What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

hear the transept door open and close, only the faint echo of stealthy footsteps along the choir. He was early. She hadn’t expected it of him.
    Turning, she shoved back the hood of her cloak and forced her lips into a practiced smile, ready to play her role.
    She could see him now, a faint shadow, the outline of his greatcoat and top hat just visible through the Lady Chapel’s intricately carved stone screen.
    Then he moved into the candlelight.
    She took a quick step back. “ You ,” she whispered, and knew she’d made a terrible mistake.

Chapter 1
     
    Wednesday, 30 January 1811
     
     
    S ebastian could hear the tolling of the city’s church bells, counting out the hour; dull echoes of sound muffled by distance and the acrid fog that, even here, hugged the open ground and shrouded the bare, reaching branches of the stand of elms that grew at the edge of the field. Dawn had come, but it brought little warmth or light. Sebastian Alistair St. Cyr, Viscount Devlin, only surviving son and heir to the Earl of Hendon, propped his shoulders against the high side of his curricle, crossed his arms at his chest, and thought about his bed.
    It had been a long night, a night of brandy fumes and cigar smoke, of faro and vingt-et-un and a promise made to a sad-eyed woman—a promise that he would not kill, however much the man he had come here to meet might deserve killing. Sebastian tipped back his head and closed his eyes. He could hear the sweet call of a lark at the far end of the field and, nearer, the steady swish, swish of wet grass as his second, Sir Christopher Farrell, paced back and forth in the roadside’s verge. Suddenly, the footsteps stopped.
    “Maybe he won’t show,” said Sir Christopher.
    Sebastian kept his eyes closed. “He’ll show.”
    The pacing resumed. Back and forth, boot heels squelching in the damp earth.
    “If you’re not careful,” said Sebastian, “you’re going to get mud on your boots.”
    “To hell with my boots. Are you certain Talbot is bringing a doctor? How good of a doctor? Maybe we should have brought our own doctor.”
    Sebastian lowered his head and opened his eyes. “I don’t intend to get shot.”
    Sir Christopher swung about, his fair hair curling wildly in the damp mist, his normally soft gray eyes dilated. “Right. Well, that’s reassuring. Doubtless Lord Firth had every intention of not getting shot when he stood up against Maynard last month. Pity, of course, that the bullet went through his neck.”
    Sebastian smiled.
    “I’m delighted to see I’m amusing you. This is another of those advantages of having gone to war, is it? Staring with calm disdain into the face of death? Ranks right up there with being rendered irresistibly fascinating to members of the fair sex.”
    Sebastian laughed out loud.
    Christopher smiled himself, then resumed his silent pacing, a slim, flawlessly tailored figure in buckskins and high-gloss top boots and well-laundered linen. After another moment, he said, “I still don’t understand why you didn’t choose swords. Less chance of someone accidentally getting killed with swords.” Lifting his left arm in a fencer’s pose, he pantomimed a quick thrust against the cold, misty air. “A neat little pink through the shoulder, a bloody scratch on the arm, and honor is satisfied.”
    “Talbot intends to kill me.”
    Christopher let his arms fall to his sides. “So you’re just going to stand there and let him take a shot at you?”
    “Talbot couldn’t hit a ship of the line at twenty-five paces.” Sebastian yawned. “I’m surprised he chose it.” It was the Code Duello: as the challenged party, Sebastian selected the weapons. But the choice of distance then fell to the challenger.
    Christopher scrubbed an open hand across his face. “I’ve heard rumors—”
    “Here he comes,” said Sebastian. Straightening, he swung off his driving coat and slung it over the high seat of the curricle.
    Christopher turned to stare into the opaque distance. “Bloody hell. Even you can’t see in this fog.”
    “No. But I have ears.”
    “So do I. And I don’t hear a thing. I swear, Sebastian, you must be part bat. It’s unnatural.”
    A minute or two later, a carriage appeared out of the gloom, a pair of showy blacks pulling a high-perch phaeton containing two men and followed at a discreet distance by a simple gig. The doctor.
    A tall, lanky man with straight, thinning brown hair and an aquiline nose jumped down from the