Where Shadows Dance sscm-6

by C. S. Harris

  Calhoun cleared his throat. “About the other matter you asked me to look into ...”

  Sebastian felt an unpleasant sensation pull across his chest. He ignored it. “Yes?”

  “I have it on excellent authority that Miss Hero Jarvis will be patronizing the opening of the New Steam Circus north of Bloomsbury this morning.”

  “The what?”

  “The New Steam Circus, my lord. It’s an exhibition of Mr. Trevithick’s latest steam locomotive. I believe the gate opens at eleven o’clock.”

  “I should be back before then. Have Tom bring my curricle around at a quarter till.” Sebastian adjusted his cuffs. “Tell, me: How, precisely, did you discover this?”

  “Miss Jarvis’s maid, my lord,” said Calhoun, holding up a fresh coat of navy Bath cloth.

  Sebastian eased the coat up over his shoulders. “Did you woo her, or bribe her?”

  “Pure filthy lucre, my lord.”

  Sebastian frowned. “That’s not good.”

  “I thought the same, my lord. I mean, there’s not many who’ve my way with the ladies, if I do say so myself. But that woman’ll talk to anyone who’s willing to pay her price.”

  Charles, Lord Jarvis, stood beside the window of the chambers set aside for his exclusive use in Carlton House, his gaze on the palace forecourt below.

  Since old King George had slipped irrevocably into madness some eighteen months before, the center of authority in London had shifted away from the ancient brick courtyards of St. James’s Palace to this, the extravagantly refurbished London residence of the Prince of Wales. And Jarvis—cousin to the King, brilliant, ruthless, and utterly dedicated to the preservation of the House of Hanover—had emerged even more prominently as the acknowledged power behind Prinny’s weak Regency.

  In his late fifties now, Jarvis was a big man, both tall and fleshy. Despite his heavy jowls and aquiline nose, he was still handsome, with a wide mouth that could smile in unexpected brilliance. It was a gift he used often, both to cajole and to deceive.

  “I tell you, it’s madness,” grumbled the Earl of Hendon, one of two men who had come here, to Jarvis’s chambers, to discuss the current state of affairs on the Continent.

  Jarvis glanced over at Hendon but kept his own counsel. He’d long ago learned the power that comes from listening while other men talk.

  “It’s far from madness,” said the second gentleman, Sir Hyde Foley, Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs. “Our troops under Wellington are making rapid progress in Spain. At the rate they’re going, we could be in Madrid by the middle of next month. And do you know why? Because Napoléon in his arrogance has now attacked Russia and is, as we speak, advancing on Moscow. How is it madness to send British troops to aid the Czar’s defenses?”

  “It’s madness for the same reason that Napoléon’s invasion of Russia is madness,” said Hendon, his face dark with emotion. Chancellor of the Exchequer under two different prime ministers, he was a sturdily built, barrel-chested man in his late sixties, with a shock of white hair and the brilliant blue eyes that were the hallmark of his family, the St. Cyrs. “We simply don’t have the manpower to fight the French in Spain and in Russia, defend India, and still protect Canada should the Americans decide to attack us there.”

  Foley made a deprecating sound. A wiry man in his midthirties, with dark hair and a narrow, sharp-boned face, the Undersecretary was proving to be a capable—and formidable—force in the Foreign Office. “The Americans have been threatening to attack us anytime these last four years. It hasn’t happened. Why should it happen now, when we’ve revoked the Orders in Council they found so odious?”

  “Because the bloody upstarts want Canada, that’s why! They have some crazy idea that God has given them the right to expand across the whole of the Continent, from the North Pole to the Pacific Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico.”

  Foley threw back his head and laughed. “Those rustics?”

  Hendon’s cheeks grew darker still. “Mark my words if they don’t do it—or try to.”

  “Gentlemen,” said Jarvis softly. “These arguments are premature. Discussions with the Czar’s representatives are still at the preliminary stage.”

  It was a lie, of course. The negotiations with the Russians had been nearly complete for more than a week. Only Hendon’s continuous, vociferous objections had prevented their finalization.

  “Just so,” said Hendon. He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Now you must excuse me. I have a meeting with Liverpool in a quarter of an hour.”

