by C. S. Harris
Madame Champagne had obviously retired for the night.
Smiling softly at the thought of what she’d told him, Sebastian pulled his hat low and slipped in through the side door to quietly climb the steep, straight flights of steps. The stairwell was dark, with no telltale slivers of light showing beneath either of the doors on the first floor, the inhabitant of the one doubtless out on the town, the other asleep. The servants would long since have retired to their attic rooms.
On the second-floor landing, he paused and listened. Sebastian’s hearing, like his eyesight, was acute. As a child he had simply assumed that everyone could see well enough to read in the dark and could hear whispered conversations from distant rooms. But in time he’d come to realize that his senses were so keen as to be considered uncanny by most. Wolflike, Kat used to call him....
But he shut his mind to that.
He listened carefully but heard only the distant murmur of voices from the coffee shop and the clip-clop of hooves, the whirl of carriage wheels, the laughter and footsteps from the street below.
Reaching into his pocket, he drew out a ring with a cluster of small metal shafts, their tips bent at various angles. Selecting one of the shafts, he slid its tip into the door’s keyhole. It was a thieves’ tool, a picklock, and it took only a delicate touch and good hearing to slide the tip through the lock’s gates and carefully press the levers aside. He heard the final click, and the lock sprang open.
Pocketing the tool, he slipped inside and quietly closed the door behind him.
The light filtering in through the drapes was dim but sufficient to enable him to see that the valet, Poole, had made little further progress in his assigned task. The comfortable clutter of a young gentleman’s existence lay undisturbed, as if Ross had only just stepped out and was expected back at any moment.
Sebastian started in the bedroom, methodically searching through drawers, checking the pockets of the few coats left in the cupboard. But Poole’s efforts were most apparent here. There was little left. He found a litter of stray buttons, a chit from Tattersall’s, an enameled snuffbox that looked unused, as if it had been a gift. The framed profile shade—or silhouette, as the French called them—of a young woman, shadowy curls framing a winsome face, hung above the bedside table. One could imagine Ross pausing to gaze fondly upon it before retiring for the evening, never to wake again.
Except that Alexander Ross had not died peacefully in his sleep. He had been violently murdered, his body put to bed by his killer.
So where had the murder actually taken place? Here, in this room? Or somewhere else?
Sebastian went over the room carefully, looking for traces of blood. He found none.
Frustrated, he moved to the main chamber. He glanced through the invites on the mantel. In addition to the invitation to the Queen’s reception for the Russian Ambassador, there were also cards for a function at the Swedish Embassy, a dinner with the American Consul, an assembly being given by the Portuguese Ambassador. Alexander Ross had been a handsome young man, a rising star at the Foreign Office, the heir to a barony betrothed to a wealthy and beautiful woman. The combination had obviously made him a popular guest in diplomatic circles.
Turning to a davenport desk standing near the hearth, Sebastian lifted the hinged top and sifted through the contents of the upper compartment. He found a few tradesmen’s bills, but none of them excessive or overly extravagant. Beside the bills lay a sheet of parchment with what appeared to be a half-written letter addressed to Viscount Melville, First Lord of the Admiralty.
Sir:
I am writing on behalf of a young American seaman, Mr.
Nathan Bateman, impressed off the coast of New Bedford, Massachusetts, by the HMS Rodney in June of 1809. The citizenship of Mr. Bateman has been firmly established by documents presented by his father, namely a
There the writing ended abruptly, as if Ross had been disturbed and set the letter aside to complete at a later time.
Thoughtfully tucking the letter into the pocket of his coat, Sebastian glanced quickly through the davenport’s drawers, then went to stand in the middle of the room. He was acutely conscious of the passage of time. The longer he stayed, the greater the risk that one of the occupants of the rooms below would awaken or return to hear the sound of footsteps overhead, or that someone in the street might look up and catch a whisper of movement behind the drapes.
