Page 42 of What Angels Fear

Sebastian could see them now, standing at the far end of the room with their backs to the door. Kat was wearing a black silk gown made high at the neck, with modest crepe sleeves that told him she must have only recently returned from Rachel York’s funeral. He couldn’t even begin to guess at the reason for Tom’s presence.

“Now let’s try it again,” she said, handing the boy a small silk purse. “This time, I’ll close my eyes while you hide it in one of your pockets. Try to detect the instant I lift it.” She squeezed her eyes shut.

Tom tucked the purse deep into his pocket. “Ready.”

Leaning against the door frame, Sebastian watched as Kat brushed past the boy once, then again, extricating the purse from his pocket on the second pass with deft, practiced skill. She was good. Very good. But then, before he’d met her, before she’d become one of Covent Garden’s most acclaimed actresses, this is what she had done, on the streets of London. This, and other things she rarely talked about.

“When you gonna lift it?” said Tom, still waiting patiently.

Kat laughed and waved the purse under the boy’s nose.

Tom’s face shone with admiration and delight. “Blimey. You are good.”

“One of the best,” said Sebastian, and pushed away from the doorway.

Kat swung to face him, an amused smile still curving her full lips. “At least this time you knocked,” she said, and he was left wondering if she’d been aware of his presence, of him watching them, all along.

He turned to Tom. “I thought you were planning to spend the evening searching for Mary Grant?”

Tom nodded. “I figured Miss Kat ’ere might be able to put me on to a few places to look.”

Sebastian took off his highwayman’s jaunty hat and tossed it onto a nearby chair. “I don’t think I’ll ask how you progressed from that to pickpocket lessons.”

The boy ducked his head to hide a grin. “Well, I’ll be off, then.”

Sebastian watched Tom saunter off whistling a most improper ditty through his teeth. Beside him, Kat said, “Tom tells me you’ve hired him as a snapper.”

Sebastian smiled. “Actually, he’s proving useful for a variety of tasks.”

She tilted her head, looking up at him. “You trust him?”

Sebastian met her thoughtful gaze and held it. “You know me. I have a foolishly trusting nature.”

“I wouldn’t have said that. On the contrary, I’d have said you’re an extraordinarily perceptive judge of character.”

Sebastian lifted one corner of his mouth in an ironic smile and turned away to strip off his greatcoat. “You went to the funeral,” he said, tossing the coat and his gloves onto the chair.

Kat walked over to the bellpull and gave it a sharp tug. “Yes.”

He could see the strain of the last few days in her face. She might not have been excessively close to Rachel York, but the young woman’s death had obviously shaken Kat, and the funeral had been hard on her. He wondered what she’d say if she knew he had a rendezvous with a group of resurrection men scheduled for midnight.

She ordered tea and cakes from the flustered, mousy-haired maid, who appeared stuttering apologies for her failure to properly guard the door.

“Hugh Gordon was there,” said Kat, when the housemaid had taken herself off.

“Was he?” Sebastian stood with his back to the fire, his gaze on the face of the woman he’d once loved to such distraction he’d thought he couldn’t live without her. “That’s interesting. How about Leo Pierrepont?”

She came to settle on a sofa covered in cream and peach striped silk. “The son of a French comte attend the funeral of a common English actress? Surely you jest.”

Sebastian smiled. “And Giorgio Donatelli?”

“He was there, weeping profusely. I hadn’t realized he and Rachel were so close. But then, he’s Italian. Perhaps he simply cries easily.” She leaned her head back against the silk cushions, the flickering light from the candles in their wall sconces shimmering gold over the smooth bare flesh of her throat as she looked up at him. “Did you have an opportunity to speak to Hugh?”

Sebastian wanted to touch her, to run his fingertips down the curve of her neck to her breasts. Instead, he shifted to stare down at the coals glowing on the hearth. The mantel was of white Carrara marble, he noticed, the Sèvres vases exquisite, and the oil painting above them looked like a Watteau. Kat had done very well for herself in the past six years. And he had survived.

“You were right,” he said, his voice sounding strained, even to himself. “Hugh Gordon is still furious with Rachel for having left him. Perhaps furious enough to kill.”

“You think he did it?”

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