Where Shadows Dance

“That, I can assure you, was mere oversight.”

“So tell me.”

“Very well.”

She listened to him in silence, then said, “Even if the French did kill Ross and de La Rocque—and Lindquist—I see no reason for them to kill either Kincaid or Yasmina Ramadani.”

“Not unless we’re missing something,” he agreed. The horse shied at a pig scuttling across the road before them, and he steadied it with a murmured word. “I’m beginning to think that while the most recent murders are in some way related to Ross’s death, they may actually have been committed by a different person.”

“What are you suggesting? That we’re dealing with four different killers?”

“Not four, no. But there could be two.”

The cottages of the village were closing in around them. She said, “One, the mystery man with the stiletto who killed Ross and Kincaid for some reason we don’t yet know—”

“Something we don’t know? Or something I don’t know?”

“And someone else,” she continued, ignoring the jibe, “who coincidentally killed de La Rocque, Lindquist, and Yasmina? I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.”

“Not coincidentally.” He turned into the yard of a rambling, half-timbered inn at the top of the village’s high street. “Tangentially.”

She stared up at the inn’s surrounding galleries. “Why are we stopping here?”

“To inform the local magistrate that he has several bodies out at Barham Wood to deal with.” He reined in beside the worn old mounting block in the corner of the yard. “And because Miss Hero Jarvis cannot ride into London on the back of a mudsplattered, hired hack.”

She slid off the bay’s back onto the high, flat stone. “I suppose we should also send word to Bow Street.”

“I already did.”

She looked up from straightening her skirts. “You did? When?”

“When I discovered where you were being held. I thought I might need help.” He met her frank gray eyes and found himself smiling. “I didn’t expect you to rescue yourself.”

“Feeling better?”

Hero smiled at her father. “Yes, thank you.”

She sat curled up beside a roaring fire in the library; Jarvis occupied the chair opposite, his gaze on her face. Around them, the house was quiet, the servants long since retired to bed. Since her return from Elstree, she had bathed and eaten a hearty meal, and spent considerable time consoling her hysterical, prostrate mother. Now she was quietly sipping a cup of tea liberally laced with brandy.

Devlin had insisted on remaining in Elstree to deal with the authorities, while sending her back to London in a hired coach. She’d argued, of course, but in the end she’d allowed herself to be persuaded. She was bone weary and emotionally drained, and beyond caring that he knew it.

“What can you tell me about whoever was behind this day’s work?” Jarvis asked now.

“Very little, I’m afraid. You may find something by investigating the contacts of that man, Sullivan. But I’ll be surprised.” She had no doubt he would be both thorough and ruthless in his determination to find the man or men responsible for kidnapping his daughter. But she also suspected that whoever they were dealing with had foreseen that—and made his moves accordingly.

Jarvis nodded. “It might have helped if you could have left one of them alive.”

She gave a soft chuckle. “So you could have interrogated him? Yes, I should have thought of that. Shockingly careless of me, wasn’t it?”

She won from him a wry answering smile. He said, “I am proud of you, you know. There aren’t many women who’d have the courage and fortitude to do what you did.”

“I think you might be surprised.”

He grunted and shifted in his chair to draw his snuffbox from his pocket. Flipping it open, he held a pinch to one nostril and sniffed. Then he sat thoughtfully for a time, one finger tapping the figured gold lid. He said, “I’ll never forgive him for this.”

“Devlin, you mean? He did find me.”

Jarvis’s jaw tightened. Watching him, it occurred to Hero for the first time that it rankled with her father, that despite all his spies and informants, Devlin had succeeded where he had failed.

“You wouldn’t have needed finding if his damnable habit of involving himself in murder investigations hadn’t caused you to be kidnapped.” He shot her a piercing look from beneath lowered brows. “You’re still determined to see this wedding go forward?”

“I am.”

He started to say something, then glanced away. And she suddenly thought, Good heavens; he knows about the child. Then she decided she must simply be overwrought and tired, for how could he?

Her father said, “He is my enemy. Yet you would make yourself his wife?”

“I suspect you are more his enemy than he is yours. He does not hesitate to stand against you when he believes you are in the wrong. But I do not believe he would go out of his way to cause you harm.”

He brought his gaze back to her face. “And you? Would you stand beside him? Against me?”

“I will stand for what I believe to be right, as I have always done. But I am your daughter, and ever will be.”

He pushed to his feet. “If anything should ever happen to you because of him, I’ll kill him.” He tucked his snuffbox back into his pocket. “Good night, my dear.”

She sat for a time after he had gone, her tea grown cold in her cup, the fire burnt low on the hearth. She’d told her father the truth when she said she didn’t believe Devlin would ever work against him without provocation. But she had no doubt that the day would come when the two men stood once more against each other. And what would she do then, as Jarvis’s daughter and Devlin’s wife?

She pondered the question long after she had retired for the night. But in the end she came no closer to a conclusion.

Later that night, Sebastian sat in one of the worn old chairs beside Gibson’s hearth. He had his head tipped back against the cracked leather upholstery and a brandy in one hand.

It was not his first brandy.

Gibson said, “Is she going to be all right, do you think?”

“Miss Jarvis? Aside from a measure of guilt over the death of her abigail, I think so, yes. She’s a remarkable woman.” And very much her father’s daughter, he thought, although he didn’t say it.

Gibson frowned. “Guilt? Whatever for? The abigail betrayed her.”

“I doubt the abigail knew what those men intended.”

“Probably not.” Gibson took a long drink. “I still can’t believe Miss Jarvis killed all three of them. My God.”

“I offered to take responsibility for the deaths myself, to spare her the unpleasantness and notoriety that will inevitably result. But she would have none of it.”

“I’d like to have seen Lovejoy’s face.”

Sebastian gave a soft laugh. “I think she frightens him.”

“You’re the only man I know whom she doesn’t frighten.”

Sebastian saw no reason to shatter his friend’s illusions.

Gibson said, “There’ll be an inquest, I suppose.”

“Yes. But it will be largely perfunctory.”

They drank in companionable silence for a while, each lost in his own thoughts. Then Sebastian sat forward, his elbows on his knees. “You’ve seen the bodies, Gibson; do you think it’s possible we’re dealing with two killers?