What Angels Fear

by C. S. Harris

  Sebastian smiled. “Something like that.” It was even, in a sense, true, he thought; he was certainly running from Bow Street.

  Gordon swung away to jerk the burgundy velvet drapes closed against the growing cold. “She was an unusual woman, Rachel,” he said suddenly, one hand still gripping the heavy cloth as if he were struggling to put his thoughts into words. “There wasn’t much she was afraid of. She told me once that fear made a person vulnerable and she refused to ever be vulnerable again. But I’d noticed lately that she was nervous, jumpy—as if she’d suddenly found herself over her head in something and wasn’t quite certain how she was going to get out of it.”

  Sebastian watched the other man turn away from the window. “Something like—what?”

  “Actually, I’m beginning to wonder if Rachel wasn’t passing information to the French.”

  “The French?” It was the last thing Sebastian had expected. “What makes you say that?”

  “Look at the men she chose.” Hugh Gordon brought his hands up together in a gesture reminiscent of Moses Preaching to the Masses, and Sebastian knew then that the affectation of a confidence suddenly shared was an act, that whether it was true or not, this was information Hugh Gordon had deliberately decided to impart—probably with the specific intention of deflecting suspicion from himself. “Usually there’s a pattern with women. One will go after men with money, another likes the pretty boys, the dandies and pinks, while another is mad about any man with a title. Not Rachel. The men she selected tended to work in the Foreign Office, like Sir Albert. Or they were close to the King, like Lord Grimes. Once she even had an admiral in tow.”

  Admiral Worth. Sebastian had heard his name along with that of Sir Albert and Lord Grimes and others whispered in the streets. As he ran through the names, he realized it was true, that Rachel York’s noble lovers shared this one, common trait: all were privy to information which could prove very useful if it were to fall into the wrong hands.

  “You make no secret of having shared Rachel’s republican principles,” said Sebastian. “Have the French ever approached you?”

  He expected angry denials and heated, patriotic rhetoric. Instead, Gordon met Sebastian’s questioning gaze and said simply, “However much I might wish to see changes here, I’m still an Englishman. I would never betray my own country.”

  “But you think Rachel could?”

  Gordon lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Rachel had a lot of anger in her, a lot of hate—both because of the things that had been done to her in her own life, and because of what she saw happening to others around her. She spent one afternoon a week working as a volunteer at St. Jude’s Foundling Home. Did you know that? She used to say that Napoleon might have betrayed the Revolution, but what the French had was still better than what most people have here.”

  Sebastian studied the other man’s high-browed, aesthetic face. Hugh Gordon was an actor, a man who made a living out of making people believe a lie. Not for an instant would Sebastian ever trust him. But for all his posturing, his words had a ring of sincerity to them, and that terrible weight of plausibility that can come with an unlooked-for truth.

  Outside, the wind gusted up, driving a flurry of snow against the windowpanes with a violence that sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. He realized Gordon was watching him with narrowed, assessing eyes. “You don’t believe me, do you? Yet you have by now surely verified that what I told you before was true, that Leo Pierrepont was paying the rent on Rachel’s rooms.”

  “What would you have me believe? That Leo Pierrepont acts as Napoleon’s agent?”

  “Nothing as simple as that. Leo Pierrepont is what I think they call a spy master.”

  Sebastian pushed to his feet. “Leo Pierrepont’s family lost everything they owned fleeing the Revolution twenty years ago.”

  Gordon gave a tight little smile. “Pierrepont fled the Revolution and the Republic. But France is no longer a republic, now is it?”

  The point was well made. The bloody, fervent days of the Republic and the Year II belonged to the past. Lately, more and more émigré families had been making their peace with France’s new emperor, swearing allegiance to the new government of France and reclaiming old estates. Sebastian eyed the other man, assessing. “It’s an easy enough accusation to make. Where’s your proof?”

  “Men as good as Pierrepont don’t leave proof.”

  “Indeed. Yet the last time I spoke to you, you would have me believe Leo Pierrepont was Rachel’s lover.”

