What Angels Fear

clear?”

Kat sucked in a quick gasp just as quickly stifled, for she understood all too clearly what Wilcox intended. He was setting a trap to catch Sebastian and she was to be the bait.

Fear welled within her, hot and trembling, but she forced it down. Fear interfered with one’s ability to think, and she needed to think clearly. It occurred to her that whatever Wilcox’s carefully arranged plan, she could destroy it in an instant simply by refusing to go with him. Except there was something in Wilcox’s eyes that gave her pause. A man like this could kill without second thoughts or remorse. Kat knew what it would do to Sebastian, if he felt himself responsible for her death. A man driven by that kind of rage and guilt could make mistakes. Fatal mistakes.

She drew in a deep, cold breath of the smoke-fouled night air, felt the acrid burn of it tear at her throat. It tasted bitter in her mouth, bitter as fear. As if he could smell her fear, Wilcox’s smile widened.

It was the smile that decided her—the smile, and the man’s self-assured confidence in the success of whatever strategy he had devised to ensnare Sebastian St. Cyr. He obviously thought his plan infallible. But Kat knew Sebastian, knew the uncanny, animal-like keenness of his senses and the swiftness of his reflexes. Sebastian might be walking into a trap, but at least he would know it.

And so for the second time that evening, she met Tom’s gaze and held it, and slowly nodded. She could only hope he understood.

For a moment longer, Tom hesitated. Then he reached for the note and darted out into the street, brushing past Wilcox on the way. But on the cobbles the boy suddenly stopped, swinging back around, one hand coming up to clutch his hat tighter to his head. “And if’n the gov’nor don’t come?”

“Remind him what happened to Rachel York and Mary Grant,” said Wilcox, taking Kat’s arm and drawing her close to him with a firm grip. “He’ll come.”

Sebastian was changing his clothes in his room at the Rose and Crown when Tom came hurtling through the door, bringing with him the cold stench of the foggy night.

“God save us, gov’nor, but ’e’s nabbed her,” panted the boy, his eyes wide, his thin chest jerking with the effort to draw breath. “E’s nabbed Miss Kat.”

Sebastian whipped about. “What? What are you saying?

“Yer nevy’s papa. Lord Wilcox. Grabbed her right outside her ’ouse, he did, and give me this ’ere message for you. Said I was to tell you—”

Sebastian snatched the sealed missive from the boy’s outstretched hand and tore it open, his gaze scanning the cramped lines.

I have in my possession an item which I believe is of considerable interest to you. You may claim this item in person at the Prosperity Trading Company warehouse, below the Hermitage Dock. The rapidity of your response will ensure that the item remains undamaged.

Needless to say, you will come alone and unarmed. The consequences otherwise would be swift and unfortunate.

Sebastian felt a torrent of rage and fear sweep through him, a sick mingling of hot and cold that stole his breath and twisted at something vital deep within him. He knew Tom was still speaking, but the words were lost in the roaring in Sebastian’s ears.

He lifted his head to look directly at the boy. “What? Say that again.”

Something in Sebastian’s face made the boy take a step back, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath and swallowed hard. “It’s ’im, isn’t it? He’s the cove what you’ve been lookin’ for, the one what’s been killin’ them women. ’E said I was to remind you o’ what happened to them other two morts. Rachel York and Mary Grant.”

“Oh, Jesus.” Sebastian flung aside the note and grabbed his boots.

Behind him, Tom darted forward to pick up the fallen paper, his mouth moving soundlessly as he struggled to decipher the words. He looked up, his brows twitching together, his breathing still ragged. “You can’t be meaning to go there? To this wharf?”

Sebastian shoved one foot into a boot. He hadn’t realized the boy knew how to read. “What would you suggest I do instead?”

“But it’s a trap!”

“So I am aware.”

“What you thinkin’ yer gonna do? Just walk into it?”

“Not if I can help it.” He paused to grasp the boy’s shoulders. “But in case something should happen to me, I want you to go to my father, the Earl of Hendon. Tell him as much of the tale as you can.”

Tom’s nostrils flared as he jerked in air. “No earl’s gonna believe me! Not some snatcher off the streets.”

“Show him the note. It’s a pity it isn’t signed, but then, Wilcox is no fool.”

An unexpected gleam of delight danced in the boy’s eyes. “I lifted—” He broke off when Sebastian held up a warning hand. “What is it? What’d you ’ear?”

Coat in hand, Sebastian crossed swiftly to listen at the door. “Did someone follow you here?” The sounds were distant but unmistakable: a quickly hushed whisper, the soft and careful tread of men upon the stairs.

“No.” Tom’s eyes went wide. “But I seen a beak sittin’ in the taproom when I come in. I got the feelin’ ’e was waitin’ for someone.”

The footsteps were in the hall now.

Sebastian shrugged into his coat and started across the room. “I think we’ll go out the window,” he said, just as glass shattered and the casement frame flew in on a gust of cold, smoke-tinged air.

“Bloody hell,” swore Sebastian. Snatching up the straight-backed chair from the table, he smashed it into the chest of the black-bearded man whose bulky torso had appeared at the shattered window. The man gave a grunt and disappeared. Sebastian was swinging what was left of the chair at a second man’s gut when he heard a key grating in the door behind him. He swore again. Damn that innkeeper.

Chair still in hand, Sebastian spun to the door and found himself facing the big, blond-headed constable he remembered from that fatal night in Brook Street. “Tom, run,” said Sebastian over his shoulder as he and Edward Maitland circled each other, both men crouched and watchful. “Get to my father. Goddamn it,” he cried, when the boy simply stood there slack mouthed and frozen. “I said, run!”

The boy whirled toward the door.

Something hard and solid slammed into the side of Sebastian’s head. He staggered and tried to turn, but the world began to go black. The last thing he saw was the skinny, flailing arms of the boy, Tom, held fast in the hands of Sir Henry Lovejoy.

Chapter 59

Sebastian came awake to a sense of movement, to the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the clatter of carriage wheels jolting over uneven paving.

Through a dizzying spiral of pain, his thoughts flew at once to Kat. The horror of what he knew Wilcox would do to her was so powerful he was nearly shaking with the need to control it, with the need to keep himself from lashing out in mindless, useless frustration. He forced himself to keep his eyes closed and lie still, fighting down a wave of nausea that burned sour in his throat as he concentrated all his senses on the task of understanding the situation in which he now found himself.

He lay on the cracked leather seat of an old carriage. The forward seat. Rough ropes bit into his wrists, binding them together before him. His ankles were bound as well. But he could detect the steady breathing of only one other person in the carriage with him, a man who sat quiet and alert on the opposite seat. One man.

Which man?

Sebastian opened his eyes to find Sir Henry Lovejoy regarding him through narrowed, watchful brown eyes. “Well,” said Sebastian in a pleasantly conversational tone, “I wouldn’t have expected the Beau Brummell of Queen Square to willingly miss this.”