Go on, then. Answer the magistrate’s question,” urged the constable.

His nostrils flaring in panic, the boy whirled to take off across the green, arms and legs pumping, hair flashing golden red in the hot sun.

“Bloody hell.” The constable lumbered up out of the ditch. “You want I should go after him, sir?”

Lovejoy watched the boy run. “No. Let him go. I assume you know where he lives?”

“Yes, sir. In Three Dog Lane. Lives with his widowed ma and three sisters, he does.”

His handkerchief pressed once more to his nostrils, Lovejoy hunkered down beside the ditch. The weeds had been trampled by countless rough boots, the fetid water churned and muddied. Whatever evidence might have been recoverable days ago had been lost to the rain and the passage of time and careless men. He glanced up at the constable. “You’ve searched the area?”

“We have. Nothing, sir.” The constable paused. “You want we should send the body to the dead house in Wapping, sir?”

Lovejoy frowned. London had several dead houses, or mortuaries, for unidentified or unclaimed bodies. But they were miserable, filthy places, most with little space for a proper postmortem.

He shook his head. “Fetch a shell from the dead house, but have a couple of lads carry the body to the surgery of Paul Gibson, on Tower Hill. Perhaps he’ll be able to give us something to go on.” He pushed to his feet. “And check the pawnbrokers’ shops and fences in the area. See if young Mr. Durban has sold any men’s jewelry or other items in the last week.”

“You think he stole something from the body, sir?”

“How else did he know the corpse was still warm?”

“Aye, good point that, sir. Although I suppose—” The constable broke off, his gaze shifting to something over Sir Henry’s shoulder.

“What is it?” Lovejoy turned to find a tall, bone-thin clerk hurrying toward them across the green. He drew up before them, his breath coming in noisy gasps.

“Sir Henry,” said the man, his pale forehead gleaming with sweat. “A message for you from the Foreign Office. The Undersecretary, Sir Hyde Foley, wishes to see you. At once!”

S
ebastian’s next stop was the Mayfair town house of the woman he still thought of as his Aunt Henrietta, although she was not, in truth, his aunt, or any other relation closer than a distant cousin.

Born Lady Henrietta St. Cyr, the elder sister of the Earl of Hendon, she had been married for fifty years to the Duke of Claiborne. A widow now for more than three years, the Dowager Duchess still occupied the vast family pile on Park Lane. By rights, the house belonged to her eldest son. But the new Duke of Claiborne was no match for his formidable mother. So while the current Duke raised his growing family in a much smaller house on Half Moon Street, the Duchess continued on as before, one of the acknowledged grandes dames of society—and a veritable walking
Debrett’s Peerage
, who knew everything there was to know about the members of the Upper Ten Thousand.

Sebastian expected to find her still abed, or perhaps sipping chocolate in her dressing room, for the Duchess was famous for never leaving her room before one. But to his surprise, she was not only up and dressed, but in her breakfast parlor partaking of toast and tea and perusing a copy of the
Morning Post.

“Good heavens,” she said, sitting forward with a jerk that set her tea to slopping dangerously. “Sebastian.”

“You’re up early, Aunt,” he said, stooping to plant a kiss on her cheek. “It’s barely past noon.”

“Blame Claiborne’s eldest, Georgina. Takes after me, poor girl. But as I always say, just because a woman is not beautiful is no excuse for not being fashionable. Unfortunately, that silly nitwit Claiborne married can’t dress herself properly, let alone a chit just out of the schoolroom. So there’s nothing for it but for me to take the child to the cloth warehouses myself.”

“Ah.”

She reached for her quizzing glass and regarded him through it. “Why are you here, you fatiguing child?”

He laughed. “Two things, actually. First of all, I’d like to hear what you know about Sir Gareth Ross.”

“Sir Gareth?” She looked intrigued. “Whatever has he done?”

“Nothing that I know of.” Sebastian drew out the chair beside her and sat. “Tell me about him.”

ʺWell ... there’s not much to tell, actually. He must be in his early forties by now, I suppose. Your typical country gentleman. Married some chit from Norfolk—a Miss Alice Hart, if I remember correctly—but she died in childbirth barely a year later, and her child with her. He never remarried.”

“I take it he’s something of an invalid?”

“That’s right. Broke his back in a carriage accident a few years ago. He isn’t exactly bedridden, but he doesn’t get around much and, well”—she dropped her voice to a stage whisper and leaned forward—“let’s just say, I’ve heard he won’t be siring any sons.”

“So his heir presumptive was his younger brother, Mr. Alexander Ross. And now?”

“A cousin of some sort. There were something like four or five daughters in the family, but only the two sons.”

Sebastian turned sideways so he could stretch out his legs and cross his boots at the ankles. “What do you know about Alexander Ross?”

“Charming young man. Terrible tragedy, his dying like that.” She opened her eyes wider. “Good heavens, is
that
why you’re interested in the Rosses? Dear me.”

It was beginning to occur to Sebastian that he had only to express an interest in someone who’d recently died for anyone hearing him to assume that individual had been murdered. He said, “That’s all you can tell me about the younger Ross? That he was a ‘charming young man’?”

Henrietta frowned. “Well, he’d recently become engaged to an heiress. Miss Sabrina Cox.”

“Cox?”

“Mmm. Not one of the Coxes of Staffordshire, mind you. Her father was Peter Cox—the one who was Lord Mayor, and then Member of Parliament for London until his death.”

“So he was a Cit?”

“A very rich Cit. The girl’s mother was gently born, however. A sister of Lady Dorsey. But her father ran with the Hellfire crowd and plunged so deep that he was forced to sell his youngest daughter to the highest bidder.”

“How high a bid are we talking about here?”