  Hugh Gordon’s smile widened into something at once genuine and vaguely scornful. “Actually, I believe I said the authorities would do well to look into Rachel’s association with him. I don’t recollect calling him her lover. That was your own assumption.”

  Chapter 32

  The Earl of Hendon’s visit had done much to overcome Sir Henry Lovejoy’s lingering doubts about the guilt of Viscount Devlin. But Lovejoy was a methodical man, and so on Saturday afternoon he decided to devote a few hours to setting to rest the question of Captain and Mrs. John Talbot.

  The captain, Lovejoy discovered, was a tall, handsome man in his early thirties, the youngest son of a small Devonshire landowner. With a commission in the Horse Guards, he’d had a promising future ahead of him until he’d made the mistake of running away with an heiress named Melanie Peregrin. His superiors hadn’t looked kindly upon this romantic adventure. Captain Talbot’s career had languished, while Melanie’s father had been so infuriated by what he termed his daughter’s perfidy that he cut her off without a penny and refused to allow her to cross his threshold again.

  It was snowing heavily by the time Lovejoy reached the Talbots’ narrow brick townhouse off Upper Union Street in Chelsea. The house was small and undoubtedly hired, but the front door had been painted a cheery red, the knocker polished until it shone, and someone with an artistic eye had placed two potted rosemaries on either side of the entrance. Lovejoy noted these details and stowed them away for future analysis. They didn’t sit well with the image of the weeping, battered wife Sir Christopher had painted for him.

  Nor did the calm, self-possessed young woman who introduced herself as Melanie Talbot.

  He was fortunate enough to find her at home, and alone. Lovejoy apologized for the lateness of his call; Mrs. Talbot apologized for the dishevelment in which he found her.

  “I’m afraid I’m somewhat of a messy painter,” she said, her smile sweet and almost impish as she rubbed her thumb against the splotch of paint that showed dark blue against a pale inner wrist. Lovejoy might have been misled into believing she’d been indulging a genteel, feminine interest in watercolors, except that when he’d first arrived he’d caught a glimpse of her up on a ladder, painting the walls of her dining room.

  “I am grateful you’ve consented to see me on such short notice,” said Lovejoy, taking the seat she indicated in the small, pleasant sitting room overlooking the snow-filled street. The furniture in the room was old-fashioned and battered, he noticed, but tasteful, with good clean lines—the kind of thing one might find tucked away in the attics of some ancient country estate, or for sale, cheap, in the markets of Hatfield Street. If Melanie Talbot’s love match had proved to be an unhappy one, it certainly wasn’t preventing her from working hard to make her home pleasant and comfortable, whatever her reduced financial circumstances.

  She sank into the chair opposite him, a lithe, unusually attractive young woman with very fair hair and large blue eyes set wide in a delicately molded face. Exactly the kind of female to inspire any young buck—and more than a few old ones—with the desire to cast himself in the role of her knight in shining armor.

  She gave Lovejoy a broad, beautiful smile. “And how, precisely, may I help you, Sir Henry?”

  “I have a few questions I’d like to ask about Lord Devlin.”

  Lovejoy, watched, fascinated, as a gust of fear passed across her lovely features. She threw a quick, nervous glance toward the narrow hall, as if to reassur
e herself that no one could have overheard. Then her smile broadened again, bright and utterly false. “I’m not sure how much I can help you. Lord Devlin and I are the merest of acquaintances only.”

  “Indeed, Mrs. Talbot? I have it on excellent information that you and his lordship are considerably more than that. And let me hasten to reassure you that if you fear your husband—”

  “And what makes you think I would have reason to fear my husband, Sir Henry?” she asked sharply.

  Lovejoy returned her firm, direct gaze. “I know what happened at the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball last year.”

  “Ah.” Her chest hitched on a small sigh as she sat silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Then her gaze lifted to his again, her jaw hardening. “Very well. Devlin and I are friends, good friends. But nothing more.”

