What Angels Fear Page 18

  His gaze fell on a small, carved wooden box, sitting on the desk’s green leather top. If you want to hide something, went the adage, display it in plain sight. Sebastian flipped open the box’s wooden lid, and smiled.

  To the uninitiated, it was a simple if somewhat curious cylinder about six inches long and composed of a row of disks of white wood revolving on a central iron spindle. But to those who knew, it was a wheeled cipher, invented by an ingenious American named Thomas Jefferson. Each of the cylinder’s thirty-six disks contained the letters of the alphabet arranged randomly. If identical cylinders were used by two parties to encrypt and decipher their correspondence, the resulting code was virtually impossible to break.

  Sebastian held the cylinder between his hands, thoughtfully twirling the disks with his thumbs as he considered its implications. The Americans themselves had, curiously enough, recently abandoned the Jefferson cipher in favor of a far less secure device, while the English preferred, stubbornly, to rely upon their Black Chamber with its invisible inks to safeguard their secret correspondence. But the former American president’s clever little invention remained in favor with the Americans’ old ally, France.

  Sebastian turned his head, his attention caught suddenly by a faint sound. He had been aware all the while of footsteps rushing past in the hall outside as servants hurried to and fro. But he heard now a different stride, firmer and more deliberate; a tread that stopped abruptly before the library’s door.

  Sebastian dropped the cylinder into an inner pocket just as the door opened abruptly to flood the darkened room with light.

  Chapter 34

  A slender musketeer stood in the doorway, an oil lamp in one hand, his gaze shifting from Sebastian to the open box on the desk, then back again. He eased the door shut behind him with a soft click.

  “You have strayed far from the party, monsieur,” said Leo Pierrepont, setting the oil lamp he carried on a nearby table.

  “My apologies.” Sebastian pushed away from the desk. “I shall rejoin the other guests at once.”

  “I think not.” With a sideways lunge, the Frenchman snatched one of the rapiers from the library wall and brought it around, the sharp blade singing through the air to bring Sebastian to an abrupt halt some ten feet shy of the door. “I think, monsieur,” said Pierrepont, the tip of his blade executing a neat pattern through the air, “that you and I must have a little talk. No?”

  “A talk would be interesting”—Sebastian leapt back, levering his weight on one outflung arm so that he vaulted over the desk to land lightly behind it. Pierrepont came after him in a rush, sword flashing, just as Sebastian seized a gleaming Spanish rapier from the wall near the casement window and brought it up to catch the Frenchman’s descending blade with a clanging ring of metal—“all other things being equal,” said Sebastian, smiling.

  Pierrepont leapt back, panting lightly, his pale eyes bright with a strange glow of exhilaration. “It is you, isn’t it? Devlin? I’ve heard you’re a good swordsman—for an Englishman.”

  Sebastian laughed.

  Pierrepont lunged, the long blades clanging together as Sebastian parried easily.

  “Why did you kill Rachel York?” Sebastian asked almost conversationally, sliding away from the Frenchman’s flashing sword only to close again, his booted feet moving softly across the Oriental carpet. “What did you think? That she intended to lodge information against you?”

  “Information? Against me?” Pierrepont’s lips drew back in a smile as their swords came together again. “And what sort of information would that be, monsieur?”

  “Information about your little spy ring.”

  Pierrepont parried Sebastian’s lunge. “Your experiences in the war obviously overset your imagination, monsieur le vicomte.”

  “Perhaps. But I have enough of my wits left to reason that if what I’ve heard is true—if Rachel was feeding you tidbits of information gleaned from her noble lovers—then her death might suggest that at least some of the details of your activities have become known.”

  “And who has encouraged you in this fantasy? Hmm?”

  “What’s the matter, monsieur? Scared?” said Sebastian, just as Pierrepont launched a swift and brutal attack.

  The Frenchman was at the end of his thrust when Sebastian circled his blade and danced sideways to slide in, his own blade flashing. The tip of his rapier sliced neatly through the musketeer’s silk to the flesh beneath.

