Page 80 of What Angels Fear

“Do you think someone discovered she was passing secrets to the French?”

Donatelli swung away from the fireplace, his clenched hands coming up to press against his lips. “I’m not sure. Perhaps. It might have had something to do with that Whig—the one they were saying would be named Prime Minister when the Prince becomes Regent tomorrow.”

“You mean Lord Frederick?”

“Yes, that’s the one,” said Donatelli. “Lord Frederick Fairchild. Pierrepont was using Rachel in a scheme to try to control him.” He let his hands fall to his sides. “You have heard, haven’t you? About Pierrepont?”

Sebastian shook his head, aware of a deep tremor of disquiet. “What about Pierrepont?”

“The government has moved against him. He’s been denounced as a spy, his house raided.”

Sebastian shoved away from the wall. “And Pierrepont himself? Is he under arrest?”

“No. Either he’s very lucky, or someone warned him in advance, because he fled. They say he’s already left London.” Donatelli’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “It’s ironic, isn’t it? All that scheming to entrap a man who won’t even be Prime Minister.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“You are very poorly informed, are you not? It was announced this morning. The Prince has decided not to ask the Whigs to form a government. The Tories will remain in power.”

By the time Sebastian reached Lord Frederick’s townhouse on George Street, the rain had slowed to a light drizzle.

A pattern was beginning to emerge, he thought, a tangled web of plot and counterplot. The key features might still be blurred and indistinct, but they were coming more and more into focus.

Raising his hand, Sebastian beat a sharp tattoo on the townhouse door. “A Mr. Simon Taylor,” he said when the door swung inward to reveal a somber butler with ruddy cheeks, an impressive girth, and the requisite expression of haughty disdain, “to see Lord Frederick.”

The man’s features remained admirably bland as he took in the full insult of Sebastian’s Rosemary Lane breeches and coat, now soaking wet from the rain, and smeared here and there with malodorous muck from his run through the back alleys and stews of the city. The butler’s first instinct, obviously, was to send such a visitor to the service entrance. But there must have been something about Sebastian’s demeanor and calm self-confidence that gave the butler pause. He hesitated, then said, “Is his lordship expecting you?”

“He should be. I am Rachel York’s cousin.”

The man gave a rarified sniff. “Wait here,” he said, and turned toward the hall....

Just as the sharp boom of a pistol shot reverberated on the far side of the closed library door.

Chapter 50

Sir Henry Lovejoy was at his desk, dozing lightly after a pleasant meal of steak and kidney pie at the corner tavern, when he was jerked awake by his clerk’s apologetic hiss.

“Sir Henry?” said Collins, his bald head appearing around the door frame. “There’s a lady here to see you. A lady who refuses to give her name.”

Lovejoy could see her now, a delicately built young woman fashionably dressed in a redingote of soft blue with a matching, heavily veiled round hat. She waited until the clerk had reluctantly withdrawn, then lifted her veil to reveal the pale, troubled features of Melanie Talbot.

“Mrs. Talbot.” Lovejoy pushed hastily to his feet. “You need not have put yourself to the trouble of coming here. If you’d sent a message—”

“No,” she said with more force then he would have expected. She looked fragile, this woman, with her fine bone structure and slight frame and sad eyes, but she was not. “I’ve waited too long as it is. I should have told the truth from the very beginning.” She sucked in a deep breath, then said in a rush, “Devlin was with me the night that girl was killed.”

Lovejoy came around his desk, one hand outstretched to usher his visitor toward a chair. “Mrs. Talbot, I understand your desire to help the Viscount, but believe me when I say that this is entirely unnecessary—”

“Unnecessary?” She jerked away from him, her blue eyes flashing with unexpected fire. “What do you think? That I’m making this up? John swore he’d kill me if he ever found out I’d seen Sebastian again. Do you think I would risk that? For a lie?”

Lovejoy stopped, his hand falling to his side, all the old doubts about this case blooming anew within him. “What are you saying? That you met Lord Devlin last Tuesday evening despite your husband’s prohibition?”

She went to stand before the window overlooking the square. “John told me about the duel—bragged about it, about how he was going to kill Sebastian.”

“So you... what? Thought to warn his lordship that your husband intended to shoot to kill? Surely his lordship was aware of that?”

She shook her head, her lips curling up unexpectedly into a wry smile. “John could never have bested Sebastian. I went to Sebastian to secure his promise that he would not kill my husband.”

She swung away from the window. “That surprises you, does it?” she said when Lovejoy only stared at her. “You think that if I were truly miserable with my husband I would have been glad to be rid of him in whatever way possible. You don’t understand what it’s like for a woman. As difficult as my life is, John is all I have. My father would never take me back. If anything happens to my husband, I’ll be left destitute. On the streets. I couldn’t face that.”

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