Page 23 of What Angels Fear

Gordon took a long, deep drink from his tankard. “She used to talk about the day their noble heads would end up on pikes, and how London’s gutters were going to run with their precious blue blood.” He gave a low, mirthless laugh. “She changed her tune quick enough, didn’t she, when they started buying her silks and pearls?”

So Rachel York had sympathized with the aims of the French Revolution. Interesting, thought Sebastian. He shook his head soulfully. “And now one of these noblemen has murdered her?”

“So they say. Although if you ask me, the authorities ought to be taking a closer look at that bloody Frenchman.”

“She had a French lover?”

“Lover?” Gordon shoved the last of his bread in his mouth, chewed once or twice, and swallowed hard. “I don’t know if I’d call him that. Although the man was paying the rent on her rooms, all right.”

“What man is this?”

“One of those bloody émigrés. Claims to be the son of a count or some such nonsense.” The flawless accent slipped for a moment, allowing a hint of Geordie to peek through. Pushing away his plate, the actor leaned back and dusted the crumbs off his fingers. “Man by the name of Pierrepont. Leo Pierrepont.”

Chapter 17

Sir Henry Lovejoy had two passions left in his life. One was for justice and the law. The other was for science.

Whenever he could, he attended the public lectures given at the Royal Scientific Society; he read the Scientific Quarterly, and he tried very, very hard to apply the scientific method to his investigations and legal deliberations. But every once in a while, Lovejoy went with his instincts, and played a hunch.

It was his instincts that kept nagging at him over this latest killing, whispering to him that there had to be more to Rachel York’s murder in the Lady Chapel of St. Matthew of the Fields than Constable Edward Maitland had so far discovered. And so late that Thursday afternoon, Lovejoy sought out Viscount Devlin’s friend and erstwhile second, Sir Christopher Farrell, in Brooks’s Club on St. James’s and set about finding out more about the Earl of Hendon’s infamous, rakehell son, Sebastian.

“Tell me about yesterday morning’s duel between Lord Devlin and Captain John Talbot,” said Lovejoy when Sir Christopher joined him in the discreet little room tucked away at the top of the stairs that the club had provided for them.

He was an unexpectedly open-faced man, Sir Christopher, with clear gray eyes and an easy manner. Nothing at all like what Lovejoy would have expected in a friend of someone as dark and saturnine as Devlin. At Lovejoy’s question, he opened his eyes wide in a studied parody of innocence. “Duel? What duel?”

The room contained a large mahogany table surrounded by some half-dozen chairs upholstered in the same blue brocade as the walls. Lovejoy stood with the table between them, his gaze fixed on the other man’s face. “You do your friend no favor, Sir Christopher. I have little interest at the moment in enforcing the codes against dueling. But two days ago, a young woman named Rachel York was brutally assaulted and murdered, and certain evidence combined with accounts from a witness have implicated Lord Devlin. Therefore, the more we know about his lordship’s movements these last few days, the closer we will be to understanding the truth of this matter. If you have any information which is pertinent, it would behoove you to provide it. So I ask you again, who was the challenger? Lord Devlin?”

Sir Christopher hesitated a moment, then shook his head. “No. Talbot.”

“When and where precisely was this challenge issued?”

Farrell went to look out the window, his hands clasped behind his back. It was a moment before he answered, his words coming out jerkily, as if he begrudged the magistrate each and every one. “Tuesday afternoon. At White’s. Sebastian was standing near the entrance to the gaming room, holding a glass of wine. Talbot jostled him in such a way that wine from Sebastian’s glass splashed onto Talbot’s boots. He demanded satisfaction.”

Lovejoy nodded in understanding. “That was the public justification for the duel. Now tell me the real reason.”

Farrell swung around, one eyebrow arching in aristocratic affront. “I beg your pardon?”

Lovejoy returned only a tight, bland smile. “There are those who say Lord Devlin was having an affair with Captain Talbot’s wife.”

Sir Christopher met Lovejoy’s questioning gaze. And Lovejoy thought, the man must be hopeless at the gaming tables. Everything he considered, everything he felt, showed on his face. Lovejoy knew the precise moment when Farrell decided to let go of his resistance. Blowing out his breath in a long sigh, he came to sit in one of the chairs ringing the center table. “Talbot certainly thought so,” he said, propping his elbows on the table and sinking his chin into his hands. “But it wasn’t true. Devlin’s relationship with Melanie Talbot never went beyond friendship.”

“You believe that?

Sir Christopher nodded glumly. “Last spring, at a ball at Devonshire House, Sebastian heard someone crying in the garden. He’s got the damnest hearing a body could ever imagine, you know. Anyway, he went to investigate and found Talbot’s wife. The bastard had taken exception to the way she was looking at one of the violin players and worked her over pretty bad before storming off in a fit. Sebastian took her home.”

“But that wasn’t the end of it.”

Farrell dropped his hands into his lap and sat back. “No. She needed a friend, and Devlin became one. I always thought she was more than half in love with him, but Devlin’s not the kind of man to take advantage of another person’s vulnerability.”

Lovejoy eyed the other man consideringly. “How well do you know him?”

A slow, unexpectedly boyish smile spread across Sir Christopher’s face. “Better than I know either of my own two brothers. Sebastian and I were at Eton together. And Oxford after that.”

“But you didn’t join the army with him?”

Sir Christopher’s smile faded. “No. I didn’t even know what he’d done until the day before he was set to leave England.”

“A bit of a start, that. Was it not?”

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