What Angels Fear (18 page)

“That’s just it. It’s not Sebastian’s pistol. It’s mine.”

Reaching for the wooden box he’d set on the desk, Hendon flipped open the brass clasps and flung back the lid. It was a dueling pistol case, Lovejoy realized. And there, nestled in green baize, lay the mate to the flintlock Constable Maitland had found on Rachel York’s body. The molded cradle for the pistol’s twin was conspicuously empty.

“They were given to me by my father,” said Hendon, “the Fourth Earl, shortly before his death. When I was Viscount Devlin.”

There was a small engraved brass plate affixed to the front of the box. Lovejoy leaned forward to read it.
TO MY SON
,
ALISTAIR JAMES ST
.
CYR
,
VISCOUNT DEVLIN
.

Lovejoy knew a moment of deep disquiet. “This proves nothing,” he said slowly. “You could have given these pistols to your own son at any time these past ten years or more.”

“My son has his own dueling pistols.” The Earl’s mouth curled up into a hard smile. “As a matter of fact, he was using them the very morning after that girl’s murder.”

“So I had heard.” Standing up, Lovejoy went to stare out the window overlooking the bare branches of the plane trees in Queen Square below. Not for an instant did he believe Lord Hendon’s tale. But if the Earl were to stick to this confession, if he were to insist that he and not his son had perpetrated that savage act of carnage in St. Matthew’s on Tuesday night . . . Abruptly, Lovejoy swung back to face him. “Describe for me the disposition of the body.”

“What?”

“Rachel York’s body. You say you killed her. You should be able to describe for me precisely how you left her. Where she was, what she would have looked like when she was found.”

Lovejoy watched, fascinated, as the nobleman’s face seem to collapse in upon itself, becoming pale and almost slack with horror, as if he were being forced to look again upon that bloodied, savaged body.

“She was in the Lady Chapel,” Hendon said, his voice hushed, strained. “On the altar steps, on her . . . on her back. She had her knees bent up, and there was blood. . . .” He swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat working with the effort. “The blood was everywhere.”

Reaching out, Lovejoy wrapped his hands around the wooden back of his desk chair and gripped it hard. “What was she wearing, my lord?”

“A gown. Some satin. I don’t remember the color.” Hendon paused. “And a pelisse. Velvet, I think. But both were ripped. And stained dark with her blood.” His eyes squeezed closed as if to block out a horrific vision, and he brought up one clenched hand to press the knuckles against his lips.

Lovejoy stared at the man standing across from him. They had been very, very careful to keep the more sordid details of Rachel York’s murder from the papers. The only way Hendon could have known these things was if he had seen Rachel York’s body himself . . . or had it described to him by someone who had seen her dead. By the man who had killed her.

Lovejoy pulled out his chair and sat down again. “You say you had an assignation to meet Miss York at St. Matthew’s?”

“That’s right.”

Lovejoy yanked a paper pad toward him and reached for his pen. “And for what time was this meeting scheduled?”

Hendon didn’t even hesitate. “Ten.”

Lovejoy looked up. “Ten? You’re quite certain, my lord?”

“Of course I’m certain. I arrived a few minutes late, but not by much.”

Lovejoy set aside his pen and pressed his fingertips together. “So you arrived at St. Matthew’s a few minutes after ten? And walked inside to meet her? Is that what you’re saying?”

Hendon’s heavy brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “That’s right.”

Lovejoy felt a sad, almost pained smile thin his lips. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, my lord. Miss York was killed sometime between five and eight o’clock, which is when St. Matthew of the Fields is locked every evening.”

“What are you talking about?” Lord Hendon’s fleshy face turned a dark, angry color, his voice booming out so loud that he brought the clerk, Collins, scurrying to the door in alarm. “I arranged to meet that woman in St. Matthew’s at ten, and the door in the north transept sure as hell wasn’t locked when I got there.”

Lovejoy held himself very still. “With all due respect, my lord, I believe you are attempting to protect your son by taking the blame for Rachel York’s murder yourself.” Reaching across the desk, Lovejoy closed the lid on the dueling pistols case and drew it toward him. “You’ll understand our need to keep this, of course. No doubt it shall prove to be a valuable piece of evidence. . . .” Lovejoy hesitated, then said it anyway. “At your son’s trial.”