  Pierrepont leapt back, a thin line of bright red blood seeping through the white front of his shirt, his lips tightening into a grim smile. “We must fence together some other time, monsieur. If you don’t hang, that is.” Turning his head, he raised his voice to shout, “Arnaud. Robert. Aidez-moi.” The men were obviously close. The library door burst open, spilling two of Pierrepont’s burly footmen into the room.

  Sebastian tightened his grip on his rapier, his breath coming in pants. With his path to the door blocked, the only possible way out the room was through one of the long casements overlooking the rear garden. He hesitated for the briefest instant, then ran straight at the nearest window, one domino-wrapped arm flung up before his face to catch the worst of the impact as he crashed through in a shower of breaking glass and splintered wood.

  It was a drop of some six or eight feet to the snow below. Sebastian hit the ground hard, broken glass crunching beneath him as he scrambled to his feet and took off running across the snow-filled garden. From somewhere above came a woman’s scream. A man shouted; then Sebastian heard a yelp of pain as one of Pierrepont’s henchmen swung his leg over the jagged window glass and made as if to follow.

  “No. Let him go,” said Pierrepont, standing before the broken window, the palm of one hand pressed to his bleeding chest. “Let him go. . . .

  “For now.”

  The Earl of Hendon was in a big overstuffed armchair beside his library fire, a well-worn, leather-covered volume of Cicero lying open on his lap, when Sebastian walked in, the black loo-mask dangling from one finger.

  “Good heavens,” said the Earl after only the briefest of hesitations. “You look as if you’ve just fought the battle of the Spanish Main. And lost.”

  Sebastian swiped at a trickle of blood running down his cheek and laughed. Hendon was a master of the British art of unemotional calm. Only his tense lower jaw and subtly increased breathing betrayed any hint of shock or anxiety.

  Crossing to the brandy decanter warming on a small table near the fire, Sebastian eased out the cut-crystal stopper and soaked his handkerchief with the neat alcohol. “I’ve just had a rather interesting encounter with Monsieur Léon Pierrepont.”

  “Ah, yes. I’d heard he was to have a masquerade tonight.”

  “I found this in his library.” Reaching his left hand into his pocket, Sebastian produced the small cylinder and tossed it to his father.

  Hendon caught it neatly. “What is it?”

  Sebastian dabbed the alcohol-sodden cloth against first one, then the next of his various cuts, the breath hissing out through his clenched teeth. “It’s a Jefferson cipher. I think the man is spying for the French.” Sebastian watched his father’s broad, plain-featured face for some flicker of surprise. There was none. “You don’t strike me as being particularly shocked by the possibility.”

  Setting aside the cylinder, Hendon folded his hands, calmly, on the swell of his stomach. “About a year ago, a certain gentleman whose name is irrelevant allowed Monsieur Pierrepont to catch him in a potentially embarrassing escapade.”

  “Exactly what kind of escapade?”

  “A sexual one. The gentleman involved—let’s call him Mr. Smith, shall we—has somewhat unusual tastes. Tastes he’d prefer not be made public.”

  Sebastian pressed the handkerchief against the cut on his cheek and held it there. “And?”

  “He wisely realized the need to confess the entire sordid tale and ask for guidance. I discussed the matter with Lord Jarvis, and between the two of us, we decided we could use Mr. Smith.
”

  “You mean as a double agent, feeding selected information to the French via Pierrepont?” Sebastian tossed the blood-soaked cloth aside and poured himself a drink.

  “Yes.” The Earl shoved up from his chair and went to stand before the fire. “The French will always have spies and their spy masters in London. It’s better for us if at least some of the players are known. That way, they can be watched and the flow of potentially damaging information can be managed . . . to some extent.”

  “And Rachel York? Was she passing information to Pierrepont?”

  Hendon’s face went suddenly ashen. “Good God. Who told you that?”

