What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

Everyone knew the Prince of Wales made few decisions on his own outside such pressing matters as choosing the color of the new silk hangings for his drawing rooms, or selecting an architect to undertake his latest renovation project. From his position near the window, Jarvis simply smiled. “No. Not yet.”
    A spasm of disappointment, quickly veiled, passed over Lord Frederick’s features. The man was atypically nervous today. He even jumped when one of Jarvis’s secretaries knocked softly at the door and announced, “A Sir Henry Lovejoy to see you, my lord. He says it’s important.”
    “Show him in,” said Jarvis, very much aware of Lord Frederick’s presence. It would be interesting to see if the man had heard of Rachel York’s death. Interesting, indeed. “Well, what is it?” Jarvis asked, his voice gravelly with a deliberate show of impatience when the magistrate appeared.
    Sir Henry cast an inquiring glance toward Lord Frederick and hesitated.
    “You may speak frankly,” said Jarvis, waving a vague hand in Lord Frederick’s direction. “I assume this is about Lord Devlin?”
    “Yes, my lord.” The magistrate paused again, and something about his manner told Jarvis he wasn’t going to like what he was about to hear. “He’s escaped.”
    Jarvis never allowed himself the luxury of losing his temper, although he did at times express anger for effect, to inspire fear and to spur men on in their determination to please him. Now he allowed several calculated heartbeats to pass, then said, his tone icy with a nice mingling of incredulity and righteous indignation, “Escaped, Sir Henry? Did you say escaped ?”
    “Yes, my lord. He stabbed one of my constables and stole a hackney carriage, which he then—”
    Jarvis pressed the thumb and index finger of one hand to the bridge of his nose and momentarily closed his eyes. “Spare me the details.” Jarvis sighed, and let his hand fall. “I trust you’ve discovered Devlin’s destination?”
    A faint flush colored the little man’s cheeks. There was nothing like a subtle hint of incompetence to make a man feel, well, incompetent. “Not yet, my lord.”
    From his seat near the fireplace, Lord Frederick rose to stare at them. “Do I understand you to say you’ve attempted to arrest the son of the Earl of Hendon? On what charges?”
    “Murder,” said Jarvis blandly.
    “Murder? Good God. But . . . I thought Talbot’s wound more embarrassing than life threatening. Has he indeed died?”
    It was Sir Henry who answered, with another of those bobbing little bows he affected. “Lord Devlin’s most recent affair of honor was not, as I understand it, fatal. However, he has been implicated in the death of a young woman whose body was discovered this morning in St. Matthew of the Fields, near the Abbey. An actress by the name of Rachel York.”
    Jarvis watched with interest as Lord Frederick’s jaw went slack. The man was usually better at maintaining his composure. “You’ve arrested Viscount Devlin for Rachel’s murder?”
    Sir Henry blinked. “You knew her, my lord?”
    “I wouldn’t say I knew her, exactly. I mean, I’ve seen her, of course, at Covent Garden. And I’d heard she’d been killed, of course. But I had no idea that Devlin  . . . ” Drawing a handkerchief from his pocket, Lord Frederick pressed the delicate linen to his lips. “Excuse me,” he said, and hurried from the room.
    A faint frown deepening a line between his eyes, Sir Henry’s gaze followed Lord Frederick’s retreating figure.
    “I want every available man put on Devlin’s capture,” Jarvis said, recalling the magistrate’s attention.
    Sir Henry bowed. “Yes, my lord.”
    “You’ve sent to have the ports watched, of course?”
    Another bow. “Yes, my lord. Although the Viscount wouldn’t exactly be welcome on the Continent these days.”
    “There’s always America.”
    “Yes, my lord.”
    The little man was beginning to bore him. Jarvis reached for his snuffbox. “I trust I’ll receive a more satisfactory report on this matter in the morning.”
    “Let us hope, my lord,” said Sir Henry Lovejoy, and bowed himself out.
    Yet after he left, Jarvis stood for a time at the rain-splattered window, his snuffbox held forgotten in his hand as he stared out at the darkness. The fog had finally cleared so that from here he could see the Mall, its wet pavement shining in the flickering golden light thrown by the streetlamps and the lanterns of the