a grave problem, Mr. Harriman. Your papers are forged. You are no more the heir to Baron Tolliver’s estate than I am.”
Marcus Harriman was a handsome, affable man and he smiled at Mr. Mitchum. “I think you must have made some mistake, Mitchum,” he said pleasantly. He’d refused a seat, and was standing near the window, looking out into the gathering storm. “Has someone been slandering me? Who knows of these accusations?”
Mr. Mitchum drew himself up, all offended dignity. “I believe I know how to be discreet, sir,” he said with a sniff. “So far I have passed my suspicions on to no one. I thought it only fair to give you a chance to right the situation.”
“Only fair,” Mr. Harriman echoed in his warm voice. “I do appreciate the chance to set things right, Mitchum. Perhaps you might show me where in the papers you find a flaw?”
Mr. Mitchum was well prepared, and he spread out the various proofs of identity on his desk as Mr. Harriman came round behind him. “Here,” he said, pointing to one clear forgery. “And here,” he added as Mr. Harriman leaned over him.
Mitchum saw his blood first, before he felt a thing, and he put his hands to his neck in a vain attempt to stanch it. There was no pain, a blessing, he thought. His wife’s face swam in front of his vision. A moment later he slumped forward, dead.
Marcus Harriman wiped the blade of his knife against the old lawyer’s coat, then slid it back under his waistcoat. He moved swiftly, scooping up the blood-soaked papers and stuffing them in the fire. He waited while they burned, then took the small shovel and scooped up some of the bright red coals, sprinkling them over the rug and the wood floor. The fire caught almost immediately.
He took a step back, admiring his handiwork. He hadn’t dared stay long enough in Rue du Pélican after he’d set the fire—it had been a rush attempt and in the end it had failed. This would be easier.
He glanced back at the lawyer. His wig had slipped from his head and landed in the pool of blood. He looked ridiculous, and Marcus laughed softly. Served the old fool right.
And a moment later he let himself out the door, closing it, and the fire, behind him.
19
Rohan moved through the candlelit hallways, threading his way around entwined couples. He knew he looked exquisite—he’d spent many hours on his toilette, and everything was as it should be. From the top of his perfectly curled and powdered wig, down the front of his gray satin coat encrusted in black pearls. His clocked stockings were made from the finest silk, and his evening shoes had diamonds on the high heels to match those on his fingers and in his ear.
He was of mixed feeling about those shoes. They were quite magnificent, and had cost a small fortune. One of many he could afford to waste. They matched his evening dress perfectly. And the heels added to his already considerable height, making him taller than any member or guest of the Heavenly Host. The problem was, he’d never managed to master the perfect, mincing walk. He had too much a tendency to stride, and half a lifetime living in the scented drawing rooms and bedrooms of France hadn’t been able to change that.
Early influences were often the strongest, he knew. And the first decade and a half of his life had been spent alternating between his father’s vast estates in Cornwall and his grandfather’s lands in Scotland. Cities were virtually unknown to a young boy with far too much energy, and he’d roamed the countryside, coming in each day covered with mud, an equally filthy spaniel or two by his side, sometimes with a brace of pheasant, sometimes with a string of trout from the nearby stream. He would dream, at times, of stretching out by that stream, his line in the water, a spaniel snuffling in the grass nearby, and he would think he was back in that well-nigh-perfect time in his life. And then the water would turn red with blood, and men were dead and dying all around, and he’d be holding his brother in his arms, trying to staunch the flow of life’s blood as Simon’s eyes slowly glazed, when he saw the pike just as it was thrown, and there was no way he could duck.
He’d wake up screaming, covered in sweat. It had been a great