  “The same person who told me about Pierrepont. Is it true? Was Rachel one of Pierrepont’s spies?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Sebastian fixed his father with a hard stare. “Are you sure? She wasn’t blackmailing you into passing government secrets to the French?”

  Hendon’s blue eyes flashed dangerously, his fists clenching at his sides. “My God. If you were anyone but my son, I’d call you out for that.”

  Sebastian slammed down his drink. “What else am I to think?

  The Earl stood very still, his jaw working back and forth in thought. He let out a strained sigh, then said, “That morning, the Tuesday she died, Rachel York came to me. She said she had in her possession a certain document that she was willing to sell.”

  “What sort of document?”

  Hendon hesitated.

  “What was it, damn it?”

  The Earl’s face had taken on an odd, ashen quality. “An affidavit, providing detailed proof of an indiscretion committed by your mother.”

  “My mother?”

  Sebastian knew an odd sense of dislocation. His mother had died long ago, in a yachting accident off the coast of Brighton the summer he was eleven. A kaleidoscope of memories from that time swirled around him, of sun-sparkled sea and a woman’s sweet laughter and a deep, profound sense of loss. He pushed them away. “Were you able to obtain this document?”

  “No. I told you, the girl was dead by the time I reached the chapel. I looked for it but she didn’t have it on her.”

  The coals on the hearth hissed, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the sudden, strained silence. “You do realize, don’t you,” said Sebastian, “that this document was very likely the motive for the killing?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Hendon fumbled in the pockets of his dressing gown and came up with his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. “The disclosure of its contents would embarrass me, but no more.”

  “How much were you willing to pay for it?”

  “Five thousand pounds.”

  Sebastian let out a low, soundless whistle. “There are those who would consider five thousand pounds more than sufficient motive for murder.”

  Hendon didn’t say anything, just set about the business of filling his pipe. Sebastian watched him tamp down the tobacco, his features set in hard, uncompromising lines. And it came to Sebastian how little, in some ways, he really knew his own father. “And if the man who killed Rachel York has this document now? What then?”

  Hendon shook his head. “I don’t think she brought it with her to the chapel. More likely than not she was planning to try to hold out for a higher price.”

  Sebastian supposed it possible, but it wasn’t particularly likely, given what he’d heard about Rachel’s nervousness and her plans to flee London. A deep disquiet bloomed within him. There was too much going on here that he didn’t understand, that he needed to understand if he were to have any hope of catching Rachel’s killer. “Did she tell you how she got her hands on this affidavit?”

  “No.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “Of course I asked. She refused to say.” Hendon swiped one of his big, beefy hands across his lower face. “Good God. If she was working for Pierrepont, then in all likelihood she got the document from him.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “No.”

  “She could have had another purpose, you know. If it were to become known that you were buying incriminating documents from a French spy, you’d be ruined.”

  Hendon stuck the stem of his pipe in his mouth and bit down on it hard. “It won’t become known.” Lighting a taper, he held it to the pipe’s bowl, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked hard, then blew out a stream of thin blue smoke. “You asked me to look into Pierrepont’s activities last Tuesday night.”

  “And?”

  “He did have a dinner party at his house that night. It was arranged hastily, for he’d only just returned from the country that morning.”

  “So he couldn’t have killed Rachel.”

  “Not necessarily. According to one of the guests, Pierrepont excused himself and was absent for a considerable period of time somewhere around nine or ten.”

  “Long enough to get to Westminster and back?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Sebastian swore softly and crudely. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me about this affidavit from the very beginning?”

  “I thought it irrelevant. I still think it irrelevant. What does it matter why Rachel York was in that church? Some brute simply happened upon her there, alone, and took advantage of it. He raped her and then he killed her. It happens all too frequently these days.”

  “Except that she was raped after she was killed.”

  Hendon’s mouth went slack around the stem of his pipe. “Good heavens. What manner of man would do such a thing?”

  “Someone who enjoys killing,” said Sebastian.

