What Angels Fear Read online

  “War can be quite lucrative.”

  “For some. But our future Regent, the Prince, has surrounded himself with men who adhere to another party. Let’s call them the Whigs, shall we? Now these Whigs, they tend to look to the future, rather than the past. They believe that if their country is to prosper and remain strong, there must be changes. They see that while this long, costly war has made some men very, very rich, the common people of the country have suffered. Terribly. So they say, ‘Why are we fighting this war? Napoleon is over there in his country, we’re over here in ours. We’re the ones who declared war on him. Why don’t we simply end this madness and have peace’?”

  “Why not, indeed,” said Pierrepont with a tight smile.

  “Now our villain, Napoleon, he’s not particularly anxious to continue this war, either. He’s looking forward to negotiating a peace treaty with the Whigs when they come to power. But because he’s a clever man, he decides it would be a good idea to increase his bargaining position. It occurs to him that one way to do that would be to have some kind of leverage with the gentleman everyone assumes will become Prime Minister when our Prince forms his new government.” Sebastian paused. “Let’s call this Whiggish gentleman Lord F, shall we?”

  The faintest hint of surprise flickered across the Frenchman’s face. “Go on.”

  “Now Napoleon, he has a secret supporter in Londontown, an individual we’ll call the Lion.”

  Pierrepont huffed a laugh. “Surely you can do better than that, monsieur?”

  “Sorry. Anyway, Napoleon instructs the Lion to discover Lord F’s weakness. All men have weaknesses, and it doesn’t take the Lion long to discover that Lord F has a preference for handsome young men. So the Lion comes up with a plan. He lures Lord F into an affair with a handsome young clerk in a sensitive position—let’s say the Foreign Office, shall we? And he arranges it so that the compromising rendezvous take place at the rooms of one of the Lion’s assistants, a passionate young revolutionary we’ll call . . .” Sebastian hesitated. “Let’s call her Rachel, shall we?”

  “It’s your story.”

  “So it is. The way I see it, the handsome young clerk entices Lord F to write some very compromising love letters, which find their way into the Lion’s possession. The trap is now set. All our villains need do is wait for Lord F to become Prime Minister.”

  “You are going someplace with this, I trust.”

  “Almost there,” said Sebastian, shifting his weight. “You see, as clever as this plan is, something goes wrong. Something frightens Rachel, and she decides to flee Londontown. She gets the bright idea that if she steals Lord Frederick’s incriminating letters—along with a few other valuable documents which the Lion has collected—and sells them to the interested parties, she can make a tidy sum with which to start a new life. She waits until the Lion is out of town, steals the documents, and sets about selling them.”

  Pierrepont kept his face blank. “Go on.”

  “Unfortunately for Rachel, the Lion has a change of plans. He comes home early from his country house party. He finds the documents missing, and it doesn’t take him long to figure out who has them. He follows Rachel to a meeting she has set up at St. Matthew of the Fields, and he kills her there in a very, very nasty way—as a warning, perhaps, to his other assistants, lest they be inclined to get similar bright ideas in the future.”

  Pierrepont let his arms dangle loosely at his sides. “It’s an entertaining story, monsieur le vicomte. You ought to consider writing for the stage. Or for children. But a story is all you have. You’ve no proof. And no idea at all of what you’re really caught up in. You’re a fool. You should have left London days ago, while you still could.”

  Sebastian’s lips pulled back into a hard smile. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. My mother’s affidavit—which I gather Rachel also stole from you; why did you have it? To put pressure on my father?”

  Pierrepont assumed an exaggerated expression of consternation. “Alors. Is there something in your father’s past that would make him vulnerable to pressure?”

  “Now who’s being the fool?” Sebastian raised the pistol and leveled it at the other man’s chest. “What was it for?”

  Pierrepont shrugged. “Evidence of dirty little secrets in the lives of important men are always useful.” He glanced toward the darkness beyond the open carriage house doors. But Sebastian had heard it long before—the sound of stealthy footfalls, coming through the garden. Fast.

  He slid off the bale, moving behind the Frenchman to catch him around the neck with one forearm and press the pistol’s muzzle against his temple.

