Where Shadows Dance by C.S. Harris Page B

heavy tread in the hall and turned to find him standing in the doorway.
    “Is it true, then?” Lord Jarvis demanded without preamble, his gaze hard on his daughter’s face. “What Devlin tells me?”
    “It is.” Hero went back to the task of assembling her papers. “I hope you mean to wish me happy, Papa. But I expect you know me well enough to realize that I shall marry, with or without your blessing.”
    “I could cut you off.”
    “You could,” she acknowledged. Under the terms of her mother’s marriage settlement, her father had obligated himself to provide any daughters born of their union with a portion of not less than ten thousand pounds. That Jarvis could not avoid. But as Jarvis’s only surviving child, Hero stood to inherit a substantial chunk of all property not entailed to the male relative next in line to inherit the barony—in this instance a plump, vapid young man named Frederick Jarvis. It was well within Jarvis’s power to change his will and leave everything to Frederick.
    She said, “I’ve no doubt Cousin Frederick would be pleased.”
    Jarvis made a rude noise. “Cousin Frederick is a useless, addlebrained popinjay.”
    “True. I suppose you could always use your wealth to endow some charitable institution.”
    “Enough of this,” said Jarvis. “I’ve no intention of cutting you off and you know it.” He pointed a thick, steady finger at her. “But I intend to drive a hard bargain on the settlement, make no mistake about that.”
    “I should hope so.”
    He went to pour himself a glass of brandy from the carafe kept near the hearth. “The entire kingdom trembles with fear at the thought of displeasing me,” he said. “But not my own daughter.”
    She smiled. “And you know you would have it no other way.”
    “Would I?” He set aside the carafe with a soft thump. “I assume you have your reasons for what you are doing.”
    “You’re the one who is always pressing me to marry.”
    “But Devlin, Hero? Devlin? ”
    For more than thirty years, Jarvis had dedicated his life to safeguarding the stability of the British monarchy at home and expanding the nation’s power and influence overseas. Few dared to stand against him for long. Working quietly and ruthlessly through a network of informants, spies, and assassins, he was the kind of man who valued order and stability above all else, who had nothing but contempt for such maudlin concepts as “fairness” and “justice.” As far as Jarvis was concerned, the modern enthusiasm for “equality” constituted the greatest threat ever to confront civilization.
    But Devlin was a man for whom power and authority were never sacred, whose values were justice and reason, not expediency and privilege. In the course of his murder investigations, he had not hesitated to probe into the murkiest corners of Jarvis’s activities. Again and again, he had not only confronted the King’s powerful cousin, but dared to thwart him.
    And Hero had no doubt he would continue to do so in the future.
    She said, “Can you think of another man brave enough to marry Lord Jarvis’s daughter?”
    At that, her father gave a reluctant laugh. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes narrowing as he studied her pensively. She thought she held up under his scrutiny with remarkable calm.
    Then he said, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
    Tucking her notes under one arm, she turned toward the door and simply ignored the comment, saying, “Do you go with Mama and me to the reception for the Russian Ambassador at St. James’s Palace tonight? Or will you form one of the Prince’s retinue?”
    “I dine with the Prince. Which reminds me: Sir Hyde Foley tells me Devlin is investigating the possibility that the young man from the Foreign Office who died last week—Alexander Ross—was actually murdered. Do you know anything about that?”
    She looked back at him in surprise. “Ross? Whatever gave Devlin that idea?”
    “He hasn’t mentioned