He shifted his attention to looking for those things Ross might have preferred to keep hidden. He turned over the clock on the mantel, the cushions on the chairs; he felt behind furniture. Inside the frontispiece of a worn copy of The Meditations of Marcus Aurelius he discovered a folded sheet of parchment. Opening the page, he found himself staring at a curious line of numbers:
7-10-12-14-17
Puzzled, he was thrusting the page into his pocket when he heard a faint sound. The brush of cloth against cloth. The scuff of quiet footsteps on bare stair treads.
Sebastian slipped the book back onto its shelf and moved to station himself beside the door. Whoever was creeping up the stairs had reached the first floor now and was coming around to the second flight of steps.
Dressed as he was, in formal knee breeches and low shoes, Sebastian had no weapon, not even the dagger he habitually kept sheathed in his boot. He held himself very still, listening as the footsteps reached the top of the stairs.
One man, only, Sebastian thought.
He could hear the man’s quick breathing as he paused outside the door. Then Sebastian heard the soft click of metal against metal and recognized it for what it was: a picklock. He smiled into the darkness.
He heard the unseen intruder grunt, pleased but evidently not unduly surprised to find the door unlatched. There was a faint clatter of metal shafts clicking against their mates as the man put the thieves’ tool away. Then, as Sebastian watched, the door latch slowly turned. The panel swung inward and the intruder stepped into the room.
He was carrying a horn lantern, its light carefully shielded so that it formed only a narrow slash. But this was no ordinary thief. Like Sebastian, he wore evening clothes: satin knee breeches, a black coat, silk stockings, and silver-buckled shoes. Sebastian waited until he had taken two steps into the room. Then Sebastian reached out, grabbed the man by the back of his coat, and shoved him forward, hard.
Caught by surprise, the man stumbled, off balance. Sebastian slammed his foot into the back of the man’s right knee. With a startled cry, he crashed to his out-flung hands and knees; the lantern smashed and went out.
One hand still fisted in the back of the man’s coat, Sebastian brought his right arm across the front of the man’s throat and yanked him back, Sebastian’s right hand bracing against his own left elbow as he shifted his other hand to press against the back of the man’s head.
“hat the devil?” exclaimed the man, flailing around with his arms, trying to reach the unknown and unseen assailant behind him.
“Who are you?” whispered Sebastian, his lips close to the man’s ear. “What are you doing here?”
“Who the devil are you?” snarled the man, his nails raking across the back of Sebastian’s head and sending his top hat flying.
Sebastian tightened his chokehold. “I ask the questions. You answer them.”
“Bugger you,” spat the man and threw himself violently to one side.
They went down together, pain exploding across Sebastian’s ribs as he crashed into a small table that shattered beneath him. Sebastian lost his grip on the man’s neck and caught a heel in his groin. His breath left his body in a whoosh, and he rolled reflexively to one side.
Scrambling up onto his hands and knees, the man lunged through the open door into the hall. Diving after him, Sebastian caught the man’s foot and tried to yank him back. The shoe came off in Sebastian’s hand as the man reared up and pivoted to face him. Sebastian saw the gleam of a knife in his hand.
“Whoever you are,” sneered the man, “you just made your last mistake.”
Sebastian jerked his head back, the knife whistling through the air. Then he stepped forward and slammed the shoe against the side of the man’s head. The buckle bit deep, drawing blood.
Swearing, the man fell back, one hand swiping at the trickle of blood running down the side of his face. With a growl, he lunged at Sebastian, the knife clenched in his fist.
Sebastian sidestepped and felt his legs slam against the banister.
The man turned with a grin. “Got you, you bastard,” he said and lunged again.
His back to the banister, Sebastian dropped. With his gaze on the other man’s face, Sebastian knew the exact moment when the man realized what he’d done.
His lips twisted in a foul oath, the knife still clutched in his hand, he shot over the railing and plunged headfirst into the darkened stairwell.
Chapter 19
S ebastian rose slowly to his feet, his breath coming hard and fast. He started to close the door to Alexander Ross’s rooms, only to pause and reach in to snatch up his hat from where it had fallen. Then he charged down the stairs.