  “Tell them to pull back,” Sebastian whispered. Then added, “Now!” when Pierrepont hesitated.

  “Restez-en là,” called Pierrepont. The footsteps stopped.

  “It might be a good idea to let them know we’re coming out. And don’t even think of trying anything,” Sebastian added, as Pierrepont called out again.

  “You’re wrong, you know,” said Pierrepont over his shoulder as Sebastian dragged him toward the entrance.

  “About what?”

  To his surprise, Pierrepont laughed. “About the rest of it, I won’t say. But you’re wrong in this,” he said, as Sebastian let him go and stepped back into the night. “I didn’t kill Rachel York.”

  Chapter 45

  A day of relative inactivity had left Jarvis feeling restless. Restless and impatient for the events to come. In less than thirty-six hours, the Prince of Wales would be sworn in as Regent. Tomorrow would be an entertaining day. Most entertaining.

  Some time after midnight, he set aside the report he’d been reading and stretched to his feet. The house lay empty and silent around him, all the troublesome women of his life having long ago retired to their respective rooms.

  Making his way down to the library, he poured himself a glass of brandy, then went to unlock the upper right-hand drawer of his desk and ease it open. It wasn’t often that Jarvis allowed himself the luxury of gloating, but he indulged himself now, sliding the paper out to hold it for a moment in his hands.

  Smiling softly to himself, he was just closing the drawer again when he heard his daughter’s voice. “Is something wrong?”

  He looked up to find her standing in the doorway, one hand cupped around the flickering flame of her chamberstick to shield it from drafts. She was a tall woman, Hero. Too tall, in Jarvis’s way of thinking, and far too thin, with narrow hips and no bosom. She had mousy brown hair she wore unstylishly long and straight, and lately she’d taken to pulling it back in a severe style more suited to some Evangelical missionary than to a young lady of fashion. But she’d let it down tonight, and in the golden glow of the candlelight it struck him suddenly that his daughter might actually be passably pretty, if she’d only try.

  He frowned and said, “What’s wrong is the way you’ve taken to doing your hair. You ought to wear it down more often. Get the front cut in curls the way they’re doing these days.”

  She gave a startled trill of laughter. “I’d look ridiculous in curls and you know it. And I wasn’t talking about me.” Her smile faded into a look of concern. “Are you certain you’re all right?”

  Jarvis had been blessed with a particularly winning smile. He’d learned long ago to use it, to reward and cajole and mislead. He used it now, and saw the lines of worry on his daughter’s face ease as she smiled back at him.

  “I’m fine, child,” he said, and turned the lock on the desk drawer.

  Chapter 46

  Kat closed her eyes, and smiled. The years of artifice and practiced calculation, of determinedly holding herself aloof, had slowly obliterated the memories. She’d forgotten what it could be like, forgotten the warm, inner glow of joy that could come from palms sliding over beloved, sweat-slicked skin. Forgotten, too, the stomach-clenching thrill of seeing familiar dark shoulders rise above her, the breath-catching delight of strong fingers capturing her hand to hold her a willing prisoner while soft lips
went aroving. She’d forgotten that beyond mere physical sensation and release, far beyond it, lay rapture and a union so spiritual in essence as to reach the sublime.

  The night around them lay quiet and dark, filled only with the ragged twining of their breath and the crackle of the fire on Kat’s bedroom hearth. Hands trembling, she clutched Sebastian’s tensing body to her, her legs tightening around his waist as she felt the shudders start to rip through him, heard him say her name in a tortured cry, felt his body pulsing so deep within her own.

  Afterward, he smoothed her hair from the dampness of her forehead, nestled her into the curve of his arm as he eased himself down beside her and kissed her softly below her ear. His smile was tender in the night. But already his eyelids were fluttering closed. She felt the strain and worries of the long day drain out of him, felt his arms go limp around her, and knew he slept.

  Sometimes, she’d learned, he had nightmares, memories of the war that could jerk him awake wide-eyed and sweating. But for now his sleep was undisturbed. Lying quietly beside him, she listened to him breathe, watched the play of firelight over the strong bones of his face. But when the emotions surging within her threatened to become overwhelming, she slipped away from him carefully so as not to wake him. Catching up a cashmere shawl from the back of a nearby chair, she went to stand looking out over the mist-shrouded parterres of the garden below.

