What Angels Fear Read online

  She swung her head to look directly at him. In the swaying light from the outside lanterns, he could see the terror in her eyes. “Of course I am.”

  “I must say, you control yourself admirably well.”

  “I see no point in indulging in hysterics.” She ran one hand up her other arm briskly, as if to warm it. A brazier of coals spread its slow heat through the carriage, but a damp cold radiated off the glass and her modest muslin gown was not designed for warmth.

  Sebastian reached for the carriage robe of wool lined with fur that lay folded up beside him and held it out to her. “I shan’t harm you, you know.”

  After the briefest of hesitations, she took the robe with a politely murmured, “Thank you,” and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

  An earsplitting shriek from the forward seat jerked his attention back to Alice. “Mary, Mother of God!” cried the maid, dropping her apron to show them a wild face. “He’s going to ravish us both. Ravish us, and leave us headless and eviscerated like a heathen offering on some pagan altar.” Her body went suddenly rigid, her fists digging into the plush upholstery at her side as she began to laugh hysterically.

  Leaning forward, Miss Jarvis calmly slapped the maid across the face. Alice sucked in a startled breath, her eyes going wide, then squeezing shut as she collapsed back into her corner and began to cry. Miss Jarvis took one of the maid’s hands in her own and said gently, “There, there, Alice; it will be all right. We’re quite safe.” To Sebastian, she said, “I know who you are.”

  Sebastian nodded toward the quietly sobbing maid. “So, obviously, does she.”

  Miss Jarvis paused in the act of chafing the maid’s trembling hand between her own large, capable ones. “A humorist, I see. I hadn’t expected that.”

  “And what, precisely, were you expecting? To be ravished and left split like a sacrificial lamb on the altar of Zeus?”

  Alice let out a new bleat of terror.

  Miss Jarvis threw Sebastian a frowning glance. “Hush. You’re frightening her again.”

  Sebastian studied the woman beside him. She was somewhere in her early twenties, he supposed, brown of hair and unremarkable of feature, if one discounted the unmistakable gleam of intelligence and ready humor in those calm gray eyes. He tried to recollect what he had heard of Jarvis’s daughter, and could call little to mind.

  “Why did you insist on bringing Alice?” she asked after a moment.

  He glanced out the window. They were bowling up Whitehall now, harnesses jangling, the horses’ hoofbeats reverberating oddly in the damp, heavy fog. Soon the narrow streets of old Westminster would close in around them. It would be an easy thing, then, to lose any would-be rescuers and make his way to the Three Feathers Inn, where he intended to have a little chat with the landlord.

  “Merciful heavens,” said Miss Jarvis, her eyes opening wide as the carriage slowed for a turn. “Is that why she’s here? To safeguard my reputation from the tongues that wag and do love to speculate on all manner of unrighteous things? Do you really think it will help?”

  Sebastian opened the door beside him. “One can only hope,” he said, and slipped out into the damp night.

  Chapter 55

  It didn’t take him long to locate the Three Feathers, a surprisingly elegant little inn located on a cul-de-sac just off Barton Street. With some persuasion—not all that tactfully applied, for Sebastian was tired—the innkeeper divulged that Hugh Gordon and an unidentified, heavily veiled lady had indeed spent the previous Tuesday night in the inn’s best chamber.

  But the Three Feathers was a busy establishment; the innkeeper had no way of knowing whether or not the actor had stayed at his lady’s side all evening. And Barton Street was just around the corner from Great Peter Street and the ancient church of St. Matthew of the Fields.

  Leaving Westminster, Sebastian caught a hackney to Tower Hill. “Ah. There you are,” said Paul Gibson when he opened the door to Sebastian’s knock half an hour later. “So Tom found you, did he?”

  “No,” said Sebastian, quickly closing the door against the acrid cold of the coming night. “I haven’t seen the boy since this morning. Why? Have you discovered something?”

  “Not as much as I might have wished.” The doctor led the way down the narrow hall to the parlor, where he poured Sebastian a measure of mulled wine from the bowl warming near the fire. “You’re looking decidedly the worse for wear.”

