Page 35 of What Angels Fear

Sebastian looked down at the image of that vibrant, vital young woman, and he knew an unexpected stirring that was part sadness, and part outrage. “She was so young,” he said. “So young and full of life.” His gaze lifted again to the man beside him. “It seems difficult to imagine how anyone could want her dead.”

A quiver of emotion, dark and painful to see, passed over the man’s handsome, tormented face. “It’s an ugly world. An ugly world, with ugly people in it.”

“At least the police seem to know who did it. Some earl’s son, is it not? A Lord Devlin?”

Donatelli’s lips twisted in a savage grimace of hate and bitter, useless rage. “May he rot in hell for all eternity.”

“She knew him, did she?”

The painter shook his head. “Not that I was aware of. When I first heard what had happened to her, I thought it was that other one.”

“That other one?”

Donatelli sucked in a shuddering breath that lifted his chest and flared his nostrils wide. “He’s been following her for weeks—months maybe. Hanging around outside the theater door. Waiting across the street, whenever she came here. Watching her. Everywhere she went, he was there.”

“She didn’t report him?”

Donatelli shook his head. “I wanted her to go to the authorities, but she said it wouldn’t do any good. You know what they’re like, these aristos. To them, we are little better than animals. Things to be used and thrown away.”

The vehemence of his words took Sebastian by surprise. He was remembering what Hugh Gordon had said, about heads on pikes and blood running in the gutters. And he wondered if perhaps Gordon was wrong, that Rachel hadn’t abandoned her more radical ideas after all. Ideas Donatelli obviously shared.

“What’s his name, this nobleman?” Sebastian asked.

He thought for a moment that the artist wasn’t going to answer him. Then Donatelli shrugged, his jaw thrust forward in a determined effort to control his emotions.

And told him.

“You’re lookin’ mortal queer,” said Tom when they met up at the local tavern for a pint of ale and steak and kidney pies. “What’d this Italian cove have to tell you, then?”

“It seems Rachel York used to model for him.” Sebastian pushed through the crowd around the bar and led the way to an empty table in a quiet corner. “So, how did you go on?”

Slipping into the opposite bench, Tom wrapped his hands around one of the pies and twitched his shoulder in a careless shrug. “’E’s a foreigner. People around ’ere don’t seem to ’ave much to do with ’im. Although they noticed the girl, all right. She musta been some looker, that Rachel.”

“She was.” Sebastian ate silently for a moment, then said, “Any other women visit his studio frequently?”

“Not so’s anyone noticed.” Tom took a large bite of pie, and spoke around it. “Think ’e was tupping her?”

“Possibly, but I’m not sure. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Tom swallowed, hard, his eyes widening with the effort. “So we didn’t learn nothin’ from all this?”

“Oh, we learned something.” Sebastian took a deep drought of ale and leaned his shoulders back against the wall. “According to our painter friend, a man was following Rachel about for months. A gentleman, to be precise.”

Tom polished off the last of his pie and set about licking his fingers clean. “Did he tell you this cove’s name?”

“Yes. His name is Bayard Wilcox.”

Something in Sebastian’s tone caused the boy to stop with his last finger halfway to his mouth. “Know the bloke, do you?”

Sebastian drained his tankard and stood up abruptly. “Quite well, as a matter of fact. Bayard is my nephew.”

Chapter 24

Charles, Lord Jarvis, paused in the doorway of the princely dressing room and watched His Royal Highness, George, the Prince of Wales, pivot first one way, then the other as he studied his reflection in the series of ornate, gilt-framed looking glasses that lined the room’s silk-covered walls. Several of the Prince’s boon companions, Lord Frederick Fairchild among them, lounged at their ease about the cavernous, crimson and gold room, their discussions ranging from the use of champagne in boot polish to the newest opera dancers to catch their fancy. A dozen ruined cravats lay scattered across the chamber’s richly hued Turkey carpet, while the Prince’s man hovered at the ready with another armload of starched white linen neckcloths, should the Prince’s present endeavor be no more successful than the last. Prince George might require the assistance of two footmen to shove his corpulent body into his coat, and a mechanical contrivance to hoist him into the saddle, but he always insisted on tying his own cravats.

“Ah, there you are, Jarvis,” said the Prince, looking up.

Jarvis, who had spent the past half hour trying to soothe the wounded dignity of the Russian ambassador, simply bowed and said, “Sir?”

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