He found the man sprawled near the base of the flight of steps, his eyes open and fixed, his neck bent back at an unnatural angle.
“Hell and the devil confound it,” said Sebastian softly.
He realized he was still holding the man’s shoe; a gentleman’s shoe, barely worn, made of fine leather with a silver buckle. He dropped the shoe beside the body and eased the knife from the man’s tight fist. It was always possible the man had friends waiting outside.
Descending the remaining flight of stairs, Sebastian carefully let himself out. A mist was rolling in from the river. Standing on the flagway, he threw a quick glance up and down the street.
Nothing.
He drew the night air deep into his lungs and felt a twinge where the broken wood of the smashed table had raked across his side. Adjusting the set of his hat, he strode rapidly up the street toward Piccadilly. But when he reached the corner, he hesitated.
Since learning the bitter truth of his parentage, Sebastian had refused all attempts at communication from his father—from the Earl of Hendon, he corrected himself. But Kat was right. There was something he needed to do.
He turned his steps toward Grosvenor Square.
Once, the vast granite pile of the Earls of Hendon on Grosvenor Square had echoed with the shouts and laughter of a large, boisterous family. Now, all were alienated from one another, or dead, the house inhabited solely by one lonely old man and his servants.
Dismissing his father’s butler with a silent nod, Sebastian paused in the doorway of the library, his gaze on the man who sat dozing in his habitual, comfortably worn chair beside the hearth. He was still a large man, despite his sixty-odd years, his features blunt, a shock of thick white hair fallen over his forehead. He had his head tipped back, his mouth slack with sleep, his eyes closed. A book—doubtless The Orations of Cicero or some such work—lay open on his lap.
Of the three young boys Hendon called son, only the youngest, Sebastian, had shared the Earl’s love of classical literature. Sebastian’s enthusiasm for the works of Homer and Caesar had delighted the Earl, even if Sebastian’s reading tastes did range further afield than Hendon would have liked, to Catullus and Sappho and Petronius.
Yet the Earl’s pleasure in this youngest child’s precociousness had always been tinged with an element of odd perplexity that at times bordered on resentment. It was an attitude that both confused and hurt Sebastian, as a child. He’d never understood the sudden, icy aloofness that could tighten the Earl’s jaw and cause him to turn away.
Now he did.
For a long moment Sebastian simply stood in the doorway, awash in a complex swirl of emotions—anger and resentment mingling with hurt and an unwanted but powerful upsurge of love that startled him by its intensity. Then the Earl’s eyes fluttered open and the two men stared at each other from across the room.
Sebastian said stiffly, “I expected to find you abed.”
“I would have been, soon.” Hendon wiped one hand across his mouth but otherwise held himself quite still, as if afraid the least unstudied motion might cause his son—or, rather, the man he’d called son for nearly thirty years—to vanish from his sight. “Come in. Pour yourself a brandy.”
Sebastian shook his head. “I’m here to tell you that the notice of my engagement will appear in Monday’s Post.” Even to his own ears, his voice sounded tight, stilted.
He saw the delight mingled with surprise and wariness that leapt in the old man’s eyes. For years, Hendon had pressed Sebastian to marry, to beget the next St. Cyr heir. A supreme irony, given that the only St. Cyr blood flowing through Sebastian’s veins had come to him from his mother, the errant Countess who had in that way of noble families married her own distant cousin.
Hendon cleared his throat. “Your betrothal?”
Sebastian nodded. “I will be marrying Miss Hero Jarvis on Thursday.”
Hendon’s breath came out in a long hiss. “Jarvis?”
“Yes.”
“What madness is this?”
At that, Sebastian laughed. “The ceremony will take place at eleven in the chapel of the Archbishop of Canterbury, at Lambeth.”
Hendon stared back at him. “I am invited?”
“Yes.” Sebastian turned to leave.
“Devlin—”
He paused to look back, one eyebrow raised in silent inquiry.