  “Of course,” said Jarvis, at his most gracious. He paused, then added with feigned concern, “I was grieved to hear that an unfortunate estrangement appears to have arisen between you and your son, Viscount Devlin.”

  Hendon’s jaw hardened. “No.”

  “Indeed?” Jarvis reached for his snuffbox. “Then I must have been misinformed. You relieve me, my lord.”

  Hendon bowed politely to first Jarvis, then Foley. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  After Hendon had gone, Foley came to stand beside Jarvis, his gaze, like Jarvis’s, on the scene below. As they watched, the Earl of Hendon emerged from the palace and walked rapidly across the paved forecourt.

  “He doesn’t know?” said Foley.

  “He suspects.”

  “You think he may be a problem?”

  “He may.” Jarvis raised a delicate pinch of snuff to his nostril and sniffed. “But don’t worry. I can deal with him.”

  Chapter 4

  T he coffeehouse known as Je Reviens occupied the ground floor of a gracefully proportioned sandstone-faced building of four stories on the western side of St. James’s Street. Through the coffeehouse’s elegant oriel window, Sebastian could see a paneled room crowded with cloth-covered tables and chairs filled even at this early hour with men drinking coffee or chocolate. It was an animated scene, the muted roar of the men’s voices and laughter spilling into the street as they passionately discussed everything from the latest horse race to Napoléon’s invasion of Russia and the new threats of war from the United States.

  He stood for a time on the footpath, breathing in the scent of freshly roasted coffee and watching quietly. Beside the door to the coffeehouse stood a second door. Pushing it open, he found himself in a well-scrubbed hall containing a steep, straight staircase that swept up to the rooms above. The stairs were of marble, uncarpeted. As Sebastian climbed to the first floor, his footsteps echoed hollowly.

  Since he had no knowledge of which rooms had once belonged to Alexander Ross, he knocked at both doors on the first floor. From behind the panels to his right came a surly male voice slurred with sleep. “Go away. You’ll get your money next week, I said!”

  The second door was opened by a middle-aged housemaid with an enormous bosom and a crown of curly, fiery red hair inadequately restrained by a freshly starched mobcap. “Mr. Ross?” she said in a rasping Scottish brogue, in answer to Sebastian’s question. “Ach, no; it’s old Mrs. Blume what lives here, sir. Ye’ll be wanting the forward rooms upstairs.” She jerked her head toward the staircase and leaned closer to add, “Only, ye won’t find him at home, I’m afraid. Died in his sleep just last Saturday, he did.”

  She stared at Sebastian expectantly, obviously more than willing to talk about the incident. Sebastian was quite happy to oblige.

  “Yes, I had heard,” he said. “We were friends. The thing is, you see, that I lent Ross a book a few weeks ago and was hoping to get it back.”

  “Ah, well, Mr. Ross’s man is up there still. Sir Gareth is paying his wages until the end of the month.”

  “Sir Gareth?”

  “His brother, Sir Gareth Ross.” She drew her head back, her gray eyes narrowing with suspicion. “I thought ye said ye was his friend?”

  “Oh, of course, Sir Gareth!” Sebastian affected a self-deprecating laugh. “I keep forgetting Gareth has inherited the title now. And how is he?”

  She gave a sad tsk. “Not well, poor man. They say he’s never
recovered from his injury, you know. He was able to travel down from Oxfordshire for Mr. Ross’s funeral, but he was that uncomfortable the whole while. Left for the Priory again just this morning, he did. He’s had to leave Mr. Poole to pack up everything for him.”

  Sebastian nodded understandingly. “So Poole is still Mr. Ross’s valet, is he?”

  “Oh, yes. Or I suppose we should say he was. He’s terribly broken up about poor Mr. Ross’s death.” She made an impish face and dropped her voice as if sharing a secret. “But then, seeing as how he’ll now need to be finding a new position, he would be, wouldn’t he?”

  “True,” said Sebastian. “Still, I expect Poole found Ross easy enough to work for.” He was fishing, of course; for all he knew, Alexander Ross could have been the very devil of an employer.

