What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

handkerchiefs with black borders in cambric and silk . . . The list seemed endless. All the servants would need to be outfitted as well, of course, although Amanda intended to look into dyeing some of their existing clothing black. She’d heard Indian logwood worked quite well. Thank heavens Stephanie would be out of mourning before she was due to be presented at Court the following Season. Amanda herself, of course, would be in half mourning for another year or two beyond that.
    The commotion in the hall below surprised her. Then she heard her father’s voice, and understood.
    “Send the woman away,” said Hendon, appearing in the entrance to the morning room.
    Amanda nodded to the dressmaker, who collected her pattern cards and samples, and scampered out the doorway.
    “Where is it?” Hendon demanded the instant the door shut behind the dressmaker.
    Amanda settled back against the damask cushions of her chair and stared up at her father with a placid, well-composed face. “Where is what?”
    “Don’t play me for a fool. Your mother’s affidavit. Wilcox thought Sebastian had taken it. And since I disremember hearing of your having any break-ins recently, the conclusion is obvious.”
    Amanda held herself quite still. “Is it?”
    Hendon stared at her from across the room, dark color suffusing his face, his chest rising and falling with his agitated breathing. It was a moment before he spoke. His voice was crisp, but surprisingly calm and even. “So that’s the way we’re going to play it, is it? Very well. But mark my words.” He raised one hand to jab a thick finger into the air between them. “If I can hush up your precious husband’s nasty little activities, I can also lay them bare to the world. And I don’t think the consequences of that would be pleasant—for either you or for your children.”
    Amanda surged to her feet, rage thrumming through her so hard andfast she was trembling with it. “You would do that? You would do that to your own grandchildren?”
    Hendon stared back at her, his jaw set. “I would do anything to protect the succession. Do you understand? Anything.”
    “Yes. Well.” She gave a torn laugh. “We’ve already seen that, haven’t we?”

Chapter 65
     
     
    A t the hour appointed for the installation of the Prince of Wales as Regent, the sun broke through the clouds that had been shrouding the city and a light wind blew the dirty remnants of the fog away.
    Restless and still technically a fugitive from justice for the attack on Constable Simplot, Sebastian pushed through the rabble massing in the streets. He was crossing Piccadilly when Sir Henry Lovejoy haled him from the open window of a passing hackney. “If I might have a word, my lord?”
    Nodding, Sebastian waited while the little magistrate paid off the jarvey. Together, they entered the park and turned toward the lagoon to walk along in silence until the crowds thinned around them.
    Lovejoy said, “I thought you should know that Constable Simplot regained consciousness last night. His fever has broken and the doctors say the prognosis for his recovery is quite promising.”
    “The man must have the constitution of an ox.”
    An unexpected smile played about the magistrate’s thin lips. “That is roughly the opinion of his doctors.” The smile faded. “He’s told us what happened that afternoon, on Brook Street. Needless to say, Chief Constable Maitland has been dismissed from his duties.”
    Sebastian nodded. He supposed he should feel relieved that the young constable had survived to give witness to the truth. Perhaps intime, Sebastian thought, he would feel relief. But at the moment he simply felt numb, as if it had all happened long ago in someone else’s lifetime.
    “I was most impressed,” Sir Henry was saying, “by the way you went about the task of discovering the true identity of the killer. Your investigative abilities are quite remarkable, my lord. If you weren’t a nobleman, you’d make a fine detective.”
    Sebastian laughed.
    “Some cases, of course, are more difficult for our office to deal with than others,” said Lovejoy. “Particularly those cases involving the royal family or members of the nobility.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably and squinted off into the distance. “I was wondering . . . given your talents and abilities, if you might be interested in occasionally cooperating with our office on such exceptional cases? On a purely unofficial basis, of