“Thank you,” said Hendon.
But Sebastian found he did not trust himself to do more than nod.
Saturday, 25 July
The next morning dawned warm and clear.
Dressed in buckskin breeches, glossy black Hessians, and a drab olive riding coat, His Excellency Antonaki Ramadani, the Ambassador to the Court of St. James from the Sublime Porte, trotted sedately up Rotten Row. He might have been mistaken for any sun-darkened Englishman exercising his horse in Hyde Park. The only exotic touch came from the Ambassador’s mount, a magnificent bay Turkoman with a high pointed saddle covered in crimson velvet.
“Good morning, Your Excellency,” said Sebastian, bringing his own neat Arab mare in beside the Turk’s bay. “I was sorry we didn’t have the opportunity to meet at the Queen’s reception last night. I am Devlin.”
The Turk cast him a quick, speculative glance, then returned his gaze to the track before them. “I have heard of you.” His English was unexpectedly good, with only a faint, barely perceptible trace of accent. “You’re the peculiar English nobleman who enjoys solving murders. It’s—what? A hobby of yours?”
“I don’t know that I’d call it a hobby, exactly.”
“Oh? What would you describe it as?”
“An interest, perhaps.” Maybe a compulsion, Sebastian thought. Or a penance. But he didn’t say it.
Ramadani raised one eyebrow. “You think that young gentleman from the Foreign Office who died last week—Mr. Alexander Ross—was murdered.” It was a statement, not a question. “And you think I did it.”
Sebastian studied the Turk’s hard, closed face, with its full lips and light brown eyes. “You were seen arguing with him at Vauxhall last—When was it? Wednesday or Thursday?”
“Wednesday.” A faint smile crinkled the skin beside the man’s eyes. “As a diplomat, I am protected from prosecution in your country. Even if I did kill Ross, your government could not touch me.”
“So, did you kill him?”
The Turk huffed a soft laugh. “And if I said no, would you believe me?”
Sebastian smiled. “No.”
“Then why bother to ask?”
“Conversely, if you have immunity from prosecution, then why bother to deny it?”
“Because while I, personally, might not suffer from such an accusation, the relations between your government and mine would nevertheless be affected.”
“If it were true,�
� said Sebastian.
“If it were true,” agreed Ramadani. They trotted together in silence for a moment. Then the Turk said, “How was Ross killed?”
Sebastian watched the Ambassador’s face. “A stiletto thrust to the base of the skull. Know anyone who uses that method to dispose of his enemies?”
The Turk widened his eyes. “It’s an assassin’s trick.”
“An assassin’s trick common in the East, yes?”
Again, that faint hint of a smile. “I don’t know if I’d say it’s exactly common. But it is known there, yes.” He paused. “Personally, I prefer the garrote.”
“I’ll remember that,” said Sebastian.
The Turk laughed out loud and turned his horse to trot back up the Row.
Sebastian fell in beside him again. “Your argument with Ross at Vauxhall; what was it about?”
Ramadani threw him a quick, sideways glance. The smile was still there, but it had hardened. “Perhaps you should ask Mr. Ross’s superiors about that.”
“Somehow I get the impression the Foreign Office is being less than forthcoming about the events surrounding Ross’s death.”
“And you’re surprised?”
“No.”
“You would be ill suited to diplomacy, my lord. You are far too blunt and direct.” He gave Sebastian a sideways, appraising glance. “Although I think you can play a role when it suits you, yes?”
“Are you going to tell me the nature of your disagreement with Mr. Ross?”
“There is little to tell. Ross had approached me earlier, as the emissary of your Sir Hyde Foley. Let us just say that pressure is being brought to convince the Sultan to join the Czar of Russia in an alliance against Napoléon.”
“The Russians and the Porte did recently sign a treaty of peace,” said Sebastian.
“True. But a peace is not the same as an alliance. You must remember that the friendship between Paris and the Porte stretches back generations.”
“Yet Napoléon has shown he has designs on Egypt.”