Where Shadows Dance Read Online Free

to be finding a new position, he would be, wouldn’t he?”
    “True,” said Sebastian. “Still, I expect Poole found Ross easy enough to work for.” He was fishing, of course; for all he knew, Alexander Ross could have been the very devil of an employer.
    An unexpected glow came over the maidservant’s full, ruddy face. “Oh, Mr. Ross was a lovely gentleman. Ever so charming, he was. Always giving the children at the greengrocer’s up the street rides on his shoulders and bringing them little treats. Why, he even carried a scuttle of coal up the stairs for me once, when I mentioned me back was hurting. I was ever so grateful.”
    If the Scotswoman had been young and winsome, one might suspect the late Mr. Ross of having had designs on her virtue. But under the circumstances Sebastian decided the dead man could be acquitted of any such ulterior motives.
    Sebastian heaved a melancholy sigh. “They do say the good die young. I’d no notion he had a delicate heart.”
    “Nor had anyone. A more handsome, robust gentleman you never did see.”
    “Did he go out the night he died, I wonder, or have a quiet evening at home?”
    She frowned with the effort of memory. “I can’t rightly say. I think I did hear footsteps up and down the stairs a few times that night. But then, Mr. Ross was a great one for having visitors.”
    “And there’s always the other residents of the second and third floors, I suppose,” said Sebastian.
    She shook her head. “Oh, no. Old Mr. Osborne on the third floor is quite the recluse—and as deaf as Mrs. Blume here, to boot—while Mr. Griffen next to him spends his summers in the country.”
    “And the other set of rooms on the second floor?”
    “They’ve been empty these past two weeks.”
    “I see.” Sebastian held his hat in his hands and gave her an elegant bow. “Thank you, Miss—”
    “Jenny,” she supplied.
    “Thank you, Jenny. You’ve been most helpful.”
    He mounted the stairs to the second floor as light-footedly as he could, curious to see if it might be possible to minimize the racket. He was reaching the top step when the nearest door jerked open and a nattily dressed gentleman clutching an unwieldy bundle of clothes maneuvered through the opening and out into the hall.
    A softly plump man, he had rounded shoulders, a thin mustache, and a spreading bald spot made all the more conspicuous by his attempts to cover it with what was left of his long, straight dark hair. At the sight of Sebastian, he let out a shriek and staggered back, the bundle sliding to the floor with a soft plop.
    “Merciful heavens,” said the man, groping for his handkerchief and pressing the snowy folds to his loose lips. “You startled me. How long have you been standing there?”
    Sebastian mounted the final step. It was obviously possible, with care, to climb the stairs very quietly indeed. He said, “I’ve only just arrived, actually. I take it you’re Poole?”
    The valet gave a crisp bow. He looked to be somewhere in his forties or fifties, with heavy jowls and a second chin and dark brown eyes that reminded Sebastian of a sad puppy dog. “Noah Poole, yes. How may I be of service?”
    Sebastian’s gaze dropped to the bundle at their feet. “Off to the clothes fair in Rosemary Lane, are you?”
    The valet’s pale cheeks suffused with color, as if he’d been accused of doing something improper. He pulled back his round shoulders and said with a lisp that might or might not have been affected, “Sir Gareth has instructed me to dispose of Mr. Ross’s clothing here in London.”
    “Makes sense,” said Sebastian, pushing past the man to enter the drawing room beyond uninvited.
    It was a typical gentleman’s abode, all fine dark wood and burgundy and navy silk. Beyond the elegant chamber used as a combination drawing room and dining room, Sebastian could see a second chamber, a bedroom. From the looks of things, Ross might have just stepped out for a visit to his club. Noah Poole