What Angels Fear

“But none of it’s true.”

“Of course not. Which is why it is in the best interests of those surrounding the Prince that I not be caught. Hence, the warning.” He peeled off his eyeglasses and tucked them into a pocket. It occurred to her that she hadn’t realized he wore them.

She watched him walk over to thrust his papers into a small leather case and snap it shut. “How long have they known about you?”

Something in her voice made Leo glance back at her and smile. “Worried they know about you, too, ma petite?” He shook his head. “I don’t think so. You may still give valuable service to France.”

“I don’t give a damn about France.”

He laughed. “I know you don’t. But you do hate England with a commendable—and very useful—passion. In my experience, those with an emotional motivation always make the best agents. A man who betrays his country for money, or because he has been caught in some foolish indiscretion, can all too frequently turn on you.” Leo puffed out his cheeks and let go a long, painful breath. “I should have realized it sooner.”

Kat shook her head. “Realized what?”

“There were four sets of documents taken from me the Sunday before Rachel was killed,” he said, shrugging into his coat. “In addition to Lord Frederick’s collection of letters and the royal birth certificate, there was also an affidavit relating to a certain indiscretion committed by your viscount’s mother, and a bill of sale for a ship and cargo reported by its owner as lost at sea.”

“I don’t understand.”

Leo adjusted the lapel of his coat. “The latter proved a most useful acquisition, since the perpetrator of that little insurance fraud happens to be a boon companion of the Prince. He hasn’t been in a position to provide us with many state secrets himself, but he’s been an invaluable source of information on other men’s peccadilloes and potential weaknesses—Lord Frederick’s unfortunate inclinations being only one of many.”

“What are you saying?”

“What I’m saying is that unless the Prince of Wales has recently taken to rape and all sorts of other ungodly occupations, then Rachel’s murderer is very likely your young viscount’s own brother-in-law, Martin, Lord Wilcox.”

Kat let out her breath in a rush. “Are you certain?”

“No. But I’d watch the man, if I were Devlin.” Pierrepont reached for his hat, then paused. “I gather Devlin doesn’t know you favor the French in this little war to which he devoted—what? Five years of his life?”

“It’s Ireland I fight for. Not the French. There is a difference.”

“Indeed there is,” Leo agreed, walking up to her. “But I suspect it’s a difference that would be lost on Devlin.” He reached out, his hand unexpectedly gentle as he touched her cheek. “Don’t fall in love with him again, ma petite. He’ll break your heart.”

Kat held herself very still. “I can control my own heart.”

Leo’s eyes crinkled into a smile that faded abruptly as he turned away. “Paris will be sending someone soon to take my place,” he said over his shoulder. “Be alert. He will contact you. You know the signal.”

Kat followed him, wordless, to the yard. She watched his traveling carriage disappear into the night. Then she lowered the veil over her face, remounted her horse, and rode away.

The fog lay heavy in the streets of London, a thick, throat-burning swirl of noxiousness that turned flickering gaslights into ghostly golden glows lost in the gloom.

Kat drew up before her house and handed the reins to her groom. “Stable them,” she said, sliding from the saddle. She stood for a moment, listening to the muffled beat of the horses’ hooves disappearing into the thickness of the night. Then she threw the train of her riding skirt over her arm and turned, just as a dark figure materialized from out of the mist. Kat sucked in a startled gasp.

“You ain’t seen the gov’nor, ’ave you?” said the boy, Tom.

Feeling vaguely ridiculous, Kat let go her breath in a soft sigh of relief. “I believe he received a note from his friend, Dr. Gibson. Perhaps he could tell you something.”

Tom shook his head. “It’s Gibson who’s wantin’ to see ’im. Somethin’ about a geegaw what was found in that mort’s hand.”

Kat paused at the base of her front steps. Someone was walking toward them on the footpath; a man with the flaring cape and measured gait of a gentleman.

“Miss Boleyn?” he said, one hand coming up to touch his hat brim as he paused beside her.

“Yes?” She knew a fission of fear, a precognition of understanding at the sight of his middle-aged, quietly smiling features. “May I help you?”

“I am Lord Wilcox,” said the man, his hand dropping ominously from his hat to slip inside his cape. “I must ask you to accompany me to my carriage.” He nodded into the mist-swirled darkness. “It’s just there, at the end of the street.”

Kat was aware of Tom tensing beside her, his eyes wide on the gentleman before them. “And if I refuse?” she said, her voice coming out low and husky.

His hand tightened around something just inside his cape and she realized it was a pistol he held there. A pistol he now lifted to point at her. His gaze noted the direction of her glance, and he smiled. “As you can see, that really is not an option.”

Chapter 57

Amanda was eleven the year her brother Richard told her the truth about their mother.

He’d been home from Eton that summer, ten years old and very full of himself. Amanda might have been a year his senior, but she was only a girl, after all, her world a tightly drawn circle of schoolroom and lessons and walks in the park with Nurse. She listened in shocked silence to Richard’s excitedly whispered tales of the revolting thing men did to women, about how they came together in a shameful, naked coupling of bodies. And then, while she was still retching in horror at the thought she might someday be forced to endure just such a vile invasion of her own body, Robert told her of the rumors he’d heard about their mother. About how the Countess of Hendon did that with other men besides her husband, Amanda’s father.

Amanda hadn’t believed Richard, of course. Oh, she’d seen enough activity amongst the estate’s farm animals to realize that that part of his information, at least, was probably correct. But she refused to believe what he said about their mother, about how the beautiful, laughing Countess did that with everyone from royal dukes to common footmen. Amanda hadn’t believed a word of it. Not a word.

But suggestions can have an insidious way of worming into a body’s soul and eating away at it. As summer stretched into autumn, Amanda found herself watching their mother. Watching the look that crept into the Countess’s sparkling blue eyes whenever a handsome man walked into the room. The way she tilted her pretty blond head and laughed when a man spoke to her. The way her lips could part and her breath catch when he took her hand.

And then one rare sunny day in September, when the Countess and her children were rusticating down in Cornwall and the Earl danced attendance, as usual, upon the King, Amanda escaped the schoolroom and went for a walk. The air was crisp and sweet with the earthy scent of plowed fields and sun-warmed pine needles, and she walked farther than she’d meant, farther than she was allowed. A restlessness had been building within her lately, an unsettled yearning that led her to leave the trim terraces of the gardens and the neatly hedged-in fields of the home farm behind, and penetrate deep into the wild tangle of forest that stretched away toward the sea.

It was there that she found them, in a sun-soaked hollow sheltered by a rocky outcropping from the brisk winds blowing off the white-capped water. The man lay on his back, his naked, sweat-slicked body stretched out long and lean, his neck arching in what seemed at first an agony. A woman sat astride him, her soft white lady’s hands holding his larger, darker ones cupped over her breasts, her lower lip gripped between her teeth, her eyes