What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

long, cool stare. “Out . . . walking.”
    An angry flush darkened Maitland’s cheeks. It had been a miscalculation after all, Lovejoy now realized, to bring the constables. Maitland was far too pugnacious and aggressive, too abrasive and hotheaded, to deal well with a man of Devlin’s ilk. Lovejoy cast his subordinate awarning look and said quietly, “You forget yourself, Constable.” To Devlin he said, “Can anyone vouch for you, my lord?”
    The Viscount brought his gaze back to Lovejoy. They were inhuman, really, those eyes. Wild and feral, like something one might see gleaming out of the darkness of a wolves’ den. “No.”
    Lovejoy knew a flicker of disappointment. How much simpler it would have been for them all if the Viscount had spent those fatal hours dining with friends, or at a pugilistic match. “Then I fear I must request you to accompany us to Queen Square, my lord.”
    Those disconcerting yellow eyes narrowed. “I wonder, am I allowed to send a servant to fetch a greatcoat and other foul-weather accouterments? I understand it can be rather chilly this time of year in”—he swung to fix Edward Maitland with a bland, ironic gaze—“Newgate, didn’t you say?”
    Lovejoy felt a quick shiver run up his spine. There was no way the Viscount could have heard the senior constable’s whispered remark, earlier, in the hall. It was impossible. And yet . . . Lovejoy remembered hearing tales, near-legendary accounts he had always dismissed, of this young man’s disconcertingly acute eyesight and hearing, of lethal reflexes and a catlike ability to see in the dark. Invaluable abilities he’d exercised to such deadly effect against the French in the Peninsula before he’d come home for reasons shrouded in rumor and innuendo.
    “You may, of course, fortify yourself against the cold with whatever vestments you require,” Lovejoy said hastily.
    An unexpected gleam of amusement flared in those terrible yellow eyes, then died. “Thank you,” said Viscount Devlin. And for the second time that day, Sir Henry Lovejoy was left with the perplexing impression that, beneath the surface, all was not precisely as it seemed.

Chapter 7
     
     
    A half hour later, Sebastian paused at the top of his front steps, one hand resting lightly on the rail. The temperature was falling rapidly with the approach of evening, the fog thinning down to dirty wisps that hugged the pavement and curled around the unlit lampposts. He drew a cold, acrid breath of air deep into his lungs and let it out slowly.
    He wasn’t particularly worried. His acquaintance with Rachel York had been both casual and decidedly noncarnal in nature. Whatever evidence might seem to implicate him in her death would surely be quickly discredited—even if he did have no intention of telling anyone where, precisely, he had been between the hours of five and eight the previous evening.
    And yet as he started down the steps, Sebastian felt an odd sense of heightened awareness, a prickle of premonition. He was acutely conscious of the slow, ponderous movements of the big young constable behind him and the queer, high-pitched voice of the magistrate, Lovejoy, as he hesitated beside the open door of the waiting hackney and said something to the jarvey.
    The hackney was an old one, an ancient landau with a low, rounded roof and sagging leather straps and a musty, stale odor. The senior constable, the one named Maitland, swung around suddenly to catch Sebastian’s arm in a rough grip and lean in close. “I daresay it’s quite a comedown from your usual mode of transportation,” said Maitland, hislips pulled back in a smile, his eyes hard. “Isn’t that right?” The man’s smile widened enough to show his clenched teeth, his fingers digging in hard. “ My lord .”
    Sebastian met the constable’s challenging blue stare with a tight smile of his own. “You’ll wrinkle my coat,” he said, one hand coming up to close around the constable’s wrist. It was a simple maneuver he’d learned in the mountains of Portugal, a trick of pressure applied at precisely the proper points. The constable sucked in a painful breath, his hand losing its hold on the coat as he took an unwary step back.
    Days of stinking fog had left the stone steps slippery with a combination of coal soot and freezing condensation. One foot shooting off the edge of the first step, the constable spun around, his back slamming against the iron handrail as he scrambled to catch