Where Shadows Dance

the Baltimore Mary dropped anchor and unloaded her cargo in near record time. She was supposed to undergo some repairs and negotiate a new cargo for the return journey. Instead, she weighed anchor and set sail just days later, leaving Mr. Kincaid behind.”

“Yes, well; he was dead, wasn’t he?”

“True. But the Baltimore Mary didn’t know that. Or at least, I get the impression they didn’t, since they seem to have made every effort to find him and nearly missed the tide waiting for him.”

Jasper Cox narrowed his eyes against the haze as the birds circled each other in the ring below. “I really don’t see what any of this has to do with me.”

On the stage before them, the black-gray cock rushed in, feathers flying as the birds struck and slashed. The red pyle reeled back, bleeding.

Sebastian said, “Don’t you? The thing is, you see, the only link I can find between Ezekiel Kincaid and Alexander Ross is you.”

“You’re assuming there is a link.”

“Oh, there’s a link, all right.”

“I’ll be damned if I see it.”

The red pyle was down, dazed. Sebastian said, “Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to see Ross dead?”

Cox kept his gaze on the stage. His bird was finished. After a moment, he said, “Actually ...” Then he shook his head. “No, it’s absurd to even think of it.”

“Think of what?”

Cox cast a quick glance around, then leaned in closer and dropped his voice. “I heard a rumor—don’t ask me who from, because I won’t tell you. But there are whispers that Yasmina Ramadani—the wife of the Turkish Ambassador—has made several conquests amongst the members of the diplomatic community, and that Ross was one of her paramours.”

Sebastian studied the man’s fleshy, sweaty face. It was the most preposterous suggestion he’d heard yet. “Are you seriously suggesting that Alexander Ross was conducting an illicit affair with the wife of the Turkish Ambassador?” Such an activity would have gone beyond mere folly and indiscretion to careen straight into the realm of the suicidal.

Cox shrugged. “She is a very beautiful woman.”

“You’ve seen her?”

“Oh, yes. She appears often in the park. She’s not as retiring as you might suppose, given her position. I understand she’s Greek. A Christian, in fact; from Corinth.”

“And it didn’t trouble you that your sister’s fiance was rumored to be involved with another man’s wife?”

“Of course it troubled me. But I only just heard it, and before I had the opportunity to confront Ross with the accusation, he died. What was the point then in pursuing the matter further? Sabrina is cut up enough about his death as it is, poor girl. Leave her with her image of a noble beloved brought too early to his grave. Why tarnish the sweetness of her memories?”

“Why indeed?” said Sebastian dryly. “Although I fail to see how the Turkish Ambassador’s wife could possibly have anything to do with Mr. Ezekiel Kincaid.”

“You’re the one who keeps insisting there’s some link between Kincaid and Ross. Not I.”

“So you’re suggesting—what? That the Turkish Ambassador killed Ross in a fit of jealousy?”

“It’s possible, isn’t it?”

Sebastian huffed an incredulous laugh and pushed to his feet. “Incidentally, where were you the night Ross died?”

“Good God. You think I remember?”

“Are you saying you don’t?”

Angry color flared in the other man’s cheeks. “As a matter of fact, I do. I was attending a dinner at the home of the Lord Mayor, in Lombard Street.”

“That should be easy enough to verify.”

“Please,” snapped Cox. “Be my guest.”

Leaving the cockpit, Sebastian turned to stroll along Birdcage Walk, his gaze drifting out over the darkened park beside him.

His first inclination had been to dismiss out of hand the suggestion that Alexander Ross had taken the Turkish Ambassador’s wife as his lover. Everything Sebastian had learned about Ross—his honor, his integrity—argued against it. And yet ...

And yet, Sebastian had known otherwise honorable men who took mistresses. Hadn’t the Earl of Hendon himself fathered Kat Boleyn by an actress he had in keeping? And then there was the legendary behavior of Sebastian’s own beautiful, faithless mother.

But he jerked his mind away from that.

There was no denying that for a woman of Yasmina Ramadani’s position and culture to welcome another man’s advances would be dangerous; if Yasmina and Ross had in truth become lovers, then both had knowingly courted death. Was it improbable? Yes. But they would hardly have been the first to count the world well lost for love.

Sebastian’s thoughts kept circling back to the inescapable fact that Cox’s rumor fit rather tidily with what Sebastian had already been told. Something had obviously caused enmity between Ross and the Turkish Ambassador. Something Ross had preferred not to disclose to his Russian friend.

In the end, Sebastian decided that until he knew for certain what that “something” was, it behooved him to keep an open mind.

Arriving back at Brook Street, he found a scrawled note from Paul Gibson that read simply, Complications. The word was heavily underscored.

Throwing down a quick glass of wine, Sebastian called for his curricle to be brought round. Then he set off once more for Tower Hill.

Chapter 28

Sebastian was raising his fist to knock on Gibson’s door when it opened to emit Mrs. Federico. She came bustling out, her shawl pulled up over her head against the cool breeze that had kicked up after dusk. Her habitual scowl was, if anything, fiercer than ever.

“The goings-on we’ve had here today!” she exclaimed, glaring at him. “I meant to be out of here hours ago, and more’s the pity that I wasn’t. Havy cavy, that’s what I call them people. Havy cavy!” She tied the ends of her shawl in a knot and stomped off down the hill without looking back.

Letting himself in, Sebastian found Gibson sprawled in one of the ancient cracked-leather armchairs beside the parlor hearth, a brandy in one hand, the stump of his bad leg propped up on a stool.

“No, don’t get up,” Sebastian said when his friend struggled to do so.

Gibson sat back with a grunt. “Is that god-awful woman finally gone?”

“She is.” Sebastian went to pour himself a glass of wine from the carafe near the window. “What havy-cavy ‘goings-on’ have you been subjecting poor Mrs. Federico to now?”

“Poor Mrs. Federico, indeed,” said Gibson. “I’ve had Jumpin’ Jack here today, is all.”

“Came to collect the body, did he?”

“Uh . . . no.”

Sebastian swung to face him. “No?”

“There’s a wee catch, you see. Someone has set a guard over their loved one’s new grave in St. George’s burial ground.”

Sebastian came to sit in the chair on the opposite side of the empty fireplace. “Well, that’s the devil’s own luck.” He thought for a moment, then said, “Can we bribe the guard? I mean, it’s not like we’re wanting to steal —”