  Lovejoy kept his expression impassive. “It’s my understanding that your husband and Lord Devlin fought a duel last Wednesday morning.”

  Her smile, this time, was neither impish nor sweet. “Surely, Sir Henry, you are aware that we wives are never told of such things?”

  “But you knew.”

  She stood abruptly, going to stand before the painted mantel where a small fire burned feebly on the hearth, providing little warmth. “You must understand, Sir Henry,” she said, her gaze on the fire. “I promised my husband I would sever all contact with Lord Devlin.”

  Lovejoy studied the slim, taut line of her back. “And when did you make this promise?”

  “On Monday last.”

  “You didn’t see Lord Devlin on Tuesday?”

  “No. Of course not. I am a good and obedient wife. That’s what’s expected of a woman, isn’t it?” she said, the sneer in her voice as much for herself as for the society in which she lived.

  “So you wouldn’t be able to tell me where his lordship spent that evening?”

  “No.” She swung to face him, and he was shocked by the strength of the emotion he could see in her face. “But I can tell you how he did not spend Tuesday evening. He didn’t spend it murdering that poor woman you found in St. Matthew of the Fields.”

  “So sure, Mrs. Talbot?”

  She pushed out a harsh breath, her eyebrows twitching together in thought. “Who told you about the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t say.”

  “But you know—you know what brought Sebastian and me together?”

  Lovejoy nodded, noting her unconscious use of the Viscount’s first name.

  “He’d just come back from the war.” She paused. “We both had demons we needed to deal with. I like to think that I helped him at least half as much as he helped me.”

  “The demons a man brings home from war can sometimes drive him to do terrible things.”

  She shook her head. “The kind of demons that haunt Lord Devlin aren’t the sort that drive a man to rape and murder.” She paused, then pushed on resolutely, her head held high. “I would actually have given myself to him, if he’d have had me. Does that shock you, Sir Henry? There was a time I would have been shocked by it. Only . . .” She swallowed, then shook her head and left the rest of the sentence unsaid. “But he wouldn’t. So tell me, Sir Henry; is that the kind of man who rapes a woman in front of an altar?”

  “I don’t know,” said Lovejoy, meeting her tortured gaze. “I don’t know what kind of men do such things. But they do exist.” He nodded toward the snowy darkness. “One of them is out there right now, walking around. Perhaps it’s Lord Devlin. Perhaps it’s someone else—some man buying a sausage at his local pub, or perhaps sitting down to dinner with his wife and family. And no one—no one—who knows him thinks he’s capable of such a terrible thing. But he is. He is.”

  Lovejoy removed his hat and hung it on the hook beside his office door, then simply stood there for a moment, lost in thought, his gaze focused on nothing.

  They were back again, all those niggling little doubts about Lord Devlin’s guilt, that feeling that there was more going on in the death of Rachel York than any of them had yet grasped. He knew it was unscientific, unempirical, maybe even irrational. But his intuition had been right too many times in the past for him to ignore it now.

  With a shrug, he jerked his mind away from the sad-eyed woman he’d just met and set to work unwinding his scarf. He had his coat half-unbuttoned when his clerk, Collins, stuck his head around the corner.

  “What is it?” asked Lovejoy, looking up.

  “It’s about the Cyprian who got herself killed in that church, sir—that Rachel York. Constable Maitland thought you might like to know.”

  Lovejoy paused with his coat half on, half off. “Know what?”

  “We’ve just heard from the sexton of St. Stephen’s, sir. They’ve had grave robbers. Last night. And it was her grave what they hit.”

  “Are you telling me someone has stolen Rachel York’s body?”

  “Yes, sir. Constable Maitland, he thinks it’s just a coincidence, but—”

  Collins let his voice trail away into nothing, for Sir Henry, his coat gripped distractedly in one hand, was already gone, leaving his hat and scarf still swaying on their hooks beside the door.

