by C. S. Harris
“Let’s just say there is something about Monsieur de La Rocque that does not inspire confidence in his veracity.”
“That I can understand,” she said dryly. “And after Ross’s meeting with de La Rocque? Then what?”
“Ross left to attend a séance at the home of a Swedish trader by the name of Carl Lindquist, who may or may not be an agent of the Swedish government.”
“A séance?”
“Are you insinuating you don’t believe Mr. Lindquist either?”
“Hardly. This is obviously where the gold comes in.”
It was Devlin’s turn to stop abruptly. “The gold?”
“Ah. Didn’t know about that, did you?”
“No.”
“According to Sabrina, at the time of his death, Ross was involved in the transfer of gold to a foreign state. She didn’t know to which state, or for what reason. But from the sound of things, I’d say the state is Sweden.”
“How much gold are we talking about?”
“A considerable sum, I think. The payments were being delivered in staged transfers.”
“Do you know the dates of these transfers?”
She shook her head. “All I know is that one occurred the Friday night before Ross died.”
He cast her a steady, assessing look. “How long have you known about this?”
“Since I visited my cousin yesterday afternoon.”
“And when, precisely, were you planning to tell me about it?”
“I am telling you now.” She returned his accusatory gaze with unruffled serenity. “You aren’t going to claim you’ve told me everything, are you?”
Rather than respond, he turned to walk along the churchyard again. He said, “When was the last time your cousin saw him?”
“She claims Friday night. They quarreled when he was late for Lady Dorsey’s ball.”
Her use of the word “claims” did not escape him. He said, “But you don’t believe her?”
“I think she’s hiding something, but I don’t know what. She also says Ross recently had a serious quarrel with Sir Hyde. She doesn’t know exactly when it occurred, but I had the impression it was only a day or two before he was found dead.”
“For an easygoing man, Alexander Ross seems to have quarreled with an unusual number of people his final week.”
“He does, does he not?” Hero stared out over the crowded array of gray, moss-covered tombstones beside them. “In my experience, most male quarrels are over two subjects: money and women.”
“And honor. We also fight over honor.”
“True. But not nearly as often as over money and women.” She paused, then said, “You are right, you know. I do know things that I haven’t told you. But before I tell you more, there’s someone I must discuss it with, first.”
“You mean, your father.”
Turning, she took the folio of maps and her notebook from her maid. “I go to dinner tonight at the Spanish Ambassador’s residence, then to the theater and Lady Weston’s ball. I should be able to tell you more at that time.”
“I’ll look for you at Lady Weston’s, then.” He sketched a bow. “Miss Jarvis.”
She watched him walk toward his waiting curricle, a tall, elegant figure with broad shoulders and a languid way of moving that for some reason brought to mind that fateful afternoon in the ruined gardens of Somerset House. Horrified by the direction of her thoughts, she opened the folio of maps and gave all appearance of studying it intently.
It was a full minute before she realized she held the maps upside down.
Chapter 33
A few discreet inquiries led Sebastian to the fashionable promenade in the park, where he found Sir Hyde Foley strolling along the crowded pathway in the company of his young wife and an even younger lady who looked as if she had only recently emerged from the schoolroom.
Charmingly gowned in sprigged muslin and a primrose satin spencer, Lady Foley looked to be half a dozen or more years her husband’s junior, with short, dark curly hair, large blue eyes, and a rosebud complexion. Sebastian recalled meeting her in her husband’s company at one of his father’s dinners.
At one of Hendon’s dinners, he reminded himself.
“Lord Devlin,” she said, extending her gloved hand with an unaffected smile when she saw him. “What a pleasure to see you again! Have you met my younger sister, Miss Eastlake?”
He stood talking politely to the two ladies for some moments, then turned to say to Sir Hyde, “If I might have a word with you for a moment, sir?”
The Undersecretary fixed him with a dark glare. “You aren’t still going on about Ross, are you?”
“I am, actually.”
