Page 62 of What Angels Fear

“Well, the answer to that might surprise you—leastways when the lady in question appears to have been working for the French.”

Fairchild might have control of his features, but he couldn’t stop the blood from draining from his face, leaving him looking pale and frightened.

Sebastian studied the other man with interest. “I’m guessing you’d have me believe you didn’t know about that?”

“No. Of course not. Are you quite certain of that?” Lord Frederick jerked out his handkerchief and pressed the fine folds of silk to his upper lip. “This is dreadful,” he said, his voice muffled by the handkerchief. “Just dreadful. There must be some mistake.”

The man was in obvious distress. But it was also true that he was no longer meeting Sebastian’s gaze.

“Where exactly were you last Tuesday night?”

“I spent the evening with the Prince, of course. Why?” Lord Frederick’s jaw went slack with sudden comprehension. “Good God. Surely you aren’t suggesting that I killed her?”

“You do have a motive. My lord.”

An unexpectedly powerful blaze of anger flared in the other man’s eyes. “You dare? You dare take that tone with me? What is your name? Hmm?” He stepped forward, his gaze narrowing as he tried to peer into Sebastian’s shadowy, muffled face. “Speak up, man. Who’s your superior at Bow Street? I swear to God, I’ll have your job over this.”

Sebastian smiled. “I never said I was with Bow Street.”

“What? Then who are you working for?” Fairchild demanded. But he spoke only to darkness and a scattering of dry leaves carried along by the night wind, for Sebastian had gone.

“He’s hiding something,” said Sebastian.

From the shelter of a columned portico, he and Tom watched as Lord Frederick strode briskly away, the tap-tap of his boot heels echoing eerily in the thickening fog. He had obviously changed his mind about rejoining his friends at supper; he was headed away from Richard’s in the Mall and toward Piccadilly instead.

Tom fidgeted with impatience. “Think he’s our man?”

“I’m not sure,” said Sebastian, one hand closing over Tom’s shoulder to hold him back when he would have moved. “But it’ll be interesting to see where he goes.” They waited until their quarry was almost out of sight. Then Sebastian squeezed the boy’s shoulder and let him go.

“Now,” said Sebastian.

With the grace and noiseless gait of an alley cat, Tom slipped from behind the column and darted forward, a shadow following a shadow through the mist-filled night.

Chapter 38

Sir Henry Lovejoy paused in the dressing room doorway and stared down at what was left of Mary Grant. They hadn’t covered the body yet, and the smell of her blood hung thick in the air. He was glad he hadn’t had a chance to eat his supper yet.

“There’s no doubt this time as to who did it,” said Edward Maitland.

Lovejoy glanced back at his constable. “There’s not?”

“We have a witness.” Maitland flipped open his notebook and turned it toward the golden pool of light cast by one of the oil lamps they’d lit. “A Mrs. Charles Lavery. She saw Lord Devlin leaving the building this afternoon.”

“She’s sure it was Devlin?”

“Said she knows the Viscount. Her husband served with Devlin in Spain.” Maitland closed his notebook with a snap. “No doubt he’s our man, sir.”

Lovejoy crouched down beside the dead woman and studied her face. She was young, but not particularly attractive. Nothing like Rachel York. “Why this woman? Why go through all the bother of tracking her down?”

“She knew Rachel York had gone to St. Matthew’s that night to meet him.” Maitland shrugged his expensively tailored shoulders. “So he kills her to shut her up.”

“But she’d already told us about that.” Lovejoy’s gaze drifted around the disordered room. “What else did she know, I wonder? And what do you suppose he was looking for?”

“Money,” Maitland suggested. “Or something to sell. Jewelry perhaps.”

“We’re dealing with the heir to an earldom here. Not some petty thief.”

“Still, he must be getting short of the ready by now, for all that. A man’s gotta eat.”

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