Chapter 27

B
y the time Sebastian reached Kat Boleyn’s townhouse in Harwick Street, the fog was so thick the streetlamps were little more than murky hints of dim light, and the familiar, bitter stench of soot choked the cold evening air. It would be a dark night, a good night for smugglers and housebreakers.

And grave robbers.

He pushed the thought from his mind. His assignation with Jumpin’ Jack Cochran and his crew wasn’t until midnight. There was much to do before then.

Sebastian lifted the collar of his coat against the damp and studied the house opposite. It was early enough that Kat hadn’t left for the theater yet. He could see her slim, elegant shape, silhouetted against the drawing room drapes, along with the shadow of what looked like a child. Puzzled, Sebastian crossed the street.

“I’ll announce myself,” he told the thin, mousy-haired maid who answered his knock at the door.

He was already taking the stairs to the first floor two at a time before the woman had recovered enough to say, “But—
sir
! You can’t do that!”

He could hear Kat’s husky voice, even before he reached the drawing room door.

“There’s a saying, that a good foist must have the same talents as a good surgeon: an eagle’s eye, a lady’s hand, and a lion’s heart. An eagle’s eye to ascertain a purse’s precise location, a lady’s hand to slip lightly, nimbly into the man’s clothes, and a lion’s heart”—she paused, and he could hear the smile in her voice—“to fear not the consequences.”

“Gor. How did you do that?” said a voice Sebastian recognized as belonging to his young protégé, Tom.

Sebastian could see them now, standing at the far end of the room with their backs to the door. Kat was wearing a black silk gown made high at the neck, with modest crepe sleeves that told him she must have only recently returned from Rachel York’s funeral. He couldn’t even begin to guess at the reason for Tom’s presence.

“Now let’s try it again,” she said, handing the boy a small silk purse. “This time, I’ll close my eyes while you hide it in one of your pockets. Try to detect the instant I lift it.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

Tom tucked the purse deep into his pocket. “Ready.”

Leaning against the door frame, Sebastian watched as Kat brushed past the boy once, then again, extricating the purse from his pocket on the second pass with deft, practiced skill. She was good. Very good. But then, before he’d met her, before she’d become one of Covent Garden’s most acclaimed actresses, this is what she had done, on the streets of London. This, and other things she rarely talked about.

“When you gonna lift it?” said Tom, still waiting patiently.

Kat laughed and waved the purse under the boy’s nose.

Tom’s face shone with admiration and delight. “Blimey. You are good.”

“One of the best,” said Sebastian, and pushed away from the doorway.

Kat swung to face him, an amused smile still curving her full lips. “At least this time you knocked,” she said, and he was left wondering if she’d been aware of his presence, of him watching them, all along.

He turned to Tom. “I thought you were planning to spend the evening searching for Mary Grant?”

Tom nodded. “I figured Miss Kat ’ere might be able to put me on to a few places to look.”

Sebastian took off his highwayman’s jaunty hat and tossed it onto a nearby chair. “I don’t think I’ll ask how you progressed from that to pickpocket lessons.”

The boy ducked his head to hide a grin. “Well, I’ll be off, then.”

Sebastian watched Tom saunter off whistling a most improper ditty through his teeth. Beside him, Kat said, “Tom tells me you’ve hired him as a snapper.”

Sebastian smiled. “Actually, he’s proving useful for a variety of tasks.”

She tilted her head, looking up at him. “You trust him?”

Sebastian met her thoughtful gaze and held it. “You know me. I have a foolishly trusting nature.”

“I wouldn’t have said that. On the contrary, I’d have said you’re an extraordinarily perceptive judge of character.”

Sebastian lifted one corner of his mouth in an ironic smile and turned away to strip off his greatcoat. “You went to the funeral,” he said, tossing the coat and his gloves onto the chair.

Kat walked over to the bellpull and gave it a sharp tug. “Yes.”

He could see the strain of the last few days in her face. She might not have been excessively close to Rachel York, but the young woman’s death had obviously shaken Kat, and the funeral had been hard on her. He wondered what she’d say if she knew he had a rendezvous with a group of resurrection men scheduled for midnight.

She ordered tea and cakes from the flustered, mousy-haired maid, who appeared stuttering apologies for her failure to properly guard the door.

