Lovejoy sat very still. It was obvious what the Earl was trying to do, of course. This was hardly the first time Lovejoy had been confronted by an anxious father willing to do anything, say anything to save a beloved son. When it came to a father’s love for his child, Lovejoy supposed it made no difference, after all, whether the father was a blacksmith or a peer of the realm.
A heavy, sad sigh escaped Lovejoy’s chest. “There is the matter of Lord Devlin’s pistol, which was found on the body.”
“That’s just it. It’s not Sebastian’s pistol. It’s mine.”
Reaching for the wooden box he’d set on the desk, Hendon flipped open the brass clasps and flung back the lid. It was a dueling pistol case, Lovejoy realized. And there, nestled in green baize, lay the mate to the flintlock Constable Maitland had found on Rachel York’s body. The molded cradle for the pistol’s twin was conspicuously empty.
“They were given to me by my father,” said Hendon, “the Fourth Earl, shortly before his death. When I was Viscount Devlin.”
There was a small engraved brass plate affixed to the front of the box. Lovejoy leaned forward to read it. TO MY SON, ALISTAIR JAMES ST. CYR, VISCOUNT DEVLIN.
Lovejoy knew a moment of deep disquiet. “This proves nothing,” he said slowly. “You could have given these pistols to your own son at any time these past ten years or more.”
“My son has his own dueling pistols.” The Earl’s mouth curled up into a hard smile. “As a matter of fact, he was using them the very morning after that girl’s murder.”
“So I had heard.” Standing up, Lovejoy went to stare out the window overlooking the bare branches of the plane trees in Queen Square below. Not for an instant did he believe Lord Hendon’s tale. But if the Earl were to stick to this confession, if he were to insist that he and not his son had perpetrated that savage act of carnage in St. Matthew’s on Tuesday night . . . Abruptly, Lovejoy swung back to face him. “Describe for me the disposition of the body.”
“What?”
“Rachel York’s body. You say you killed her. You should be able to describe for me precisely how you left her. Where she was, what she would have looked like when she was found.”
Lovejoy watched, fascinated, as the nobleman’s face seem to collapse in upon itself, becoming pale and almost slack with horror, as if he were being forced to look again upon that bloodied, savaged body.
“She was in the Lady Chapel,” Hendon said, his voice hushed, strained. “On the altar steps, on her . . . on her back. She had her knees bent up, and there was blood. . . .” He swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat working with the effort. “The blood was everywhere.”
Reaching out, Lovejoy wrapped his hands around the wooden back of his desk chair and gripped it hard. “What was she wearing, my lord?”
“A gown. Some satin. I don’t remember the color.” Hendon paused. “And a pelisse. Velvet, I think. But both were ripped. And stained dark with her blood.” His eyes squeezed closed as if to block out a horrific vision, and he brought up one clenched hand to press the knuckles against his lips.
Lovejoy stared at the man standing across from him. They had been very, very careful to keep the more sordid details of Rachel York’s murder from the papers. The only way Hendon could have known these things was if he had seen Rachel York’s body himself . . . or had it described to him by someone who had seen her dead. By the man who had killed her.
Lovejoy pulled out his chair and sat down again. “You say you had an assignation to meet Miss York at St. Matthew’s?”
“That’s right.”
Lovejoy yanked a paper pad toward him and reached for his pen. “And for what time was this meeting scheduled?”
Hendon didn’t even hesitate. “Ten.”
Lovejoy looked up. “Ten? You’re quite certain, my lord?”
“Of course I’m certain. I arrived a few minutes late, but not by much.”
Lovejoy set aside his pen and pressed his fingertips together. “So you arrived at St. Matthew’s a few minutes after ten? And walked inside to meet her? Is that what you’re saying?”
Hendon’s heavy brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “That’s right.”
Lovejoy felt a sad, almost pained smile thin his lips. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, my lord. Miss York was killed sometime between five and eight o’clock, which is when St. Matthew of the Fields is locked every evening.”
“What are you talking about?” Lord Hendon’s fleshy face turned a dark, angry color, his voice booming out so loud that he brought the clerk, Collins, scurrying to the door in alarm. “I arranged to meet that woman in St. Matthew’s at ten, and the door in the north transept sure as hell wasn’t locked when I got there.”
Lovejoy held himself very still. “With all due respect, my lord, I believe you are attempting to protect your son by taking the blame for Rachel York’s murder yourself.” Reaching across the desk, Lovejoy closed the lid on the dueling pistols case and drew it toward him. “You’ll understand our need to keep this, of course. No doubt it shall prove to be a valuable piece of evidence. . . .” Lovejoy hesitated, then said it anyway. “At your son’s trial.”
Chapter 27
And grave robbers.
He pushed the thought from his mind. His assignation with Jumpin’ Jack Cochran and his crew wasn’t until midnight. There was much to do before then.
Sebastian lifted the collar of his coat against the damp and studied the house opposite. It was early enough that Kat hadn’t left for the theater yet. He could see her slim, elegant shape, silhouetted against the drawing room drapes, along with the shadow of what looked like a child. Puzzled, Sebastian crossed the street.
“I’ll announce myself,” he told the thin, mousy-haired maid who answered his knock at the door.
He was already taking the stairs to the first floor two at a time before the woman had recovered enough to say, “But—
He could hear Kat’s husky voice, even before he reached the drawing room door.
“There’s a saying, that a good foist must have the same talents as a good surgeon: an eagle’s eye, a lady’s hand, and a lion’s heart. An eagle’s eye to ascertain a purse’s precise location, a lady’s hand to slip lightly, nimbly into the man’s clothes, and a lion’s heart”—she paused, and he could hear the smile in her voice—“to fear not the consequences.”
“Gor. How did you do that?” said a voice Sebastian recognized as belonging to his young protege, Tom.
Sebastian could see them now, standing at the far end of the room with their backs to the door. Kat was wearing a black silk gown made high at the neck, with modest crepe sleeves that told him she must have only recently returned from Rachel York’s funeral. He couldn’t even begin to guess at the reason for Tom’s presence.
“Now let’s try it again,” she said, handing the boy a small silk purse. “This time, I’ll close my eyes while you hide it in one of your pockets. Try to detect the instant I lift it.” She squeezed her eyes shut.
Tom tucked the purse deep into his pocket. “Ready.”
Leaning against the door frame, Sebastian watched as Kat brushed past the boy once, then again, extricating the purse from his pocket on the second pass with deft, practiced skill. She was good. Very good. But then, before he’d met her, before she’d become one of Covent Garden’s most acclaimed actresses, this is what she had done, on the streets of London. This, and other things she rarely talked about.
“When you gonna lift it?” said Tom, still waiting patiently.
Kat laughed and waved the purse under the boy’s nose.
