Page 98 of What Angels Fear

From where he stood at the edge of the dock, Sir Henry Lovejoy watched the Viscount climb the rough ladder from the water below. As he reached the top, Devlin looked up, his uncanny eyes gleaming yellow in the reflected fire’s light.

The two men stared at each other, Devlin’s breath coming so hard and fast that the coarse cloth of his water-soaked, bloodstained shirt shuddered with each lifting of his chest. It was Devlin who spoke first.

“The boy, Tom? Where is he?”

“Quite safe. I intercepted him just outside your father’s house in Grosvenor Square. That’s right,” he added, when Devlin’s eyebrows twitched together. “I overheard your instructions to the lad back at the Rose and Crown.”

“And?”

Lovejoy cleared his throat. “I found Wilcox’s note in his pocket.”

“The note was unsigned.”

“Yes. I admit I initially found it difficult to credence the lad’s rather long and tangled tale. But he’d had the forethought to liberate his lordship’s pocketbook, which lent considerable weight to his story.”

Levering himself up onto the dock, his wet clothes clinging to his lean frame, the Viscount went to crouch beside the crumpled, bloody form of the woman. Lovejoy didn’t move. “Is she...”

“No.” Her blood streaming over his hands, Devlin lifted the woman gently into his arms. The wind caught her long dark hair, blowing it loose across his face. She stirred, her voice a hoarse murmur, and he nuzzled his lips against her ear, whispering reassurances.

Then his gaze lifted, again, to meet Lovejoy’s. “How much did you overhear? Just now.”

And Sir Henry Lovejoy, that hardheaded stickler for the processes of the law and the sanctity of truth, who had arrived at the basin’s edge only in time to watch Wilcox’s head first disappear beneath the black waters, smiled tightly and said, “Enough.”

Chapter 64

Sebastian watched Kat breathe, watched the gentle rise and fall of her breasts beneath lace-trimmed sheets, watched the flicker of golden candlelight over the pale skin of her eyelids, closed now in gentle sleep.

He stood beside the bed, his dressing gown thrown casually over his shoulders. Around them, the Brook Street house settled into the hush of the night. It seemed oddly strange, to be here again in his own house, to be wearing freshly laundered linen and fine silk. He was here, and safe, and yet the coiled sense of alertness, the driving restlessness remained.

“She’s going to be fine, Sebastian,” said Paul Gibson, coming to stand beside him. “I’ll stay with her. But you need to get some rest. You’ve lost a fair amount of blood yourself.”

Sebastian nodded. Beneath the bandages, his shoulder and leg throbbed with a fiery ache that seemed to radiate out and blend with every cut and bruise he’d acquired over the past week. He felt as if he hadn’t slept in a lifetime. “Call me if she wakes.”

“Of course.”

Turning toward his room, Sebastian became aware of the sound of a man’s loud, angry voice drifting up from the hall below.

“Damn your impudence,” swore the Earl of Hendon. “And to hell with your instructions. I want to see my son.”

Sebastian paused at the top of the stairs. “Father.”

Hendon looked up, a succession of emotions chasing one another across the features of his white, anguished face as he watched Sebastian limp down the stairs toward him. But all he said was, “I’d heard you were hurt.”

“It’s nothing,” said Sebastian, and led the way into the drawing room.

Hendon closed the door carefully behind him. “I’ve had a meeting with Lord Jarvis and Sir Henry Lovejoy, concerning these recent revelations about Wilcox. The situation is delicate, particularly with the Prince’s instillation as Regent to take place tomorrow. For an intimate of the Prince to be implicated in such heinous crimes at this time...”

“Devilishly inconvenient. So what is Jarvis proposing? I’m confident he’s come up with some solution.”

At the levity in Sebastian’s tone, the Earl’s features settled into a deep frown. “As a matter of fact, the suggestion was mine. The murders of Rachel York and Mary Grant will be attributed to the Frenchman, Leo Pierrepont.”

“Of course. Cooperative of him to have fled the country.” Sebastian went to stand before the hearth, his gaze on the fire. “And Wilcox’s death?”

“The work of the cutthroats and thieves who set fire to the warehouse. The riverfront can be a dangerous place at night.”

“Amanda will be pleased. No opprobrium attached to the family name to interfere with Stephanie’s come out next year.” Sebastian glanced around. “You do realize that Amanda knew?”

“What? That Wilcox had butchered those two women? That I can’t believe. Even of Amanda.”

---