  He made his way back to the Rose and Crown through crooked byways filled with sparkling white snow that scrunched audibly beneath each step. A few stray flakes still floated down, lazy and peaceful in the night. It was as if, between them, the darkness and the snow hid all that was ugly, all that was horrible and dangerous about the city, so that he was aware suddenly of the beauty of the row of ancient stone arches fronting a nearby shop, and the intricate fretwork of the old timber-framed Tudor house beside it. And he wondered, which was more real, the ugliness or the beauty?

  He let out a soft sigh, his breath white in the cold air as he turned over and over in his mind what he’d learned that night, about his father, and about Leo Pierrepont and Rachel York. He wondered why a woman like Rachel York would have allowed herself to be drawn into the dangerous shadow world occupied by men such as Leo Pierrepont. What had driven her? Political convictions? Greed? Or had she somehow been coerced into acting against her will?

  Whatever her original motive, something had obviously gone badly wrong in Rachel York’s life. According to her neighbor, Rachel had been packing to leave London. The money she had hinted at, obviously, was to have come from Hendon. But it wouldn’t have been enough to lure away a woman on the threshold of a promising stage career. There was obviously something in Rachel’s life Sebastian was missing. Something important.

  He had nearly reached the Rose and Crown. As he had done so many times in the past, during the war, Sebastian paused just down the street, every sense alert to the subtle differences that could tell him his hiding place had been discovered. But all lay peaceful and quiet in the gently falling snow.

  He entered the inn’s public room, warm with the piney scent of fire and the murmur of sleepy voices, and made his way to the back of the inn and up the stairs to his chamber. What he needed, he decided, was to come to a better understanding of Rachel York’s life. In the morning, he would visit the foundling hospital where she’d volunteered once a week. And if Tom could find that maid, Mary Grant . . .

  Sebastian paused in the dim, drafty hall outside his door. He couldn’t say what had warned him. Some faint, lingering scent, perhaps. Or perhaps it was simply a vestige of the primitive instinct that alerts an animal returning to its lair that all is not entirely as he left it. Whatever it was, something told Sebastian even before he fit the key into the lock of his door that she was there.

  He hesitated for the briefest i
nstant. Then he pushed open the door and walked into his past.

  Chapter 35

  She sat in the battered old chair beside the hearth, her head tipped back so that the firelight played over the elegant curve of her long, graceful neck and brought out the hint of auburn in her dark hair. She had worn a cherry red velvet opera cloak that now lay discarded on a nearby table, but she had come to him still dressed in the costume of her character, Rosalind.

  “You picked the lock, I suppose.” Sebastian closed the door behind him and leaned back against it.

  “It’s a very old lock,” said Kat Boleyn, the barest hint of a smile touching the edges of her lips.

  He pushed away from the door and walked toward her. “Why did you come?”

  “You left your clothes at the theater. I brought them.”

  He didn’t bother to ask how she had found him here, at the Rose and Crown. She would have her ways, as he had his. It was a danger he had both acknowledged and accepted when he first decided to approach her.

  “You’re hurt,” she said when he came to stand before her, close enough that his legs almost touched hers, but not quite.

  “I went through a window.”

  “Leo found you, did he?”

  “What makes you think I went to see Pierrepont?”

  “There weren’t that many masquerades in Mayfair tonight.” She shifted subtly in her seat, so that her thigh just brushed his. “What sent you there?”

  “According to Hugh Gordon, Pierrepont is a French spy master.”

  She sat very still and quiet for a moment, then said, “And do you believe him?”

  Sebastian shrugged. “Gordon had no proof, of course. But I found a code cipher in Pierrepont’s library.” What Hendon had told Sebastian, he would keep to himself.

  “What has any of this to do with Rachel?”

  Sebastian turned away to swing off his cloak and hang it on a hook beside the bed. “I think she might have been passing Pierrepont information. She seems to have shared her favors with an interesting collection of men. Men in positions to know tidbits they might easily let slip, things like troop movements and shifting alliances and the thinking of those close to the King.”