“I was. Partially.”
“And it occurred to me that Madame Champagne may have heard far more of Ross’s argument with de La Rocque than she led you to believe. I thought I might try speaking to her myself, only she was just leaving as I drove up. I thought she looked . . . strangely furtive. So I followed her.”
Sebastian stared down at the Frenchwoman’s limply curled hands. The calluses on the fingertips were plainly visible.
Miss Jarvis followed his gaze.
He said, “She told me once that she loved music, but ... surely she’s too small to have strangled anyone.”
“She did say, ‘we,’ did she not? Somewhere, she must have a confederate. The gray-bearded man who worked for her at the coffee shop, perhaps?”
“Perhaps.” That would be for the authorities to deal with. Sebastian pushed to his feet. “What have you done with your maid?”
“She’s in my grandmother’s landau. I thought it would be less conspicuous than the barouche.”
“Is that why you changed your dress? So you’d be less ‘conspicuous’?”
“Under the circumstances, peacock feathers seemed somewhat inappropriate.”
He found himself smiling. Then his gaze fell to the dead woman beside them, and his smile faded.
“Her death saddens you,” said Miss Jarvis in a tone that told him she was both confused and disapproving.
“I liked her.”
“She was a traitor—”
“Not to France.”
“And a killer.”
“That’s what people do in war. We kill.”
“This was different.”
Sebastian shook his head. “No. Only less indiscriminate.”
She nodded to the sprawled, bloody body of the Undersecretary. “One could say the same of Foley. He killed the agents of his country’s enemy.”
“Foley didn’t kill for Britain’s sake. He murdered to protect himself—to cover up his betrayal of his own country. Madame Champagne was right: In a sense, he killed de La Rocque and Lindquist, even though he didn’t actually tighten the garrote or wield the cudgel. It was his vain, self-indulgent indiscretion that led to their deaths.”
Her gaze drifted back to the Frenchwoman’s now serene features. Sebastian saw two frown lines form between Hero’s eyes. She said, “I don’t understand how she could have been working for France. After what the Revolution did to her. To her son. Her husband ...”
“That was the France of 1792, of Robespierre and the Jacobins and the Terror. Not the France of Napoleon and the Grand Empire. It’s not unusual for those who love France to see the Emperor as a savior rather than —”
“A monster?”
“Well, yes.” Sebastian found himself wondering for how long Angelina had been an agent of the French. Since the days of the Directoire, perhaps? When she’d been in Venice and Spain?
“It still doesn’t make sense,” said Miss Jarvis. “If Angelina Champagne killed Lindquist and de La Rocque, and Sir Hyde killed Yasmina, then who killed Alexander Ross and Ezekiel Kincaid?”
“Ross’s Russian friend, Colonel Dimitri Chernishav. The problem is, I can’t prove it. And even if I could, the bastard has diplomatic immunity.”
Arriving at Colonel Dimitri Ivanovich Chernishav’s lodgings in Westminster, he found a two-wheeled covered cart drawn up in the pool of fitful light cast by the oil lamps mounted high on the walls of the Adingdon Buildings. Dressed in a long, flowing cape and with a silver-headed walking stick tucked up under one arm, the Russian was supervising the loading of a small ship’s desk onto the back of the mule-drawn cart.
“Going someplace?” asked Sebastian, eyeing the pile of portmanteaux, bandboxes, and trunks that still littered the flagway.
Chernishav looked around. “I’ve been recalled to Russia.”
“Oh? Problems?”
“My father. I fear he is gravely ill.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
Chernishav acknowledged his condolences with a small bow. “There is a ship leaving for St. Petersburg with the morning tide. The
“How fortuitous.” Sebastian studied the Russian’s florid, pleasant face. “You’ve heard about the deaths of Sir Hyde Foley and Angelina Champagne, I presume?”
“I have heard the dozen or so different versions of the tale making the rounds of the clubs, yes. None of them entirely accurate, I’ve no doubt, although one can of course guess at the truth. Poor Alexander. Who’d have thought he’d fall victim to the French here, in London, of all places?” Chernishav shook his head, his lips pressed into a sad smile. “At least you have brought him a measure of justice.”
“Not quite. You see, neither Foley nor Angelina Champagne killed Alexander Ross.” Sebastian paused. “You did.”
The Russian gave an incredulous laugh and turned to hand a bandbox up to the waiting man in the cart. “What possible reason could I have to kill Alexander?”
“You were never supposed to meet him at Cribb’s Parlour that night. Instead, he was waiting for you at his lodgings—at around eight, not midnight—and you found him very much at home and alive. He invited you in, perhaps even offered his old friend a glass of wine. After all, he’d just learned from Ezekiel Kincaid that the United States had declared war on Britain and he was doubtless concerned about what effect this new development would have on Russia’s chances of cementing an active alliance with Britain. Ross liked Russia; he had good memories of his time there and he wanted to see British troops deployed to help stop Napoleon from reaching Moscow. He had tried but failed to get in contact with Foley, so it makes sense he’d be anxious to discuss this latest development with his old friend.” Sebastian paused. “He didn’t expect his old friend to thrust a stiletto blade into the base of his skull.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Chernishav, turning to toss a portmanteau into the back of the cart.
Sebastian said, “I suppose it was an act of desperation, a spur-of-the-moment decision to kill Ross before he had a chance to pass his information on to his superiors at the Foreign Office. The ironic thing is, I’m not convinced Sir Hyde Foley wouldn’t have ordered Ross to keep the information to himself, even if Ross had lived long enough to report to him. But you had no way of knowing that, and I suppose it was a risk you felt you couldn’t afford to take. So when your good friend turned his back on you—perhaps to pour you another drink?—you quietly slipped your stiletto from your walking stick and drove it into the base of his skull. Then you stripped the bloody clothes from your good friend’s body, placed him in bed to make it look as if he had died naturally, and carried the bloodstained clothing away with you. You figured you could trust Jasper Cox to guard the secret for his own reasons, but you weren’t so sure about Ezekiel Kincaid. So you tracked him to the Bow and Ox in Rotherhithe and sent him a note purportedly from Jasper Cox, asking that he come to the St. Helena tea gardens—”
“This is preposterous!”
“Where you waylaid him and killed him, too. Probably also unnecessary, under the circumstances, but you’re nothing if not thorough. You drove his body to Bethnal Green wrapped in a tarp on the floor of your curricle and dumped him in a ditch. Then you had Ross’s bloodstained clothing cleaned and, after Sir Gareth Ross had returned
