“No,” said Sebastian. “Regarding what?”
“There’s been
Sebastian knew a rising coil of anger and frustration and something that felt much like helplessness. “You can’t mean Yasmina Ramadani?”
“Yes, that’s it; Madame Ramadani.”
“May I?” asked Sebastian, going to crouch down beside the body.
“Please.” Sir Henry’s voice sounded strained. “I would more than welcome any assistance you can provide in making sense of all this. I’ve already been informed by the offices of both the Prime Minister and the Foreign Minister that to have the wife of an ambassador to the Court of St. James meet with foul play in our city— particularly an ambassador from a state as strategically located as Ottoman Turkey—is not only diplomatically sensitive but also a profound national embarrassment.”
“Not to mention a personal tragedy.”
Sir Henry watched Sebastian draw back the sheet. “That aspect of the situation appears oddly irrelevant.”
The woman known as Yasmina Ramadani lay curled on her side, her thick-lashed hazel eyes wide and staring, her mouth parted, her head twisted back at an unnatural angle. Even in death, she was beautiful, her flesh as pearly and smooth as a statue. In contrast to her dress the day he saw her, she wore a cream silk walking gown caught up with a scarlet ribbon; a gold pendant nestled between her breasts; a reticule embroidered with red poppies rested near her hip, its ties still wrapped around her delicate wrist.
“Her neck is broken?” asked Sebastian softly.
“It appears to be, yes.”
Sebastian reached out to touch her pale cheek. She was already growing cold.
He pushed to his feet. “Who found her?”
“A maid. She chanced to notice that the door stood slightly ajar and went to close it. I’m told the latch is faulty and frequently fails to catch unless the door is firmly shut. Otherwise I doubt the poor woman would have been discovered until morning.”
Sebastian let his gaze drift around the small parlor. A tapestry-covered footstool lay overturned near the hearth; otherwise, the room appeared undisturbed. “What the devil was she doing here?”
“That I do not know. According to the landlord, Madame arrived alone just after two o’clock this afternoon and requested a private parlor. As far as we can tell, no one besides the Ambassador’s wife was seen entering or leaving the room.”
“What does her husband say?”
“He is devastated, naturally. But he claims to be utterly baffled by his wife’s activities.”
Sebastian brought his gaze back to the little magistrate’s grim-featured face. “You believe him?”
“One can hardly call the Ambassador to the Court of St. James from the Sublime Porte a liar.”
“You may not be able to,” said Sebastian. “But I can.”
His Excellency Antonaki Ramadani may have been devastated, but not so devastated as to forgo his usual evening ritual, which typically began with dinner at Steven’s before progressing to Limmer’s.
Located at the corner of Conduit and George streets just across from the Church of St. George, Limmer’s was the evening resort for the sporting world. A sprawling brick edifice from the previous century, the hotel essentially served as a late-night Tattersall’s. Pushing through the crowd that filled its dark, spartan public room, Sebastian found the Ambassador looking for all the world like a country squire in buckskins and high-top black leather boots, his only condescension to his presumed state of mourning being a black ribbon tied around his arm.
“Mind if I join you?” asked Sebastian, pulling out a nearby chair.
Ramadani met Sebastian’s gaze, his own narrowing. Then he turned to the slim, middle-aged man beside him and said quietly, “You’ll excuse us for a moment?”
Sebastian watched the former jockey walk away. “I didn’t know you were a passionate follower of the turf.”
“I find it amusing.” The Turk settled back in his chair. “Take a glass of the hotel’s famous gin punch with me, my lord? Or do you prefer port?”
“I’ll have the punch, thanks,” said Sebastian, watching the Ambassador signal the barmaid. “I was sorry to hear about the death of your wife.”
“It is tragic, is it not? She was a very beautiful woman.”
“She was indeed.” Sebastian waited while the barmaid set their punch on the table before them. “Who did she go to Queen Ann Street to meet?”
“That I do not know.”
“Really?”
The Turk returned a bland stare. “Difficult to believe, I know. But nonetheless true.”
Sebastian watched the Turk’s face—and his hands. “I’ve heard the oddest rumor: that Yasmina was not your wife. That she was in fact brought here to function as a spy.”
Ramadani gave him a thin, tight smile. He kept both hands wrapped around his punch, although he did not taste it. “Did you know that ambassadors posted to the Court of St. James are subjected to closer scrutiny by your government than at any other court in the world?”
“Closer even than at the Porte?”
“One might wish that we were so thorough. History tells us that Walpole spent a million pounds sterling on his secret service, and I am given to understand that such expenditures have only increased in the last seventy-five years. Our servants are bribed and hectored into becoming spies who read our private papers and report our every move. All incoming and outgoing mail is routed through the Foreign Office, where it is opened, read, copied, and then resealed before being sent on its way.”
“So you’re saying—what? That a nation with so little respect for the sanctity of the diplomatic corps shouldn’t object when some of its guest diplomats engage in a bit of their own spying?”
“I certainly wouldn’t expect such a people to stoop to murder.”
Sebastian sipped his gin punch. “Are you accusing the British government of murder?”
“The government?” Ramadani pursed his lips and shook his head. “Perhaps not. But certain members within that government? Now, that’s a different matter altogether.”
“Did you have anyone in particular in mind?”
The Turk gave a harsh smile. “May I suggest you address some of these questions to your prospective father-in-law? He is said to be omniscient, is he not? And the ruthlessness of his methods is legendary.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I told you I prefer the garrote, did I not?”
“Antoine de al Rocque was garroted.”
“True. But not by me,” said Ramadani.
And he walked away, leaving his gin punch untasted.
Charles, Lord Jarvis, was standing at the elbow of the Prince Regent in a gaming hell off Pickering Place when Sebastian walked up to him and said quietly, “If I might have a word with you, my lord. Outside.”
Annoyance and something else flared in the big man’s eyes. But he flattened his lips and turned to murmur his apologies to the Prince.