  She had never stopped loving him. She supposed that in some secret, unacknowledged corner of her heart she’d always known the truth. She knew now, too, that beneath all the throbbing anger and hurt of the last six years, Sebastian’s love for her still burned, a warm and beautiful thing. But the hardest part of all was facing the stark realization that she was never going to stop loving him, that this pain of loving him would go on and on, stretching into all the bleak and lonely years to come.

  Letting the drapes settle back into place across the cold-frosted window, she turned again to the man who still lay gently sleeping in her bed. Her gaze roved over him, over the proud, aristocratic line of nose and jaw. For one weak moment she allowed herself to fall into a dangerous reverie, a seductive fantasy in which she imagined the future that could be theirs together if Sebastian were never to clear himself of this terrible crime of which he’d been accused; if rather than someday taking his place as the Earl of Hendon, he were to remain a fugitive forever.

  But she stopped short of actually wishing it might be, although a sigh stretched her chest and tears she would never let fall stung her eyes. For it was because Kat loved Sebastian so much that she had driven him from her six years ago. And she knew well this man she loved. She knew that as long as there was breath within him, Sebastian would keep fighting to clear his name.

  Or die trying.

  The next morning, the sun was little more than a faint promise on a misty horizon when Sebastian returned to the Rose and Crown. He was in his room having breakfast when Tom came in, bringing with him the smells of London, of snow and coal smoke and the roasting meats sold by the sidewalk vendors. “Gor, it’s colder than a witch’s tit out there,” he said, stomping his feet and blowing on his stiff red hands before holding them out to Sebastian’s fire.

  Sebastian looked up from buttering his toast. “Where are your gloves?”

  “I give ’em to Paddy.”

  “Paddy?”

  “Aye. Paddy O’Neal. He’s a neighbor of that actor cove, Hugh Gordon. And get this: accordin’ to Paddy, Gordon pinched the ’ackney Paddy’d sent one o’ the neighborhood lads to fetch for ’im last Tuesday night. ’E even threatened to plant Paddy a facer when the old codger give him what for.”

  Sebastian pushed back his chair and stood up. “Are you certain it was Tuesday night? This—er, old codger could have his days mixed up.”

  “Not that old bugger. Every Tuesday for the past fifteen years, ’e’s been takin’ part in a Perpetual Devotion on Lower Weymouth Street. His slot is from nine to ten, and that’s where ’e was goin’ when Gordon pinched the carriage.”

  Sebastian looked at the boy in surprise. “And how did you come to know about such things as Perpetual Devotions?”

  A faint line of color touched the boy’s cheeks, but all he said was, “I knows.”

  Sebastian let that pass. “So Gordon went out before nine?”

  Tom nodded. That’s right. And get this—our Paddy even knows where the cove went—‘eard ’im giving orders to the jarvey.”

  “And?”

  “He told the ’ackney driver to take ’im to Westminster.”

  Chapter 47

  Kat was in her dressing room, attending to her correspondence some hours after Sebastian had left, when her flustered maid showed Leo Pierrepont to the room. Kat looked up from her writing desk in surprise. “Is this wise, Leo?”

  Pierrepont tossed his hat onto a nearby table and went to stand before a window overlooking the street. “He was here last night, was he?”

  “Sebastian, you mean? Dear Leo. What have you been doing? Peeking through my curtains?”

  He kept his gaze on the scene outside the window. “And Lord Stoneleigh?”

  Kat set aside her pen and leaned back in her chair. “I’ve grown tired of his lordship. I’ve no doubt he’ll recover from the heartbreak in”—she hesitated, a cynical smile touching her lips—“a fortnight, shall we say?”

  Leo said nothing. Their association had always been like this. Kat had made it clear from the beginning that she would choose her own lovers—or victims, as Leo liked to refer to them. For while Kat frequently cooperated with Leo, she had never precisely worked for him. He might make requests, but he knew better than to try to give her orders.

