What Angels Fear

Sebastian glanced sideways at his young friend. “Who told you that?”

“Miss Kat.”

“Ah.”

They were nearing the Recital Rooms on Ryder Street. Faint strains of a violin could be heard, barely discernible above the rattle of carriage wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Leaning forward, Sebastian rapped on the front panel, then settled his hat low over his eyes and wound his scarf carefully about his lower face as the jarvey cut in close to the curb and pulled up in the shadowy netherworld between two streetlamps.

Sebastian stood in the shadows and watched the bejeweled, perfumed crowd of men and women descend the front steps of Compton’s Recital Rooms.

Even in this rarified collection of expensively dressed gentlefolk, Lord Frederick stood out, a handsome, urbane figure in flawless white linen and an inimitably cut coat. Laughing and talking amongst themselves, the small, self-absorbed group had just reached the footpath and turned toward the Mall, probably intending to sup at Richard’s, when Sebastian stepped forward, a dark figure half-hidden in shadow. “Lord Frederick?”

Lord Frederick turned. “Yes?”

“I was wondering if’n I might have a word with you, my lord?”

A shade of annoyance passed over the other man’s amicable features. “Not now, my good man. But you may come see me tomorrow, if you like.”

“If’n that’s the way you wants it,” said Sebastian, settling his hat even lower. “I was thinkin’ maybe you’d prefer a more private conversation, considering what I got to say. But I could come by your house in the mornin’, if’n you don’t mind your family findin’ out about your dealings with Rachel Y—”

Lord Frederick took a quick step forward, his breath hissing out a warning as he threw a glance back over his shoulder, as if to make certain his friends hadn’t heard. “For God’s sake, keep your voice down.”

Sebastian simply stared back at the man expectantly.

Lord Frederick hesitated, then said curtly, “Excuse me one moment.” Turning toward his friends, he said with a wide smile, “Go on without me. I’ll catch up with you later.” His smile faded the instant he swung back to Sebastian. “Who are you? What do you want?”

Sebastian shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his greatcoat, and rocked back and forth on his heels. “Well, you see, we found your name in Miss York’s appointment book—you do know Miss Rachel York, the one who was murdered Tuesday last in Westminster? We were wondering if you could tell us what it was doing there.”

Lord Frederick had an admirable control over his features. Not a flicker of either surprise or consternation showed in his smooth, amiable face. “You’re from Bow Street, I assume? I’m sorry, but my acquaintance with Miss York was entirely superficial. I really don’t see how I could possibly be of assistance to you.”

Sebastian sighed. “I was afraid you’d say somethin’ like that. The thing is, you can talk with me straight here and now, all nice and friendly. Or we can have our little chat down at Bow Street.”

“You’re bluffing. You wouldn’t dare.”

Sebastian met the other man’s gaze, and held it.

Lord Frederick looked away first. Pursing his lips, he blew out his breath in a long sigh, then gave a shaky laugh. “Very well. Miss York and I were having a little liaison. You know how these things are.”

“You mean, you was having sex with her.”

Lord Frederick laughed again, weakly. “Crudely put, but essentially accurate, yes.”

“And that’s all there was to it?”

“What more is there to such affairs?”

“Well, the answer to that might surprise you—leastways when the lady in question appears to have been working for the French.”

Fairchild might have control of his features, but he couldn’t stop the blood from draining from his face, leaving him looking pale and frightened.

Sebastian studied the other man with interest. “I’m guessing you’d have me believe you didn’t know about that?”

“No. Of course not. Are you quite certain of that?” Lord Frederick jerked out his handkerchief and pressed the fine folds of silk to his upper lip. “This is dreadful,” he said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief. “Just dreadful. There must be some mistake.”

The man was in obvious distress. But it was also true that he was no longer meeting Sebastian’s gaze.

“Where exactly were you last Tuesday night?”

“I spent the evening with the Prince, of course. Why?” Lord Frederick’s jaw went slack with sudden comprehension. “Good God. Surely you aren’t suggesting that I killed her?”

“You do have a motive. My lord.”

An unexpectedly powerful blaze of anger flared in the other man’s eyes. “You dare? You dare take that tone with me? What is your name? Hmm?” He stepped forward, his gaze narrowing as he tried to peer into Sebastian’s shadowy, muffled face. “Speak up, man. Who’s your superior at Bow Street? I swear to God, I’ll have your job over this.”

Sebastian smiled. “I never said I was with Bow Street.”

“What? Then who are you working for?” Fairchild demanded. But he spoke only to darkness and a scattering of dry leaves carried along by the night wind, for Sebastian had gone.

“He’s hiding something,” said Sebastian.

From the shelter of a columned portico, he and Tom watched as Lord Frederick strode briskly away, the tap-tap of his boot heels echoing eerily in the thickening fog. He had obviously changed his mind about rejoining his friends at supper; he was headed away from Richard’s in the Mall and toward Piccadilly instead.

Tom fidgeted with impatience. “Think he’s our man?”

“I’m not sure,” said Sebastian, one hand closing over Tom’s shoulder to hold him back when he would have moved. “But it’ll be interesting to see where he goes.” They waited until their quarry was almost out of sight. Then Sebastian squeezed the boy’s shoulder and let him go.

“Now,” said Sebastian.

With the grace and noiseless gait of an alley cat, Tom slipped from behind the column and darted forward, a shadow following a shadow through the mist-filled night.

Chapter 38

Sir Henry Lovejoy paused in the dressing room doorway and stared down at what was left of Mary Grant. They hadn’t covered the body yet, and the smell of her blood hung thick in the air. He was glad he hadn’t had a chance to eat his supper yet.

“There’s no doubt this time as to who did it,” said Edward Maitland.

Lovejoy glanced back at his constable. “There’s not?”

“We have a witness.” Maitland flipped open his notebook and turned it toward the golden pool of light cast by one of the oil lamps they’d lit. “A Mrs. Charles Lavery. She saw Lord Devlin leaving the building this afternoon.”

“She’s sure it was Devlin?”

“Said she knows the Viscount. Her husband served with Devlin in Spain.” Maitland closed his notebook with a snap. “No doubt he’s our man, sir.”

Lovejoy crouched down beside the dead woman and studied her face. She was young, but not particularly attractive. Nothing like Rachel York. “Why this woman? Why go through all the bother of tracking her down?”

“She knew Rachel York had gone to St. Matthew’s that night to meet him.” Maitland shrugged his expensively tailored shoulders. “So he kills her to shut her up.”

“But she’d already told us about that.” Lovejoy’s gaze drifted around the disordered room. “What else did she know, I wonder? And what do you suppose he was looking for?”

“Money,” Maitland suggested. “Or something to sell. Jewelry perhaps.”

“We’re dealing with the heir to an earldom here. Not some petty thief.”