What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

some fifteen minutes before you walked in his door.”
    Gibson gave a wry smile. “I’m afraid so. All I managed to get out of him was a rough sketch of the piece.” Unfolding the paper, he smoothed it open on the arm of his chair. “Rather than a seal, the fob carried a charm, a Corinthian column worked in eighteen-carat solid gold. Whoever Rachel York’s attacker was, he was obviously a gentleman. Or at least very wealthy.”
    Sebastian reached for the paper. “You do realize, of course, that your Mr. Levitz probably melted the damn thing down the instant you were out the door.” Sebastian gazed at the sketch. “A foppish affectation. Prinny himself started the fad for these columns some months ago. Without the actual piece to trace, it’s of no use at all.”
    “I’m afraid not.”
    Standing up, Sebastian began to pace the small room. “ Bloody hell ,” hesaid suddenly, his hand tightening to crush the drawing into a tight ball. “I had this incredible conceit, this belief that if I could trace the pattern of Rachel York’s life through her last days, if I could understand why she went to that church—what dangerous game she was involved in—then I’d know who killed her. Not simply know it, but be able to prove it.” He let out a hoarse laugh and tossed the crumpled paper onto a nearby table. “What hubris.”
    “ Do you understand what she was involved in?”
    “I think so, yes.” Coming back to the fire, Sebastian quickly summed up the conversations with Gordon and Donatelli, then the death of Lord Frederick and the meeting with Jarvis.
    “I’d still put my money on the Frenchman,” said Gibson, when Sebastian had finished. “He could easily have found out Rachel was cooperating with Jarvis, and that she was the one responsible for the theft of his documents. Not only that, but he would have had a reason to go looking for the maid, Mary Grant, to get the remaining documents from her.”
    “So would Hugh Gordon,” said Sebastian. “We know he was in Westminster last Tuesday. And while the innkeeper at the Three Feathers confirmed Gordon was there, he could easily have slipped out at some point during the evening.”
    The doctor pushed up from his chair to go stir the bowl of mulled wine. “I still don’t understand the part Lord Jarvis played in all this.”
    Sebastian smiled and drained his cup. “That’s because you don’t have Jarvis’s devious mind. Lord Jarvis knew Pierrepont was the French spy-master in London—according to my father, it’s been known for over a year. Jarvis must have realized Lord Frederick was falling into one of the Frenchman’s carefully spun traps. Only instead of warning the man, Jarvis developed a plan of his own, a plan to discredit the Whigs and prevent them from taking over the government when the Regency was proclaimed.”
    “So he—what? Approached Rachel and threatened her with a traitor’s gruesome end if she didn’t deliver one of the letters Fairchild wrote to his young lover? I can see how that might discredit Fairchild. What I can’t see is how it implicates him and the Whigs with the French.”
    “Ah. But Jarvis didn’t immediately take the letter to the Prince, remember? He waited until today, when the Prince is doubtless in a high fret over tomorrow’s installation. Then, acting as if he’s only recently discovered Pierrepont’s activities, Jarvis ordered the Frenchman’s townhouse raided. Only then did he produce the letter and tell the Prince it was found in Pierrepont’s possession. And because Pierrepont has conveniently disappeared, there’s no danger of the Frenchman spilling the truth.”
    Gibson carefully ladled more steaming wine into Sebastian’s cup. “But if Jarvis was planning to expose Pierrepont and raid his townhouse anyway, why pressure Rachel York to produce one of the letters ahead of time? Why not simply seize the letters in the raid?”
    “Because there was always the possibility that the letters wouldn’t be found, and a man like Jarvis doesn’t leave that sort of thing to chance.” Sebastian took the warm drink in both hands. “And remember, the letter wasn’t the only thing implicating Lord Frederick. The fool was meeting his lover in the rooms of a woman known to be working with the French.”
    “Poor girl,” said Paul Gibson, refilling his own mug. “So Jarvis intended to betray her anyway?”
    “I suspect so. Except that Rachel was smart enough to realize she was in danger. She