They continued along the pathway, pointedly falling back a few steps behind the ladies. Foley said, “I checked with Bow Street. There is no investigation into the murder of Alexander Ross. And do you know why? Because Alexander Ross was not murdered! So what is the purpose of this nonsense?”
Sebastian let his gaze rove over the fashionable crush of curricles, coaches, and hacks filling the carriageway beside them. “I’m curious about Ross’s dealings with the Sultan’s Ambassador, Mr. Antonaki Ramadani.”
Foley drew up short. “What dealings? I don’t know who you’ve been speaking to, but Ross was not in any way involved in our negotiations with the Sublime Porte.”
“No? My mistake.”
Foley said, “Just so,” and continued on his way.
Sebastian fell into step beside him again. “Am I to take it, then, that the shipments of gold Ross was handling were not intended for Constantinople?”
Foley let out a warning hiss and pointedly lowered his voice. “Where the devil did you hear about that?”
Rather than answer him, Sebastian said, “I understand one of the transfers took place a week ago last Friday night, barely twenty-four hours before Ross ... died.”
“How came you to know this?”
“Does is matter?”
“Of course it matters. Good God! The security of the realm is at stake.”
Sebastian studied the other man’s flushed, pointed face. “Exactly how much gold are we talking about here?”
“That is none of your affair. You hear me? None of this is.”
“Ross’s death is my affair.”
“Oh? And who made it so? Hmm? You tell me that. Who made it so?”
“‘And whatsoever you do unto the least of my brothers, you do unto me,’ ” Sebastian quoted softly.
“Oh, please,” said Foley with a scornful huff.
Sebastian said, “I’m curious: Was your argument with Ross over the gold? Or over something else entirely?”
“What argument? I had no argument with Ross.”
“The Thursday before he died. Perhaps the Wednesday. Or the Friday. But there was definitely an argument. There’s no point in denying it. Ross was troubled enough to mention it to a friend.”
Foley’s pale gray eyes narrowed. “All right; we did disagree. But over a diplomatic affair; that is all. Not the sort of thing that would lead to—” He broke off.
“To murder?” suggested Sebastian.
“Go to the devil,” snapped Foley, and strode off after his wife and sister-in-law.
This time, Sebastian let him go.
Charles, Lord Jarvis, was in his dressing room adjusting the final set of his coat when Hero came to knock on the door.
“Could I speak with you for a moment, Papa?”
“You look lovely this evening,” he said, dismissing his valet. “I like the way you’ve started doing your hair.”
“Thank you.” She closed the door behind the departing valet, then said without preamble, “Did you kill Alexander Ross?”
“I did not.”
“Did you have him killed?”
He gave her a hard, searching look, but she simply stared back at him steadily. He said, “Are you here as Devlin’s emissary?”
“He has spoken to me, yes. But that is not why I am here.”
<
br /> “Then I will answer your question. No, I did not have Ross killed. On the contrary, I find his death troubling. Very troubling.”
“Why is that?”
He tucked an enameled snuffbox into his pocket, then turned to face her. “Some of what I am about to tell you, you may pass on to Devlin. But not all of it. Is that clear?”
She met his gaze and held it. “Yes.”
Before he could confront Lindquist with tales of mysterious gold transfers, Sebastian had an appointement to keep at the Turkish Ambassador’s residence in Portman Square. He was met by a wooden-faced English butler who bowed and said, “The Ambassador is expecting you, my lord.”
At that moment, Ramadani himself appeared in the vast hall. He was dressed as was his habit in the doeskin breeches, carelessly tied cravat, and riding coat of a country gentleman. “Lord Devlin,” he said. “Hoşgeldiniz. Welcome.”
“Hoş bulduk.” Sebastian handed his hat and walking stick to the butler, who gave another dignified bow and withdrew.
Ramadani’s teeth flashed in a delighted smile. “You speak Turkish!”
“No. Just, hoş bulduk.”