  He swung suddenly away from the window, his face unexpectedly drawn in the pale morning light. “This involvement of yours with Devlin is dangerous. You realize that, don’t you? He suspects that my relationship with Paris is not precisely as I would have people believe it to be.”

  Kat pushed away from her writing desk and stood up. “As long as it’s only a suspicion—”

  “He also knows about the missing documents.”

  Kat stood perfectly still. “What missing documents, Leo?”

  His thin nostrils flared on a suddenly indrawn breath. “Last week while I was in Hampshire someone took some papers from the hidden compartment in my library’s mantel. A man and a woman, working together.”

  “Who do you suspect? Me?”

  Leo shook his head. “This was the work of amateurs.” He hesitated, then said, “I think it was probably Rachel.”

  Kat felt a shiver of apprehension run up her spine. “What sort of documents are we talking about here, Leo?

  One of his shoulders twitched in a typically Gallic gesture. “Love letters from Lord Frederick to a handsome young clerk in the Foreign Office. The birth certificate of a child born on the Continent some years ago to Princess Caroline. That sort of thing.”

  “What else?”

  Amusement suddenly lightened his intense gray eyes. “You don’t really expect me to tell you, now do you, mon amie?”

  Kat did not smile. “Anything that implicates me?”

  He shook his head. “No. You should be safe enough—unless you do something foolish. I, on the other hand, might find it prudent to leave London precipitously. If so, I’ll try to send you word. You know where to go?”

  “Yes.” It had all been arranged before, including the name of the out-of-the way inn south of town where she would try to meet with him, if possible, should he be forced to flee England.

  Kat watched him reach for his hat. This theft of what must have been a valuable cache of documents cast Rachel’s death in a new, sinister light. “Tell me something, Leo. Why did you return early from Lord Edgeworth’s country house party last Tuesday?”

  He swung to look back at her. “I received word that an emissary from Paris would be contacting me. Why?”

  “So you were meeting with him during the hour or so that you neglected your guests?”

&nbs
p; “Yes. He arrived earlier than I expected.” Leo cocked his head, his assessing gaze studying her face. “Are you back to thinking that I killed Rachel, hmm?”

  “It would appear you had reason.”

  Pierrepont settled his hat on his head. “So did your young viscount.”

  “Did he? And how’s that?”

  The Frenchman smiled. “Ask him.”

  Sebastian was just leaving the Rose and Crown and heading toward Covent Garden when a scruffy boy of about eight came running after him with a note from Paul Gibson.

  Come see me when you get the chance, the Irishman had written in a hasty scrawl. I’ll be at the Chalks Street Almshouse until noon.

  Tossing the boy a penny, Sebastian hesitated, then turned his steps toward the East End.

  Housed in a soot-blackened cluster of ancient stone buildings that had once been a Franciscan monastery, the Chalks Street Almshouse lay on the edge of Spitalfields, not far from Shepherds’ Place. Run by a private benevolent society as a humane alternative to the city’s public workhouses and poorhouses, the almshouse provided clothing and food and limited shelter to the area’s poor. Paul Gibson could often be found there at odd hours, bandaging workingmen’s wounds, examining infants that refused to thrive, and surreptitiously dispensing preventatives to the district’s growing population of prostitutes.

  “They get younger and younger every year,” said Gibson with a sigh, as he drew Sebastian into the small, unheated alcove allotted to him by the almshouse directors. “I don’t think I’ve seen one over the age of sixteen today.”

  Through the room’s single, grime-incrusted leaded window, Sebastian watched the doctor’s last patient dart furtively across the street. The girl looked all of twelve. “It’s not a vocation conducive to longevity.”

  “Unfortunately, no,” said Gibson, his eyes blessedly clear and bright this morning. “It occurred to me the area’s filles de joie might be a good source of information about gentlemen with certain vile tastes, but I haven’t turned up anything of use in that respect so far.” Gibson wiped his hands on a towel and went to close the door to the cabinet where he kept a few meager supplies. “There is one thing I thought you should know about, though. I’ve had this nagging feeling ever since I finished Rachel York’s autopsy—this feeling that I was overlooking something. For the longest time I couldn’t figure out what it was, but then last night when I was giving my lecture at St. Thomas’s on musculature, it came to me.”