What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

been forgetting Simplot. Lovejoy sighed. “How is the lad?”
    “Still out of his head with fever. They don’t think he’ll last the night. It’s a miracle he’s lived as long as he has.”
    Lovejoy nodded, his thoughts running back over what had happened that Wednesday afternoon in Brook Street. Here was one aspect of the case he had yet to consider. Why would a privileged young nobleman from a powerful, wealthy family deliberately attack and attempt to kill a constable in order to escape arrest for a crime of which he knew himself to be innocent? It made no sense.
    Yet when it came to the young Viscount’s arrest, Lovejoy realized with a sigh, it mattered as little as the sexton’s discovery of the key. For Lovejoy was also forgetting Charles, Lord Jarvis. As far as Lord Jarvis was concerned, Devlin’s innocence or guilt had never been an issue. The Viscount had been tried and found guilty by the press and the streets, and the shocked populous of London wanted him brought to justice.
    For the son of a peer of the realm to be seen getting away with murder would have been a volatile situation, at any time. Now, with the Kingdeclared mad and the Prince about to be created Regent, the situation could become dangerous. And Jarvis had been more than clear about what was at stake: Devlin was to be brought in before tomorrow’s ceremony, or Lovejoy’s position as Queen Square magistrate would be forfeit.

Chapter 58
     
     
    L ife is full of scary things , Kat Boleyn’s father used to tell her. Scary things, like the steadily approaching tramp of marching soldiers and the silhouette of a rope dangling against a misty morning sky. Or the dark muzzle of a gun, gripped in the hand of a smiling man.
    “Why?” she said now, her gaze on the man before her. Life might be full of scary things, but she’d learned long ago to hide her fears behind a smooth face and a steady voice. “What do you want with me?”
    He was one of those men whose lips seemed perpetually curved into a faint smile. But at her words the smile slipped, as if he’d anticipated meek obedience or fearful hysteria, and found the calm directness of her question disconcerting.
    “All I need from you, my dear, is cooperation.” The smile was back in place now, serene, confident. He nodded toward Tom. “You know this lad, do you?”
    Kat’s gaze met that of the boy who stood stiffly at her side. Tom stared back at her, his dark eyes alert. “Yes,” she said.
    “Good. Then he can be trusted to deliver a message.” With his free hand, Wilcox retrieved a folded note from an inner pocket and held it out to Tom. “Take this to Viscount Devlin. The note will give him the particulars he needs, but I am relying on you to convey to his lordship the gravity of the situation. I trust I do make myself clear?”
    Kat sucked in a quick gasp just as quickly stifled, for she understood all too clearly what Wilcox intended. He was setting a trap to catch Sebastian and she was to be the bait.
    Fear welled within her, hot and trembling, but she forced it down. Fear interfered with one’s ability to think, and she needed to think clearly. It occurred to her that whatever Wilcox’s carefully arranged plan, she could destroy it in an instant simply by refusing to go with him. Except there was something in Wilcox’s eyes that gave her pause. A man like this could kill without second thoughts or remorse. Kat knew what it would do to Sebastian, if he felt himself responsible for her death. A man driven by that kind of rage and guilt could make mistakes. Fatal mistakes.
    She drew in a deep, cold breath of the smoke-fouled night air, felt the acrid burn of it tear at her throat. It tasted bitter in her mouth, bitter as fear. As if he could smell her fear, Wilcox’s smile widened.
    It was the smile that decided her—the smile, and the man’s self-assured confidence in the success of whatever strategy he had devised to ensnare Sebastian St. Cyr. He obviously thought his plan infallible. But Kat knew Sebastian, knew the uncanny, animal-like keenness of his senses and the swiftness of his reflexes. Sebastian might be walking into a trap, but at least he would know it.
    And so for the second time that evening, she met Tom’s gaze and held it, and slowly nodded. She could only hope he understood.
    For a moment longer, Tom hesitated. Then he reached for the note and darted out into the street, brushing past Wilcox on the way. But on the cobbles the boy suddenly