Where Shadows Dance Read Free Page A

cloth.
    Sebastian eased the coat up over his shoulders. “Did you woo her, or bribe her?”
    “Pure filthy lucre, my lord.”
    Sebastian frowned. “That’s not good.”
    “I thought the same, my lord. I mean, there’s not many who’ve my way with the ladies, if I do say so myself. But that woman’ll talk to anyone who’s willing to pay her price.”
     
     
    Charles, Lord Jarvis, stood beside the window of the chambers set aside for his exclusive use in Carlton House, his gaze on the palace forecourt below.
    Since old King George had slipped irrevocably into madness some eighteen months before, the center of authority in London had shifted away from the ancient brick courtyards of St. James’s Palace to this, the extravagantly refurbished London residence of the Prince of Wales. And Jarvis—cousin to the King, brilliant, ruthless, and utterly dedicated to the preservation of the House of Hanover—had emerged even more prominently as the acknowledged power behind Prinny’s weak Regency.
    In his late fifties now, Jarvis was a big man, both tall and fleshy. Despite his heavy jowls and aquiline nose, he was still handsome, with a wide mouth that could smile in unexpected brilliance. It was a gift he used often, both to cajole and to deceive.
    “I tell you, it’s madness,” grumbled the Earl of Hendon, one of two men who had come here, to Jarvis’s chambers, to discuss the current state of affairs on the Continent.
    Jarvis glanced over at Hendon but kept his own counsel. He’d long ago learned the power that comes from listening while other men talk.
    “It’s far from madness,” said the second gentleman, Sir Hyde Foley, Undersecretary of State for Foreign Affairs. “Our troops under Wellington are making rapid progress in Spain. At the rate they’re going, we could be in Madrid by the middle of next month. And do you know why? Because Napoléon in his arrogance has now attacked Russia and is, as we speak, advancing on Moscow. How is it madness to send British troops to aid the Czar’s defenses?”
    “It’s madness for the same reason that Napoléon’s invasion of Russia is madness,” said Hendon, his face dark with emotion. Chancellor of the Exchequer under two different prime ministers, he was a sturdily built, barrel-chested man in his late sixties, with a shock of white hair and the brilliant blue eyes that were the hallmark of his family, the St. Cyrs. “We simply don’t have the manpower to fight the French in Spain and in Russia, defend India, and still protect Canada should the Americans decide to attack us there.”
    Foley made a deprecating sound. A wiry man in his midthirties, with dark hair and a narrow, sharp-boned face, the Undersecretary was proving to be a capable—and formidable—force in the Foreign Office. “The Americans have been threatening to attack us anytime these last four years. It hasn’t happened. Why should it happen now, when we’ve revoked the Orders in Council they found so odious?”
    “Because the bloody upstarts want Canada, that’s why! They have some crazy idea that God has given them the right to expand across the whole of the Continent, from the North Pole to the Pacific Ocean and the Gulf of Mexico.”
    Foley threw back his head and laughed. “Those rustics?”
    Hendon’s cheeks grew darker still. “Mark my words if they don’t do it—or try to.”
    “Gentlemen,” said Jarvis softly. “These arguments are premature. Discussions with the Czar’s representatives are still at the preliminary stage.”
    It was a lie, of course. The negotiations with the Russians had been nearly complete for more than a week. Only Hendon’s continuous, vociferous objections had prevented their finalization.
    “Just so,” said Hendon. He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Now you must excuse me. I have a meeting with Liverpool in a quarter of an hour.”
    “Of course,” said Jarvis, at his most gracious. He paused, then added with feigned concern, “I