“Please, this way.” Ramadani led Sebastian to a small salon draped floor to ceiling with endless yards of red gauze, so that the effect was something like that of a Turkish tent. A low banquette piled with cushions surrounded three walls, with round tables of dark carved wood and figured brass scattered across the thick, colorful carpets. “You will join me for coffee? Ours is much thicker than yours, and sweet. But you will like it, I think.”
“Thank you,” said Sebastian, settling back against the cushions.
A dark-haired boy of perhaps fifteen, dressed in baggy trousers, a loose white shirt, and a sleeveless vest, brought coffee and sweetmeats, then disappeared.
The cups were delicate, of glass painted with a gold arabesque pattern. Sebastian took a cautious sip of the thick, hot brew. Ramadani watched him closely. “If it is not to your taste, I do have brandy.”
“I find it pleasant, thank you. I remember your coffee well.”
“You have visited the Ottoman world, Lord Devlin?”
“I was in Egypt, once; that is all.”
“With the Army, yes?”
“Yes.” Sebastian found it significant that the Turk had obviously gone to the trouble of looking into his background. “I would someday like to see more. My future wife is very keen to travel.”
“I have heard of your betrothal to Miss Jarvis. Please accept my felicitations.”
“Thank you.”
Ramadani sipped his coffee, his eyes alert and watchful behind half-lowered lids. “How does your investigation into the death of Mr. Ross progress?”
Sebastian kept his own expression bland. “Why do you ask?”
“Curiosity only.”
Sebastian raised one eyebrow. “Really?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“No.”
Ramadani gave a sharp bark of laughter. “Very well. Let’s cut to the chase, as you English say, shall we? I am curious, yes, but with a purpose. Incidents of this nature can be dangerous. There are those who might seek to use this unfortunate young man’s death to drive a wedge between our two nations.”
“Such as?”
The Ambassador reached for the tall glass and silver water pipe that stood beside him and began to prepare it, loading the bowl with tobacco and covering the tobacco with a fine metal screen. “For me to answer that question would not be diplomatic, now, would it?”
Seba stian chose his words carefully. “If you have some knowledge of the circumstances which led to Ross’s death, I would be interested to hear of it.”
“If I learn anything, you will of course be the first to know.” From a perforated covered brass box, the Turk extracted glowing coals and carefully placed them atop the screen.
“You have smoked the narguileh?” asked the Ambassador, handing him one of the pipe’s two hoses. “In northern Africa I believe they call it the shisha.”
“I have, yes.” The wooden mouthpiece was decorated with smoothly polished nuggets of aquamarine and garnet. Holding it between his lips, Sebastian inhaled, the charcoal flaring as the air was pulled through the tobacco and down to bubble up through the water. The smoke was cool and faintly flavored with mint.
“It is a vice, I am told,” said Ramadani, sucking on his own hose. “But then, some of life’s greatest pleasures are so labeled; is this not true?”
The soft patter of footsteps and a faint waft of jasmine drew Sebastian’s attention to the door. Small and delicate and breathtakingly lovely, a woman slipped into the room.
Unlike her husband, Yasmina Ramadani was dressed in the style of her homeland, with a short fitted jacket of dark purple velvet worn over a white, filmy silk blouse and a brocade divided skirt that Sebastian suspected Miss Jarvis would love. A necklace of gold coins draped her long, thin neck; on her head she wore a purple velvet cap edged with more small gold coins. But her hair flowed loose, a glorious cascade of auburn-tinted dark waves. She looked to be somewhere in her twenties, with almond-shaped eyes, a long nose, and full, sensuous lips that broke into a wide smile.
“I believe you have not yet met my wife, Yasmina,” said the Ambassador.
Rising to his feet, Sebastian swept her a gracious bow. “Madame Ramadani. How do you do?”
He found himself looking into a pair of thickly lashed, piercingly intelligent green eyes. “Lord Devlin,” she said, extending a tiny, almost childlike hand. “My husband has told me much about you. Welcome to our home.”