  Sinking into one of the seats beside the fire, Sebastian grasped the cup in both hands. “So everyone keeps saying.” He took a sip of the warm wine, then leaned his head against the back of the chair and closed his eyes. “I feel as if I’ve been chased across London and back again for the past hundred years.”

  Gibson smiled. “Which probably explains why Tom didn’t find you.” He poured himself some of the mulled wine and came to take the other chair. “I tracked down the woman who did Rachel York’s laying out. A horse-faced old battle-ax by the name of Molly O’Hara.”

  Sebastian brought his head forward and opened his eyes. “And?”

  “Rachel York had a man’s fob clutched in her fist. Unfortunately, by the time I found her, our dear Molly had already sold the trinket. She remembered little about it, beyond the fact that its swivel was broken.”

  “Rachel must have torn it from her attacker’s waistcoat, just as he slit her throat.”

  “Yes, that’s the way I figure it. The goldsmith Molly sold the trinket to used the damage to drive a hard bargain with her.” The doctor drew a square of paper from his pocket. “A Mr. Sal Levitz. In Grace Church Street.”

  “You went to see him?”

  “Yes, although I fear I didn’t handle it as well as I should have.”

  “Let me guess. He claims he sold the trinket some fifteen minutes before you walked in his door.”

  Gibson gave a wry smile. “I’m afraid so. All I managed to get out of him was a rough sketch of the piece.” Unfolding the paper, he smoothed it open on the arm of his chair. “Rather than a seal, the fob carried a charm, a Corinthian column worked in eighteen-carat solid gold. Whoever Rachel York’s attacker was, he was obviously a gentleman. Or at least very wealthy.”

  Sebastian reached for the paper. “You do realize, of course, that your Mr. Levitz probably melted the damn thing down the instant you were out the door.” Sebastian gazed at the sketch. “A foppish affectation. Prinny himself started the fad for these columns some months ago. Without the actual piece to trace, it’s of no use at all.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  Standing up, Sebastian began to pace the small room. “Bloody hell,” he said suddenly, his hand tightening to crush the drawing into a tight ball. “I had this incredible conceit, this belief that if I could trace the pattern of Rachel York’s life through her last days, if I could understand why she went to that church—what dangerous game she was involved in—then I’d know who killed her. Not simply know it, but be able to prove it.” He let out a hoarse laugh and tossed the crumpled paper onto a nearby table. “What hubris.”

  “Do you understand what she was involved in?”

  “I think so, yes.” Coming back to the fire, Sebastian quickly summed up the conversations with Gordon and Donatelli, then the death of Lord Frederick and the meeting with Jarvis.

  “I’d still put my money on the Frenchman,” said Gibson, when Sebastian had finished. “He could easily have found out Rachel was cooperating with Jarvis, and that she was the one responsible for the theft of his documents. Not only that, but he would have had a reason to go looking for the maid, Mary Grant, to get the remaining documents from her.”

  “So would Hugh Gordon,” said Sebastian. “We know he was in Westminster last Tuesday. And while the innkeeper at the Three Feathers confirmed Gordon was there, he could easily have slipped out at some point during the evening.”

  The doctor pushed up from his chair to go stir the bowl of mulled wine. “I still don’t understand the
part Lord Jarvis played in all this.”

  Sebastian smiled and drained his cup. “That’s because you don’t have Jarvis’s devious mind. Lord Jarvis knew Pierrepont was the French spy-master in London—according to my father, it’s been known for over a year. Jarvis must have realized Lord Frederick was falling into one of the Frenchman’s carefully spun traps. Only instead of warning the man, Jarvis developed a plan of his own, a plan to discredit the Whigs and prevent them from taking over the government when the Regency was proclaimed.”

  “So he—what? Approached Rachel and threatened her with a traitor’s gruesome end if she didn’t deliver one of the letters Fairchild wrote to his young lover? I can see how that might discredit Fairchild. What I can’t see is how it implicates him and the Whigs with the French.”

