Page 74 of What Angels Fear

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.”

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