Free Where Shadows Dance by C.S. Harris

the stall of some ignorant secondhand book dealer on the banks of the Thames. Bizarre, no?”
    “Will you buy it?” asked Sebastian, answering in the same language.
    De La Rocque tucked the book back into its row of tattered old volumes and switched to English. “If it is still here tomorrow, perhaps.”
    They turned to walk together beneath the soaring medieval windows. Sebastian said, “I understand you trained as a priest.”
    De La Rocque gave a faint, polite smile. “Under the ancien régime there were but two careers open to a nobleman’s son: the sword and the church. My three older brothers chose the Army. I was the bookish one, which meant I was consigned to the Jesuits at the tender age of seven. If things had worked out differently, I would have been a bishop by the age of thirty. Now—” He spread his arms wide, taking in the stalls displaying ribbons and gloves, the maids buying white scarves, the law students with their pale complexions and shiny coats, then dropped his hands back to his sides. “Behold my noble see.”
    “And would you have enjoyed being a bishop?”
    Rather than answering, he simply smiled and let his gaze drift away. “As flattering as your visit is, Monsieur le Vicomte, I’m afraid I can’t help but wonder why you have sought me out.”
    “I’m told you were acquainted with Alexander Ross.”
    “I was. But I fail to see—” The man’s eyes suddenly widened, his lips puckering as he chewed distractedly at the inside of his cheek. “Mon Dieu. Ross was murdered? Is that it?”
    “You obviously find the possibility somewhat disturbing,” said Sebastian. “Why?”
    “It is a natural reaction, is it not? To be troubled when one learns of the murder of a friend.”
    “Was Alexander Ross a friend?”
    “Of a sort.”
    “And what sort was that?”
    “Ross had a burgeoning interest in rare and old books.”
    Sebastian studied the other man’s small, narrow face. There’d been a few books on Ross’s shelves, but none of them had struck Sebastian as particularly old or rare. “He did?”
    “Mmm. From time to time I came into possession of a choice volume that interested him.”
    “Any kind of books in particular?”
    “Many of my books come out of France. With the dissolution of the monasteries there, countless volumes of astonishing antiquity have been thrown on the market.”
    “In France.”
    De La Rocque laughed. “Yes, well ... there are ways, you know.”
    “When was the last time you saw him?”
    De La Rocque shrugged. “Last week sometime, I suppose. Wednesday or Thursday, perhaps?”
    “Not Saturday night?”
    De La Rocque frowned as if with thought, then shook his head. “No. It was earlier. Wednesday. Yes, definitely Wednesday.”
    “Interesting. You see, I spoke to someone who rather thought they saw you leaving Ross’s rooms last Saturday night.”
    It was a lie, of course. But it was curious to watch the Frenchman’s reaction. Rather than appearing alarmed or angered at the possibility he might have been observed, he merely shrugged and said, “Saturday? No. Whoever told you that was mistaken.”
    “But you did sometimes visit Ross at his rooms?”
    “From time to time.”
    “Any idea who some of his other sources of old books might have been?”
    The Frenchman shook his head. “Sorry. No.”
    “How familiar were you with some of Ross’s other activities?”
    The Frenchman looked confused. “Other activities?”
    “I think you know what I’m talking about.”
    De La Rocque paused at the top of the steps, his gaze on the crowded, noisy square below. “There is a diplomatic revolution under way in Europe at the moment,” he said slowly. “The man who is your friend this morning may be your enemy this evening, and vice versa. That was Alexander Ross’s world. If I were you, Monsieur le Vicomte, I would tread carefully. Very carefully, indeed. You are wading into treacherous waters.”
    “Is that a threat?”
    “A threat?” The