What Angels Fear

innuendo.

“You may, of course, fortify yourself against the cold with whatever vestments you require,” Lovejoy said hastily.

An unexpected gleam of amusement flared in those terrible yellow eyes, then died. “Thank you,” said Viscount Devlin. And for the second time that day, Sir Henry Lovejoy was left with the perplexing impression that, beneath the surface, all was not precisely as it seemed.

Chapter 7

A half hour later, Sebastian paused at the top of his front steps, one hand resting lightly on the rail. The temperature was falling rapidly with the approach of evening, the fog thinning down to dirty wisps that hugged the pavement and curled around the unlit lampposts. He drew a cold, acrid breath of air deep into his lungs and let it out slowly.

He wasn’t particularly worried. His acquaintance with Rachel York had been both casual and decidedly noncarnal in nature. Whatever evidence might seem to implicate him in her death would surely be quickly discredited—even if he did have no intention of telling anyone where, precisely, he had been between the hours of five and eight the previous evening.

And yet as he started down the steps, Sebastian felt an odd sense of heightened awareness, a prickle of premonition. He was acutely conscious of the slow, ponderous movements of the big young constable behind him and the queer, high-pitched voice of the magistrate, Lovejoy, as he hesitated beside the open door of the waiting hackney and said something to the jarvey.

The hackney was an old one, an ancient landau with a low, rounded roof and sagging leather straps and a musty, stale odor. The senior constable, the one named Maitland, swung around suddenly to catch Sebastian’s arm in a rough grip and lean in close. “I daresay it’s quite a comedown from your usual mode of transportation,” said Maitland, his lips pulled back in a smile, his eyes hard. “Isn’t that right?” The man’s smile widened enough to show his clenched teeth, his fingers digging in hard. “My lord.”

Sebastian met the constable’s challenging blue stare with a tight smile of his own. “You’ll wrinkle my coat,” he said, one hand coming up to close around the constable’s wrist. It was a simple maneuver he’d learned in the mountains of Portugal, a trick of pressure applied at precisely the proper points. The constable sucked in a painful breath, his hand losing its hold on the coat as he took an unwary step back.

Days of stinking fog had left the stone steps slippery with a combination of coal soot and freezing condensation. One foot shooting off the edge of the first step, the constable spun around, his back slamming against the iron handrail as he scrambled to catch himself, missed, and went down on one knee on the second step. His top hat landed beside him.

He had pretensions to dandyism, this constable, with his artfully tousled blond curls and high shirt points and intricately arranged cravat. Clapping the hat back on his head, he straightened slowly, a dirty tear running down one leg of his expensive buff-colored breeches.

“Why, you bloody bastard.” Maitland’s jaw tightened, his nostrils flaring. But it was his hands Sebastian was watching. London constables didn’t usually to carry knives, although some of the more aggressive ones did. Maitland’s knife was a small, wicked thing, with a honed blade that shone even in the faint light of a dull afternoon. The constable smiled. “Try something like that again and you won’t live long enough to hang. My lord.”

It was all for bluster and effect; Sebastian knew that. But the younger constable—the one with the open face and big, oxlike body—threw a quick, worried glance toward the street, where Lovejoy stood with his back turned and one foot on the hackney step. “Good God, Maitland. Put that thing away before Sir Henry sees.”

He lurched forward, intending perhaps to shield the knife from the magistrate’s view. But he was big and clumsy, the wet granite steps treacherous. His feet slid out from beneath him in turn. With a startled cry, he pitched forward, straight into Maitland’s blade.

Sebastian watched the young man’s eyes widen with surprise, his face go slack.

“Jesus Christ.” Maitland let go of the knife’s hilt, his own features twisting with horror.

The young constable wavered on his feet, his gaze caught by the knife still protruding from his chest. A thin trickle of blood spilled from his mouth. “You’ve killed me,” he whispered, his gaze lifting to Maitland’s, his legs buckling beneath him.

Sebastian caught the young man as he fell. Blood spilled over Sebastian’s hands, down the front of his greatcoat. Lowering the gasping constable to the footpath, Sebastian ripped off his own neckcloth, pressed it to the bubbling wound in the constable’s chest. The fine linen turned red and sodden in his hand.

“Good God,” whispered Maitland, staggering down the last step, his face ashen.

“Get a doctor. Quickly,” snapped Sebastian.

Maitland stood with one arm wrapped around the area railing as if for support, his eyes wide and staring.

“Bloody hell. Sir Henry, if you would—”

Sebastian pivoted on one knee to find Lovejoy standing on the hackney’s steps, his little face pinched with shock. “My lord,” said the magistrate. “What have you done?”

“What have I done?” said Sebastian.

Still grasping the railing, Constable Maitland’s wide-eyed gaze lifted from Simplot to the magistrate. “He stabbed him,” Maitland suddenly shouted. “He stabbed Simplot!”

Sebastian stared down at the man in his arms. A cold, misty rain had begun to fall, bringing a dark sheen to the paving stones and dampening the graying face of the dying man. Sebastian had seen enough death, from Italy and the West Indies, to Portugal, to recognize the signs when he saw them. The man would die, and Sebastian would be blamed for this death, just as he was already being blamed for the murder of a West End actress he had barely known.

He had considered that a misunderstanding, an inconvenience simply dealt with. Not so simple now, he thought. Easing his hands from beneath the constable’s shoulders, Sebastian rose to his feet.

Brook Street, once empty, now resounded with the tramp of approaching footsteps as two Inns of Court Volunteers, dressed in scarlet with yellow facings, white waistcoats and breeches, and black gaiters, appeared around the corner from Davies Street. “You men,” shouted Sir Henry Lovejoy from the carriage’s open doorway, one trembling hand extended to point, damningly, at Sebastian. “Seize that gentleman. Constable Maitland. Snap out of it.”

Shaking his head as if to clear it, Maitland pushed away from the railing in a clumsy rush. Sebastian stopped him with a right hook that caught the constable under the chin and sent him reeling back to slam against the stucco wall.

The rain was falling harder now. Someone shouted. The footsteps broke into a run. Sebastian spun around. Calculating the distance to the hackney’s box, he leapt, landing beside the startled jarvey with a force that set the old landau rocking on its sagging straps.

“ ’Ere, ’ere!” said the jarvey, his bloodshot eyes opening wide in a gnarled, gray-whiskered face. “You ain’t allowed up ’ere with me.”

“Then I suggest you get down.” Seizing the reins, Sebastian tweaked the whip from the man’s slack grip and snapped the leather thong over the bays’ ears. The ancient carriage jerked forward.

“ ’Oly ’ell,” gasped the jarvey, and dived for the footpath.

Sebastian threw a quick glance behind him. The Inns of Court men had stopped to kneel beside the wounded constable. But Maitland was running in the carriage’s wake, his arms and legs pumping, his face twisted with determination. “Stop that hackney! The man’s a murderer.”

“Shit,” said Sebastian, and spanked the reins hard against the bays’ flanks.

Without checking at the corner, he swung onto New Bond Street, cutting between a wide-wheeled freight wagon and a high-wheeled gig driven by a fat man in a yellow coat. The yellow-coated man jerked on his reins, his