Where Shadows Dance

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.”

?Well ... 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.”

?Sebastian ... 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