Page 67 of What Angels Fear

“You wished to see me, my lord?” said the little man, bowing.

“It’s about time,” groused Jarvis from the sofa beside the fire, where he had set up a kind of temporary office. “I hear Devlin has killed again.”

“We don’t actually know—”

“He was seen there, wasn’t he?”

The little man pressed his lips together and sighed. “Yes, my lord.”

“The Prince is greatly displeased by this entire affair. There are whispers on the streets. Alarming talk. They’re saying it’s reached the point that noblemen in this country can kill with impunity, that common folks’ women are no longer safe even in their own homes. It’s the last thing the Prince needs, with his installation as Regent just two days away.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“The Prince wants Devlin brought in—or dead—within forty-eight hours. Or Queen Square will be looking for a new magistrate. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Lovejoy, and bowed himself out.

Chapter 41

It was just past noon when Sebastian reached his sister’s townhouse on St. James’s Square.

“My lord,” said Amanda’s butler, his eyes widening in surprise and fear when he answered the door to Sebastian’s preemptory knock.

“Bayard’s still at home, I presume?” said Sebastian, brushing past the man and heading for the stairs.

“I believe Mr. Wilcox is in his dressing room, my lord. If you care to wait in the—My lord,” bleated the butler, but Sebastian was already taking the stairs two at a time.

Sebastian flung open the dressing room door without warning to find Bayard in his shirtsleeves, his neck craning back at an awkward angle as he struggled with one of the monstrously wide cravats he affected. He spun about, his jaw going slack, his eyes opening wide. “Devlin.”

Sebastian caught him in an angry rush that sent a chair flying and took the two men across the room to slam Bayard’s back up against the wall, hard enough to drive the air out of him in a painful huff.

“You lied to me,” said Sebastian, pulling his nephew away from the wall, then slamming him back against it a second time. “You said you’d never gone near Rachel York. Now I hear you threatened to kill her at Steven’s in Bond Street.”

Bayard’s voice wheezed, his chest jerking with the effort to draw breath. “I was foxed! I didn’t know what I was doing, let alone what I was saying.”

“You were foxed the night she died, too. How do you know what you did then?”

“I would never hurt her! I loved her.”

“You said you were going to rip her head off, Bayard. Then a few days later, someone comes bloody close to doing exactly that. I still remember the turtles, Bayard.”

Bayard’s mouth sagged, his eyes opening wide with horror. “Is that what happened to her? How do you know that? Oh, God, it’s not true, is it?”

Sebastian tightened his hold on his nephew’s arms, lifting him up until his feet barely touched the floor, and holding him there. “What about the other one, Bayard? Mary Grant. Why did you go after her, too?”

The mystification on Bayard’s face was so complete that Sebastian knew a moment of misgivings. “Other one? Who the devil is Mary Grant?”

A woman’s voice cut through the sudden, thick silence. “Let him go,” said Amanda. “Let him go or I swear to God, Sebastian, I’ll bring the constables down on you.”

Sebastian swung his head to stare at his sister. She stood in the doorway, a tall, middle-aged woman with the inescapably proud bearing of an Earl’s daughter. She had their mother’s coloring and slim, graceful stature, but enough of their father’s blunt, heavy features that, by the age of forty, she resembled the Earl far more than the beautiful, ethereal woman who had once been the Countess of Hendon.

Sebastian hesitated, then eased his grip on Bayard’s arms to let the boy slump against the wall.

Bayard stayed where he was, his shoulders pressed against the paneling, his mouth slack, his breath coming hard and fast.

“You knew, didn’t you,” said Sebastian. “You knew he killed that girl.”

Bayard wiped a shaky hand across his loose, wet lips. “I didn’t! Why won’t you believe me?”

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