  “Ah. But Jarvis didn’t immediately take the letter to the Prince, remember? He waited until today, when the Prince is doubtless in a high fret over tomorrow’s installation. Then, acting as if he’s only recently discovered Pierrepont’s activities, Jarvis ordered the Frenchman’s townhouse raided. Only then did he produce the letter and tell the Prince it was found in Pierrepont’s possession. And because Pierrepont has conveniently disappeared, there’s no danger of the Frenchman spilling the truth.”

  Gibson carefully ladled more steaming wine into Sebastian’s cup. “But if Jarvis was planning to expose Pierrepont and raid his townhouse anyway, why pressure Rachel York to produce one of the letters ahead of time? Why not simply seize the letters in the raid?”

  “Because there was always the possibility that the letters wouldn’t be found, and a man like Jarvis doesn’t leave that sort of thing to chance.” Sebastian took the warm drink in both hands. “And remember, the letter wasn’t the only thing implicating Lord Frederick. The fool was meeting his lover in the rooms of a woman known to be working with the French.”

  “Poor girl,” said Paul Gibson, refilling his own mug. “So Jarvis intended to betray her anyway?”

  “I suspect so. Except that Rachel was smart enough to realize she was in danger. She decided she needed to get away and she came up with a plan of her own—to take the rest of Fairchild’s letters, and the document about my mother, and God knows what else, and sell them to the interested parties.”

  “Huh,” said the doctor, easing back down in his chair. “If you ask me, the killer could be any one of them—Pierrepont, Gordon, Donatelli—even bloody Jarvis himself.”

  “You’re forgetting Bayard,” said Sebastian, going to stand beside the hearth. “He might have been falling down drunk when his father took him home at nine. But we have only Amanda’s word for it that he stayed there. It’s not beyond belief that he went out again, looking for Rachel. He could have followed her to that church and killed her.”

  “But why would Bayard go after the maid, Mary Grant? Pierrepont and Gordon both had a good reason to want to get their hands on the rest of those documents. Even Donatelli admits he went looking for them. But Bayard knew nothing of them.”

  “True,” said Sebastian, his gaze on the glowing coals on the hearth. “Yet of them all, Bayard is the one I’d say is unbalanced enough to slake his lust on a woman’s dead body.”

  “How well do you know the others? Mmmm? When it comes right down to it? We know Hugh Gordon is prone to violence against women, while Pierrepont must have witnessed enough horrors during the Revolution in Paris to turn anyone’s mind. In fact, of them all, the only one I can’t see committing such an act of unbridled emotion is Lord Jarvis. He’s too damnably cool and calm and in control.”

  “Rather like his daughter,” Sebastian said wryly.

  A hint of amusement eased the worried lines on the Irishman’s forehead. “You know what they say: the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree.”

  Sebastian spun around. “Say that again.”

  “What? Say what?”

  “Apples and trees,” said Sebastian, crossing the room to snatch up the crumpled goldsmith’s sketch. “Good God. Why didn’t I see it before?”

  Chapter 56

  The Black Dog stood on the far edge of Walworth, to the south of London. A half-forgotten coaching inn nearly hidden by an encroaching beech forest and the swirl of fog that wrapped around its redbrick walls, it was known for the discreetness of its keeper and the fine French wines that paid no customs on their way into its cellars.

  Wearing a warm velvet habit and a heavily veiled hat, Kat reined in her mare beneath the flickering torches in the inn’s yard. A coach and four, well loaded and ready for travel, stood waiting near the arch. “Walk the horses,” she said to her groom. “I won’t be long.”

  She found Leo in a private parlor on the low-ceilinged first floor, at a small table where he sat hurriedly writing, a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles perched on the end of his nose.

  “How did you manage to get away?” Kat said, shoving back her veil and closing the door behind her with a snap.

  He looked at her over the rims of his spectacles. “How do you think?”

  “You were warned.” It was a statement rather than a question. “Why?”

  He stood up, then reached to shuffle his papers into order. “You’ve heard the whispers, surely? About Lord Frederick’s suicide and all sorts of dark plots implicating the Whigs?”

  “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.” H
e 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?”