  An unexpected glow came over the maidservant’s full, ruddy face. “Oh, Mr. Ross was a lovely gentleman. Ever so charming, he was. Always giving the children at the greengrocer’s up the street rides on his shoulders and bringing them little treats. Why, he even carried a scuttle of coal up the stairs for me once, when I mentioned me back was hurting. I was ever so grateful.”

  If the Scotswoman had been young and winsome, one might suspect the late Mr. Ross of having had designs on her virtue. But under the circumstances Sebastian decided the dead man could be acquitted of any such ulterior motives.

  Sebastian heaved a melancholy sigh. “They do say the good die young. I’d no notion he had a delicate heart.”

  “Nor had anyone. A more handsome, robust gentleman you never did see.”

  “Did he go out the night he died, I wonder, or have a quiet evening at home?”

  She frowned with the effort of memory. “I can’t rightly say. I think I did hear footsteps up and down the stairs a few times that night. But then, Mr. Ross was a great one for having visitors.”

  “And there’s always the other residents of the second and third floors, I suppose,” said Sebastian.

  She shook her head. “Oh, no. Old Mr. Osborne on the third floor is quite the recluse—and as deaf as Mrs. Blume here, to boot—while Mr. Griffen next to him spends his summers in the country.”

  “And the other set of rooms on the second floor?”

  “They’ve been empty these past two weeks.”

  “I see.” Sebastian held his hat in his hands and gave her an elegant bow. “Thank you, Miss—”

  “Jenny,” she supplied.

  “Thank you, Jenny. You’ve been most helpful.”

  He mounted the stairs to the second floor as light-footedly as he could, curious to see if it might be possible to minimize the racket. He was reaching the top step when the nearest door jerked open and a nattily dressed gentleman clutching an unwieldy bundle of clothes maneuvered through the opening and out into the hall.

  A softly plump man, he had rounded shoulders, a thin mustache, and a spreading bald spot made all the more conspicuous by his attempts to cover it with what was left of his long, straight dark hair. At the sight of Sebastian, he let out a shriek and staggered back, the bundle sliding to the floor with a soft plop.

  “Merciful heavens,” said the man, groping for his handkerchief and pressing the snowy folds to his loose lips. “You startled me. How long have you been standing there?”

  Sebastian mounted the final step. It was obviously possible, with care, to climb the stairs very quietly indeed. He said, “I’ve only just arrived, actually. I take it you’re Poole?”

  The valet gave a crisp bow. He looked to be somewhere in his forties or fifties, with heavy jowls and a second chin and dark brown eyes that reminded Sebastian of a sad puppy dog. “Noah Poole, yes. How may I be of service?”

  Sebastian’s gaze dropped to the bundle at their feet. “Off to the clothes fair in Rosemary Lane, are you?”

  The valet’s pale cheeks suffused with color, as if he’d been accused of doing something improper. He pulled back his round shoulders and said with a lisp that might or might not have been affected, “Sir Gareth has instructed me to dispose of Mr. Ross’s clothing here in London.”

  “Makes sense,” said Sebastian, pushing past the man to enter the drawing room beyond uninvited.

  It was a typical gentleman’s abode, all fine dark wood and burgundy and navy silk. Beyond the elegant chamber used as a combination drawing room and dining room, Sebastian could see a second chamber, a bedroom. From the looks of things, Ross might have just stepped out for a visit to his club. Noah Poole was obviously in no hurry to complete his assigned task.

  “Actually,” said Sebastian, “I’m here to retrieve a book I lent Ross a couple of weeks ago. Scott’s Lady of the Lake. Have you seen it?”

  Poole blinked at him a few times. “And who might you be, if I may be so bold to ask?”

  Sebastian withdrew one of his cards and held it out between two fingers. “Devlin.”

  Poole’s well-trained jaw hung slack. There were few in this part of London—either above- or belowstairs—who had not heard of Viscount Devlin.

  The valet took the extended card with trembling fingers and gave another bow, this one considerably deeper and more obsequious than the first. “Oh, of course! Lord Devlin! I do beg your pardon.” He cleared his throat nervously. “I don’t recall seeing such a book, but I can assure you I will be more than happy to send it on to you should I come across it.”

  “That would be helpful, thank you.”