  Chapter 33

  By the time Sebastian neared Half Moon Street, the darkness was complete, the snow a heavy, dirty white blanket that seemed to smother the city. But at the French émigré’s elegant townhouse, golden light blazed from every window. Thick straw buried the granite setts that paved the street, and a red carpet stretched down the entry steps to the footpath. It was just past six, but already a crowd had begun to gather, ragged men and women and children huddled together against the cold. Some murmured darkly, but most were laughing and joking in excited anticipation. They were something of a spectacle, these grand galas put on by the ton; not quite as entertaining as a hanging, but considerably more magnificent than a balloon ascension.

  “Monsieur Pierrepont’s having a ball tonight, is he?” asked Sebastian, snagging a half-grown lad in livery who came rushing past, his face flushed with self-importance.

  “Aye. A masquerade,” said the boy, his eyes bright with as much excitement as if he were to be one of the guests.

  Sebastian watched the boy dash off, then stood for a moment as a part of the crowd, his gaze drifting from one blazing window to the next.

  He kept turning over in his mind what Hugh Gordon had told him, that Rachel York might have been passing information to the French through Leo Pierrepont. If it was true, if Rachel York had been involved in some kind of underhanded game with the French, then it cast her killing in a different light entirely.

  And if it was true, then what was Sebastian’s father doing meeting with her, in secret, in the dark, deserted Lady Chapel of an out-of-the-way Westminster church?

  It was just minutes to curtain time. Kat was hurrying down a backstage corridor when a strong hand closed around her arm from behind, drawing her back into the shadows.

  “Sebastian.” Kat cast an anxious glance up the hall. “Why are you here? Someone might see you.”

  “I need a costume.”

  In the dim light of the oil lamp at the end of the corridor, she could see the rough cut of his coat, the touches of gray he’d added to his dark hair. “I’d have said you were already fairly effectively disguised.”

  “I had something a bit more elegant in mind. Something in silk or satin.”

  “Satin? Going to a ball, are you?”

  “Something like that.”

  He waited until just before midnight, when the crowd of costumed revelers would be at its thickest and a stray pirate wearing a loo-mask and a black domino over a black and gold satin doublet might pass unnoticed.

  Creeping quietly through the snow blanketed back garden, Sebastian mingled for a moment amongst the couples braving the cold on the terrace, then slipped inside through one of the long French doors that opened to the ballroom.

  He walked into a blast of warm air scented with beeswax and delicate French perfume and
the pungent odor of hundreds of hot, damp bodies pressed together in a confined place. Above the roar of voices and genteel laughter, the sweet strains of a quadrille could be faintly heard coming from a small ensemble set up on a dais at the end of the room, where a few brave couples were attempting to dance through the crowd. Leo Pierrepont’s masquerade would undoubtedly be deemed a “sad crush,” which was a way of calling it a resounding success.

  Weaving his way through Valkyries and Romeos, Arab princes and Renaissance ladies, Sebastian found himself in the hall, where a teasing conversation with a dimpled young housemaid provided him with the information that Monsieur Pierrepont’s library could be found at the foot of the stairs on the ground floor, near the back of the house.

  The door to the library was closed. When he opened it, Sebastian could see why, for much of the furniture which had been cleared from the house’s reception rooms was obviously being stored in here. Shutting the door behind him, Sebastian threaded his way through looming piles of settees and rolled carpets and end tables to jerk back the heavy velvet drapes at the windows.

  The lamps from the nearby terrace shone on the snow outside to suffuse the library with a pale, white glow. Turning, Sebastian cast an expert’s appraising eye around the room. About half the library’s walls were taken up by floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases, while the open panels in between were covered with Pierrepont’s collection of broadswords and dueling rapiers, daggers and cutlasses, their carefully maintained blades gleaming in the night.

  Sebastian searched the room quickly but methodically, looking for anything that might associate Leo Pierrepont with Napoleon’s government and the dirty, underhanded game of spying. He checked behind pictures and along the backs of the bookcases. He rifled expertly through desk drawers, and found nothing. Stymied, he perched on the edge of the desk.