Her English was good; exotically accented yet very clear. But then, a woman sent to seduce some of England’s finest would need to speak the language well.
“You like the narguileh?” she asked, coming to lounge gracefully on the carpet beside them. Rather than take her husband’s hose, she reached for Sebastian’s, her eyes on his as she took the mouthpiece between her full lips and sucked. Still holding his gaze, she pursed her lips and blew out a soft stream of mint-scented smoke.
“It’s certainly more pleasant than sniffing snuff.”
She gave a delighted laugh. “It does not shock you to see a woman smoke?”
“I’ve seen it before, in Egypt.”
“So you know our lands.”
“Not well, no.” He took the hose as she handed it back to him, her fingertips brushing his ever so discreetly. He said, “Do you miss Stanboul? Life is very different here, is it not?”
“It is, but not unpleasantly so—especially now that summer is here. I am very fond of your city’s parks. It is wonderful to be able to ride out every morning, even though we live in the middle of London. The Ambassador is an early riser, in the saddle always with the dawn. But me, I prefer to wait until the sun has chased away the mist.” She paused, her head tilting prettily to one side. “Do you ride in the park, my lord?”
“Sometimes, yes,” said Sebastian, once more drawing the sweetly scented tobacco deep into his lungs.
Her gaze holding his, her smile a warm secret that beckoned and tantalized, she reached once more to take the water pipe’s hose from his hand. “Then perhaps I shall see you there.”
His visit to the Turkish Ambassador’s residence left Sebastian with much food for thought as he turned his horses once more toward the east, to Stepney.
Until now, he’d given little credence to the rumors that Alexander Ross had been romantically entangled with the wife of the Turkish Ambassador. Not only did it fly in the face of everything he thought he had come to know about the man, but the logistics of such a liaison had seemed too fantastic to be credible.
Now he understood only too well how such a relationship could have come about. And yet he still found himself unwilling to believe it—although he also recognized that he could simply be allowing his sympathy for the dead man to cloud his judgment. There was certainly no doubt in his mind that Yasmina was a beautiful, brilliant young woman well versed in the arts of seduction—
and that her “husband” had attempted to set her to work her wiles on Sebastian himself.
Why? Sebastian wondered. To discover what he might have learned about Ross? Or to lure Sebastian to his own death?
By the time he drew up before the Swedish trader’s neat white brick house with the yellow shutters, the setting sun was throwing long shadows across the narrow, cobbled streets. The house’s shiny black door stood open wide. A red-faced, sweating constable on the footpath out front was shooing away a gawking crowd of half-grown boys. A hackney carriage waited nearby, the bay between the poles twitching its dark tail against the buzzing flies.
“What the devil?” said Sebastian, handing Tom the reins.
A small man in a modest top hat and with a pair of spectacles perched on the end of his nose came out of the house to walk down the short path. “My lord,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, pausing beside the curricle, his head tipped back so he could look up at Sebastian. “I gather you’ve come to see Mr. Lindquist?”
“I have, yes. Why?” asked Sebastian, hopping down to the flagway.
Lovejoy scratched the side of his nose. “Interesting. You see, he’s just been found dead.”
Chapter 34
“Murdered?” asked Sebastian as they walked together toward the house.
“I’d say so, yes. Unless you think he somehow bashed in his own head with a cudgel.”
Sebastian suppressed a smile. The magistrate was obviously becoming seriously aggrieved by Sebastian’s inability to be entirely forthcoming about his interest in the death of Alexander Ross. “Who found him?”
“The woman who comes in daily and does for him. She’d nipped down to the shops for some onions. By the time she came back, he was dead.”
Sebastian paused on the threshold. The house was small, with just a narrow hall and two rooms—a parlor and a dining room—on the ground floor. A steep staircase led up to the bedrooms and down to the kitchen. Carl Lindquist lay sprawled in a pool of blood just inside the parlor door, the back of his head a gruesome, crimson pulp. A gore-stained cudgel lay beside him.