What Angels Fear

He came to stand before her. “You?”

She lifted her head to meet his gaze. It had occurred to Kat that in Devlin she just might have found a potentially valuable ally, someone who had even more interest than she in tracking down the man who had met Rachel in that church. The trick would be in seeing that he learned what was needed to catch Rachel’s killer, but nothing more. “You know I can do it,” she said.

He knew. He knew about the years she had spent as a young girl in one of London’s most notorious rookeries, training as a pickpocket and a thief. And a whore.

She thought he might refuse. Instead he said, “All right. Although I can’t help but wonder why.”

“For auld lang syne?” she suggested.

“Maybe. And maybe because you’re scared. Even if you won’t say why.”

She thought for a moment that this time he would touch her. Then a faint thump from overhead drew her gaze toward the hall. “You must go,” she said quickly. “Come by tomorrow morning, early. I’ll tell you then what I’ve learned.”

“Uh-uh.” A hint of amusement deepened the lines beside his mouth. “I’ll find you.”

She let a slow smile spread across her face. “Why? Don’t you trust me?”

“Would you?”

Kat’s smile faded. Once, she had told him she loved him more than life itself and would never, ever let him go.

And then she’d told him it was all a lie, and hurt him so badly it had torn a hole in her own heart.

“No,” she said, and turned toward the stairs, leaving him standing alone in the cold morning light.

Chapter 14

Sir Henry Lovejoy took his position as chief magistrate of Queen Square very, very seriously. He often came into the Public Office early, to go over his case notes, and to study reprints of the decisions of his fellow magistrates.

It was a product of his upbringing, he supposed. That, and the habit of industry. Born of solidly respectable tradesman stock, Lovejoy had decided in midlife to become a magistrate only after having amassed a tidy independence as a merchant. Not a fortune, but a comfortable independence.

It was a shift in direction he hadn’t undertaken lightly, for Lovejoy was a methodical man who never did anything without prolonged and careful thought. He’d a number of reasons for this change in vocation, not the least of which was his conviction that a childless man ought to leave something worthwhile behind him, some contribution to society. And Sir Henry Lovejoy was, now, a childless man.

He was sitting at his desk, a muffler wrapped around his neck to ward off the morning chill, when Edward Maitland appeared in the open doorway and said, “Three Bow Street Runners had Devlin trapped at an old inn on Pudding Row, near St. Giles.”

“And?” said Lovejoy, looking up from his notes.

“He went out a window and escaped over the roof.”

Lovejoy sat back in his chair and peeled his eyeglasses off his nose.

“I’ve sent some of the lads over there to have a look around,” said Maitland. “Although I daresay there’s not much point.”

“Interesting.” Lovejoy chewed the earpiece of his spectacles. “Why do you suppose he’s still in London?”

“No place else to bolt, I expect.”

“A man of Devlin’s resources?” Lovejoy shook his head. “Hardly. How is Constable Simplot?”

“Still alive, sir. But he won’t last much longer, not with a sucking wound.”

Lovejoy nodded. The knife had punctured the young man’s lung. It would be only a matter of time now. Tipping his chair forward, Lovejoy searched amongst the litter on his desk. “What, precisely, have you discovered about this Rachel York?”

“What is there to find out?”

Lovejoy pressed his lips together and refrained from pointing out that if he’d known the answer to that question, they wouldn’t have needed to discover it. “You searched her rooms, of course?”

“First thing yesterday morning. When we spoke to the maid.” Maitland shrugged. “There was nothing of interest. I left one of the lads there, like you ordered, to watch the place overnight.” A waste of time and resources, his tone said clearly, although he would never voice such a thought aloud.

Lovejoy gave up looking for his schedule. “When am I due in court this morning?”

“At ten, sir.”

“Not enough time,” muttered Lovejoy. “I’ll have to clear my docket for this afternoon then.”

“Sir?” said Maitland.

“There are certain aspects of this case which disturb me, Constable. It warrants looking into further, and I intend to begin by viewing that unfortunate young woman’s rooms myself. Something is going on here. I might not know what it is yet, but there’s one thing I do know.” Lovejoy stuck his spectacles back on his nose. “I know I don’t like it.”

Chapter 15

Lady Amanda Wilcox didn’t discover that her brother Sebastian was wanted for the murder of an actress named Rachel York until the day after his infamous flight across London.

With the Season not yet properly under way, she had opted for a quiet evening at home in the company of her sixteen-year-old daughter, Stephanie. Neither her son, Bayard, nor his father—both of whom had presumably heard the news, having spent the night on the town—bothered to inform her of the scandal. And so it wasn’t until Thursday morning, when she came down for breakfast and found the Morning Post folded beside her place, as per her staff’s standing instructions, that Amanda learned of the social disaster looming over her family.

She was still at the breakfast table, drinking a cup of tea and staring at the Post, when her father, the Earl of Hendon, was announced.

He hurried into the breakfast parlor, still wrapped in his street coat and hat and bringing with him an unpleasant medley of smells, of freezing rain and coal smoke-choked fog. His fleshy face was haggard, his mouth slack, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He fixed her with a desperate stare and demanded without preamble, “Has he contacted you? Has he?”

“If you mean Sebastian,” said Amanda, pausing to take a calm sip of her tea, “I should rather think not.”

Hendon swung away, one hand coming up to shield his eyes, such a great sigh rumbling from his chest that she was embarrassed for him. “My God. Where is he? Why hasn’t he sought help from any of his friends or family?”

Amanda folded the paper and set it to one side. “Presumably because he knows his family.”

He turned to face her again, his hand falling slowly to his side. “I would do anything within my power to help him.”

“Then you’re a fool.”

His fierce blue gaze met hers, and held it. “He is my son.”

Amanda was the first to look away. “Of course,” she said dryly. “There is that.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “The only redeeming feature I can see to all of this is that since he was bound to disgrace us eventually, at least he had the courtesy to do it this year. Hopefully the worst of the scandal will have died down by next Season, when Stephanie makes her come out.”