Where Shadows Dance

“I don’t know. All I know is that your plans for that evening had nothing to do with a pint at Cribb’s Parlour. You went to Ross’s rooms to take delivery of Napoleon’s latest war briefing.”

The Russian’s face twisted into a disdainful sneer. “And you are aggrieved because I failed to disclose this fact to you? I told you before, Devlin; there is much involved here of which you are ignorant.”

Sebastian increased the torque on the man’s arm. “So, educate me.”

Chernishav gave a ragged laugh. “Break my arm if you feel you must. But it will serve no purpose. I still won’t tell you anything.”

“Let me help you out, shall I? The Russian Czar is pressing the British government for an active alliance that will involve a commitment of troops to help deflect Napoleon’s push toward Moscow. But certain elements within the government—the Earl of Hendon amongst them—are reluctant to divert troops to Russia at a time when they may soon be needed to protect Canada. Nevertheless, despite the lack of a formal treaty of alliance, the Foreign Office has been supplying Russia with copies of the French military dispatches, which regularly make their way out of Paris via a band of smugglers in contact with a certain rare-books collector named Antoine de La Rocque.”

“Ah.” The Russian looked thoughtful. “That I did not know. But it does help explain why he is now dead.”

“As is the Swedish trader Carl Lindquist,” said Sebastian.

“I never knew Mr. Lindquist.”

“Maybe not,” said Sebastian. “But Alexander Ross did.”

“Then perhaps, rather than assaulting diplomats in the street, you should instead consider turning your attention to someone who did have dealings with Alexander Ross, Antoine de La Rocque, and this Carl Lindquist.”

“As in, someone else in the Foreign Office?”

“It seems logical, does it not?”

Sebastian shifted his hold on the Russian Colonel. “The copy of the briefing you were to receive the night of July eighteenth—what happened to it?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m told Sir Hyde searched Alexander’s rooms the next morning, but the briefing was never found. We were given a new copy just a few days ago.”

Sebastian frowned. “Ross’s man, Poole, notified Sir Hyde as soon as he found Ross dead?”

“Yes. It was Sir Hyde who called Dr. Cooper.”

“And subtly suggested to the good doctor that Ross may have suffered from morbus cordis?”

“Perhaps. I wasn’t there.”

Sebastian gave a grim smile. “One last question. When we met at the Queen’s reception, you told me of a quarrel at Vauxhall between Ross and the Turkish Ambassador. You knew of the rumors that Madame Ramadani had seduced someone in the Foreign Office?”

“I had heard whispers, yes.”

“But you didn’t believe them?”

“I didn’t believe it was Alexander. You didn’t know him; I did. He was fiercely loyal, not only to his country but to his friends and to the woman he loved. He would never have played her false.”

“So where did the rumor originate?”

“One might suspect with the man who actually did allow himself to be seduced.”

Sebastian released the Russian and took a step back. “You mean, someone like Sir Hyde Foley?”

Chernishav adjusted his cravat. “I don’t know for certain. But it’s what I suspect, yes.”

With a rising sense of urgency, Sebastian tracked Foley from Downing Street to Carlton House to Whitehall. He was just turning in through the classical screen of the Admiralty when he heard the shrill, ungenteel accents of his tiger raised above the rumble of wagons and carriages in the street.

“Gov’nor!”

Sebastian turned to see Tom darting between a ponderous coal wagon and the high-stepping pair of shiny blacks pulling a phaeton.

“Gov’nor!” The tiger skidded to a halt, breathless. “We got somethin’! The wife o’ the under-keeper what lives in the lodge near the Corner recognized the carriage and dapple grays what come through the entrance to the park this mornin’. She says they belong to a livery stable on the Kentish Town Road. Seems Calhoun’s ma and the livery owner is real thick, and ’e tells Calhoun the rig was let to a cove by the name o’ Sullivan. Todd Sullivan.”

Sebastian frowned. “Sullivan? Who the blazes is he?”

“A weery rum character, according to Calhoun. ’Angs around the Castle Tavern!”

They took her to a wretched one-room stone cottage with a tattered thatch roof somewhere to the northwest of the city.

The cottage lay at the end of a rutted, overgrown lane, its windows broken and stuffed with rags, its yard empty and weed choked.

The coachman—a wizened little old cockney missing one ear—stabled the horses in a dilapidated lean-to, which told Hero they anticipated being here for a while, at least. Then he went to gather wood for a fire while his companions spread the crude table with bread and cheese and salami they washed down with ample swigs from a bottle of gin.

No one offered her either food or drink. But at least they didn’t tie her up. She was left to prowl the cottage’s dark, cramped confines, conscious always of Sullivan’s watchful gaze following her. Marie collapsed in a limp heap beside the grimy hearth, her body wracked with sobs punctuated by an occasional thin, reedy wail.

“There, there,” crooned Hero, going to draw the distraught woman awkwardly into her arms. “Don’t be afraid, Marie. They’re not going to hurt us. You’ll see. Everything will be all right.”

She looked up to find Sullivan smiling at her through narrowed eyes. “Feel sorry for her, do ye?”

“That amuses you for some reason?” said Hero stiffly.

“Aye, it does.” He took another deep swig of gin. “How ye think we knew where ye was going to be, and when ye was going to be there?” He nodded to the woman now sobbing quietly in Hero’s arms. “She told us. Sold ye to us, she did. For a guinea. Just didn’t know she was includin’ herself in the bargain.”

Marie lifted her head to display a pinched, tear-streaked face. “I did what you asked me to do!” she wailed, her pleading gaze fixed on their captor. “Why won’t you let me go? You’ve got her.”

But Sullivan only laughed and turned away.

Hero watched him go stand in the open doorway looking out on the sunbaked yard. Then she brought her gaze back to the abigail. “Why, Marie?” she asked, her voice kept low. “Why did you do it?”

The abigail sniffed, her features hardening into what looked very much like hatred. “You think I should have been content with your cast-off gowns and a few paltry trinkets, do you? You fancy that because you pay my wages you also bought my loyalty?”

“Oddly enough, yes,” said Hero, who paid her servants handsomely—for both philosophical and practical reasons.

The abigail’s lip curled with scorn. “You’re a fool.”

“Obviously.” Hero was tempted to add, But then, under the circumstances, I would venture to suggest that the appellation applies to you, as well. But she kept the observation to herself.

The abigail had already begun to weep again. And though Hero knew that her tears were driven as much by hatred of Hero as by fear and self-pity, Hero continued to hold the girl and do what she could to comfort her.

As the hours dragged on and the shadows in the yard lengthened, Hero found herself wondering, if Marie asked for her forgiveness, would she have the magnanimity to give it?

But the abigail never did.

They killed Marie just as dusk was beginning to send long shadows across the yard.

Nothing Hero could do would silence the woman’s incessant weeping. In the end, Sullivan simply drew an ugly, curved blade from his boot and walked over to grasp Marie by the hair. Hero saw him yank the woman’s head back and she looked quickly away. But she heard the maid’s rasping gurgle and the soft thump of her body sinking