“Towed the old reprobate out of the River Tick—or so they say. In his day, Peter Cox was said to rival Golden Ball. Divided his wealth between his son and daughter.”

Sebastian frowned. “Her brother is Jasper Cox?”

“Yes. You know him?”

“I’ve met him,” said Sebastian noncommittally.

Henrietta huffed a sharp laugh. “And couldn’t stand the man, obviously. Few can. But he’s dreadfully well off. Manages his sister’s portion until she weds, as well. Together they’re major shareholders in the Rosehaven Trading Company, amongst other ventures. It was quite a brilliant match for Ross, even if the wealth does come from trade.”

“Thank you, Aunt,” said Sebastian, pushing to his feet. “You’ve been most helpful.”

She frowned up at him. “You said you were here for two reasons; Ross is the first. What is the second?”

He leaned forward to kiss her cheek. “I’m getting married next week.” He turned toward the door.

“You’re what?”
Her teacup hit its saucer with a clatter. “Sebastian, you come right back here and sit down. You can’t just fling something like that at me and then walk away! Sebastian, it’s not—Oh, Sebastian; you’re not marrying Kat Boleyn?”

He paused with one hand on the doorframe to look back at his aunt, his jaw set hard. “She’s already married, remember?”

He tried hard not to resent the ill-disguised relief he saw flood across his aunt’s face. “Then who—” She broke off, her eyes widening. “Good heavens. It’s Miss Jarvis, isn’t it?”

It was his turn to stare. “How the devil did you know that?”

She raised her teacup to her lips and gave him an arch look over the brim. “Well, you have been seen together rather a lot lately.”

They’d been seen together because they’d been discussing murder, but he wasn’t about to tell his aunt that. He said, “I’d like you to be there for the ceremony, if you’re willing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I shall be delighted.” She hesitated. “You’ve told Hendon?”

“No.”

ʺSebastian ... however difficult it may be for you to believe, you must realize that Hendon’s love for you is real. You have always been his son in every way that counts. That has not changed, and it never will.”

Sebastian swallowed the inevitable retort and turned away. “I’ll let you know when the time and place have been finalized.”

 

 

His next stop was Lambeth Palace on the south bank of the river Thames, home to John Moore, the aged Archbishop of Canterbury.

“So,” said the Archbishop, pouring a shaky stream of tea into two delicate china cups. His movements were slow and deliberate, for he was an old man, pale and gray haired, his thin body racked by the final stages of consumption. “If you’ve already procured a special license from Doctors’ Commons, you don’t need me.”

Sebastian stood before the marble mantelpiece in the Archbishop’s chambers, his hands clasped behind his back. “Nevertheless, I would be honored to have Your Grace perform the ceremony. This is, if you feel you’re up to it.”

“It would be a pleasure.” Moore paused to carefully set the heavy teapot aside. “Odd that the Duchess of Claiborne made no mention of any approaching nuptials when I encountered her in Bond Street yesterday.” The Archbishop and the Duchess were old friends.

“She didn’t know then. She does now.”

“Ah. I see.” Archbishop Moore held out one of the cups. “Well, here’s to your health and happiness.” He raised his own cup in a wry toast. “I wish it were something more suitable, but doctor’s orders, you know. At any rate, cheers.”

“Thank you, Your Grace.” Sebastian took a polite sip of the tea.

The Archbishop’s eyes crinkled into a smile. “If I might be so bold as to ask the name of the lady?”

“Miss Hero Jarvis.”

The Archbishop choked on his tea and fell to coughing violently.

Sebastian started forward. “Are you all right, sir? Shall I call—”

“No, no.” Moore put out a hand, stopping him. “One would expect that by my age I’d know better than to try to drink and breathe at the same time.” He fortified himself with more tea. “Miss Hero Jarvis, you say? A fine young woman, to be sure.” He cleared his throat. “And when would you like the ceremony to take place?”

“Sometime this week, if possible.”

Moore nodded. “Thursday, shall we say? At eleven in the chapel here, at the palace. You may arrange the details with my secretary.” He stared down at the murky liquid in his cup, a strange smile curling the edges of his lips. “Well, well, well,” he said as if to himself. “How very interesting.”

L
eaving the Archbishop’s palace in Lambeth, Sebastian made his way back to the Je Reviens coffee shop on St. James’s Street.

This time he found Madame Champagne seated at a small round table placed so that it caught the sun streaming in through the oriel window overlooking the fashionable thoroughfare. She was an attractive woman somewhere in her late forties or fifties, petite and slender, with pale blond hair just beginning to fade gracefully to white. Her features were fine boned and elegant, their delicacy thrown into sharp relief when she turned her head and he saw she wore a black silk patch over her right eye.

She watched him cross the room toward her, a wry smile curving her full, generous mouth. “Viscount Devlin, I assume?” She gave the title its French inflection,
vicomte
, her accent still pronounced despite the years of exile from her native land. “I was told you were inquiring after me.”

“May I?” he asked, drawing out the chair opposite her.

She spread her hands wide. “Please. I know why you are here.”

Sebastian sat. “You do?”

“Monsieur Poole and I had an interesting conversation.” She gave a barely perceptible nod to the burly, gray-bearded man behind the counter, who set to work preparing two coffees. “Alexander Ross was murdered; is this not so?”

“I never said that.”

“It was unnecessary.” She tilted her head to one side, her remaining eye narrowing as she assessed him. He noticed she tended to keep the right side of her face turned away. She said, “I trust you have a good reason for this assumption?”

“I have.”

She nodded. “Me, I suspected as much.”

“Why is that?”

She shrugged. “When a healthy young man who is involved with dangerous people dies suddenly ... Well, let us just say that if there’s one thing I have learned in this life, it is not to take anything at face value.”