“Hugh Gordon was there,” said Kat, when the housemaid had taken herself off.

“Was he?” Sebastian stood with his back to the fire, his gaze on the face of the woman he’d once loved to such distraction he’d thought he couldn’t live without her. “That’s interesting. How about Leo Pierrepont?”

She came to settle on a sofa covered in cream and peach striped silk. “The son of a French comte attend the funeral of a common English actress? Surely you jest.”

Sebastian smiled. “And Giorgio Donatelli?”

“He was there, weeping profusely. I hadn’t realized he and Rachel were so close. But then, he’s Italian. Perhaps he simply cries easily.” She leaned her head back against the silk cushions, the flickering light from the candles in their wall sconces shimmering gold over the smooth bare flesh of her throat as she looked up at him. “Did you have an opportunity to speak to Hugh?”

Sebastian wanted to touch her, to run his fingertips down the curve of her neck to her breasts. Instead, he shifted to stare down at the coals glowing on the hearth. The mantel was of white Carrara marble, he noticed, the Sèvres vases exquisite, and the oil painting above them looked like a Watteau. Kat had done very well for herself in the past six years. And he had survived.

“You were right,” he said, his voice sounding strained, even to himself. “Hugh Gordon is still furious with Rachel for having left him. Perhaps furious enough to kill.”

“You think he did it?”

“I think he’s hiding something. He was seen arguing with her near the theater on the afternoon she was killed.”

“Do you know what about?”

“No. But he said he’d make her pay.” Sebastian swung about as the housemaid reappeared at the door, a tray of tea things in her arms. “I’d like to know where he was later that night.”

“He’s doing Hamlet at the Stein.” Kat reached for the teapot. “But they’re not set to open until this Friday.”

Sebastian waited until the maid had withdrawn again, then he said, “I also had an opportunity to make the acquaintance of the painter, Giorgio Donatelli. It seems Rachel was modeling for him.”

Kat glanced up from pouring the tea. “Nothing ominous there.”

“Perhaps. Unless she was sleeping with him, too.”

“He is a very beautiful man. And Rachel liked beautiful men.”

Sebastian reached to take the cup from her hand. He was very, very careful not to let his fingers brush hers. “According to Donatelli, Bayard Wilcox has been following Rachel around since before Christmas.”

“Isn’t he your nephew?”

“Yes, he is. Did she never tell you about it?”

“She did mention once or twice that some nobleman was watching her, although she never told me his name. She tried to laugh it off, but I thought she was being less than honest with herself, that he was making her nervous.” Kat took her own cup into her hands. “Is he capable of such a thing, do you think? A crime of such passion, such violence?”

Sebastian brought his cup to his lips, and nodded. “Except that he says he was with his friends until just before nine that night, at which point he passed out drunk and had to be carried home by his father.”

“But you don’t believe him.” She said it as a statement, not a question.

“I learned long ago not to trust anything Bayard tells me. But in this case, it should be easy enough to find out if he’s telling the truth or not.”

Kat sat back, her gaze on the cup she held, idle, in her lap. “You do realize, of course, that it’s possible Rachel didn’t know her killer? He could be anyone. Anyone at all.”

“I don’t think so. If she’d been found in the streets, or even in her rooms, then I might believe that. But she went to that church on Tuesday specifically to meet someone. I know it wasn’t me. So who was it?”

“It couldn’t have been some cousin named St. Cyr?”

Sebastian shook his head. “No.” They weren’t a family that tended to breed, the St. Cyrs. His father had several cousins he disliked intensely, but they all lived up north, in Yorkshire or some such place. And it was not a common name. “I keep coming back to that appointment book. Whoever removed those pages did it to prevent something from being known. And yet the book was left so that it could be found. Why?”

“But the book was hidden!”

“Yes. Except you knew where to look for it. It’s conceivable others could have, as well. Pierrepont, for instance? He was paying the rent on her rooms. He might very well have a key.”

She sat silent for a moment, as if considering this. “The woman upstairs described the man she saw the morning after Rachel’s death as young. Pierrepont must be almost fifty.”

“He could have sent someone.”

Kat thrust aside her teacup and stood up. “You think
Pierrepont
killed Rachel?”