  Sebastian wandered the room, his gaze taking in the fine Adams cabinetry, the lyre-backed chairs covered in striped silk, the engraved invitations tucked into the frame of the gilded mirror over the hearth. Pausing, he found himself studying an invitation to that evening’s reception for the Russian Ambassador at St. James’s Palace.

  Behind him, Poole cleared his throat. “I understand you have something of a reputation for solving murders.”

  Sebastian glanced over at him. “Yes.”

  “But ... Mr. Ross died in his sleep. I discovered him myself.”

  “Must have been quite a shock for you.”

  Poole fumbled again for his handkerchief. “Indeed it was. You’ve no notion. I fear I’ve yet to recover my equilibrium.”

  Sebastian continued his slow perusal of the room. He would need to come back later tonight for a more thorough—and private—search. “Had Ross done anything unusual the day of his death? Anything that might have taxed his heart?”

  “Not to my knowledge, no. He was out most of the previous evening, so he arose a trifle later than normal. But Sir Hyde was never too particular about that sort of thing.”

  Sebastian swung around to stare back at the round little man. “Sir Hyde? You mean, Sir Hyde Foley?ʺ Sir Hyde Foley was the Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Which meant that the murdered Mr. Ross must—

  “But of course,” said Poole. “Mr. Ross worked for Sir Hyde at the Foreign Office.”

  Chapter 5

  S ebastianʹs gaze went again to the invitation to that evening’s reception at St. James’s Palace. The quiet murder of the unknown Mr. Ross had demanded investigation. But the stealthy assassination of a young gentleman from the Foreign Office opened up a host of disturbing possibilities.

  “At what time did Mr. Ross return from the Foreign Office that evening?” asked Sebastian.

  Poole frowned with the strain of remembrance. “A little later than the usual time, I believe. Although it’s difficult to remember for certain, now.”

  “Did he go out again that night?”

  “I couldn’t say, my lord. You see, it wasn’t long after his return that Mr. Ross informed me he wouldn’t be needing me for the remainder of the evening.” Poole hesitated. “Actually, I had the impression he was expecting someone later that night.”

  “A man or a woman?”

  “I was not informed.”

  “Is your chamber here, on the second floor?”

  Poole shook his head. “No, my lord; I am in the attic.” He nodded to a bellpull near the hearth. “Mr. Ross could summon me when
ever I was desired, but he did like his privacy.”

  “How long have you been with Mr. Ross?”

  “Ever since his return from Russia.”

  “Ross was in Russia?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  Once again, Sebastian’s gaze returned to the invitation tucked into the gilded frame. As heir to the Earl of Hendon, he had received a similar invitation. He’d had no intention of attending—before. But now ...

  He realized Noah Poole was still speaking. “And I’ve more than twenty years of experience as a gentleman’s gentleman,” he was saying, “so if you would by chance know of anyone who is in need of a valet, I’ve excellent recommendations.” The valet stood with his hands together as if in prayer, his lower lip caught between his teeth, his eyes wide and hopeful.

  “If I hear of anything, I’ll be certain to pass your name along.”

  Noah Poole gave a grateful nod and bowed.

  Sebastian was turning to leave when Poole cleared his throat again and said, “You might try speaking to Madame Champagne.”

  Sebastian paused to glance back at him. “Who?”

  “Angelina Champagne—the proprietor of the coffee shop on the ground floor. She owns the entire house, actually. She sits by that oriel window most of the day—and half the night, as well.” Poole swallowed, both his chins pulling back into his neck so that they nearly disappeared. “In my experience, there is little that escapes her attention.”

  “Thank you. That might be helpful,” said Sebastian, and went in search of Madame Champagne.

  But when he entered the fragrant, noisy coffee room on the ground floor, it was to be told that madame had stepped out and was not expected back until late in the afternoon.

  Sebastian slipped his watch from its pocket and frowned.

  It was nearly eleven o’clock.

  Driving himself in his curricle, Sebastian arrived in Bloomsbury to find the big square just to the north of the New Road filled with an enormous circular wooden enclosure that looked for all the world like some primitive fortress in the wilds of America. Vertical boards twelve to fifteen feet high discouraged the efforts of a motley crowd of curious onlookers from sneaking a peek at the steam locomotive without actually paying to enter the gate.