What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

Tipping his chair forward, Lovejoy searched amongst the litter on his desk. “What, precisely, have you discovered about this Rachel York?”
    “What is there to find out?”
    Lovejoy pressed his lips together and refrained from pointing out that if he’d known the answer to that question, they wouldn’t have needed to discover it. “You searched her rooms, of course?”
    “First thing yesterday morning. When we spoke to the maid.” Maitland shrugged. “There was nothing of interest. I left one of the lads there, like you ordered, to watch the place overnight.” A waste of time and resources, his tone said clearly, although he would never voice such a thought aloud.
    Lovejoy gave up looking for his schedule. “When am I due in court this morning?”
    “At ten, sir.”
    “Not enough time,” muttered Lovejoy. “I’ll have to clear my docket for this afternoon then.”
    “Sir?” said Maitland.
    “There are certain aspects of this case which disturb me, Constable. It warrants looking into further, and I intend to begin by viewing that unfortunate young woman’s rooms myself. Something is going on here. I might not know what it is yet, but there’s one thing I do know.” Lovejoy stuck his spectacles back on his nose. “I know I don’t like it.”

Chapter 15
     
     
    L ady Amanda Wilcox didn’t discover that her brother Sebastian was wanted for the murder of an actress named Rachel York until the day after his infamous flight across London.
    With the Season not yet properly under way, she had opted for a quiet evening at home in the company of her sixteen-year-old daughter, Stephanie. Neither her son, Bayard, nor his father—both of whom had presumably heard the news, having spent the night on the town—bothered to inform her of the scandal. And so it wasn’t until Thursday morning, when she came down for breakfast and found the Morning Post folded beside her place, as per her staff’s standing instructions, that Amanda learned of the social disaster looming over her family.
    She was still at the breakfast table, drinking a cup of tea and staring at the Post , when her father, the Earl of Hendon, was announced.
    He hurried into the breakfast parlor, still wrapped in his street coat and hat and bringing with him an unpleasant medley of smells, of freezing rain and coal smoke-choked fog. His fleshy face was haggard, his mouth slack, his eyes red-rimmed and puffy. He fixed her with a desperate stare and demanded without preamble, “Has he contacted you? Has he? ”
    “If you mean Sebastian,” said Amanda, pausing to take a calm sip of her tea, “I should rather think not.”
    Hendon swung away, one hand coming up to shield his eyes, such a great sigh rumbling from his chest that she was embarrassed for him. “ My God. Where is he? Why hasn’t he sought help from any of his friends or family?”
    Amanda folded the paper and set it to one side. “Presumably because he knows his family.”
    He turned to face her again, his hand falling slowly to his side. “I would do anything within my power to help him.”
    “Then you’re a fool.”
    His fierce blue gaze met hers, and held it. “He is my son.”
    Amanda was the first to look away. “Of course,” she said dryly. “There is that.” She pushed back her chair and stood up. “The only redeeming feature I can see to all of this is that since he was bound to disgrace us eventually, at least he had the courtesy to do it this year. Hopefully the worst of the scandal will have died down by next Season, when Stephanie makes her come out.”
    “Is that all you can think of?”
    “Stephanie is my daughter. What else should I be thinking of?”
    He regarded her thoughtfully for a long, intense moment. “I always knew you and Sebastian weren’t close. I suppose that was inevitable, given the number of years between you. But I don’t think I realized until now just how much you hate him.”
    “You know why,” she said, her voice a harsh tear.
    “Yes. But if I can see my way to forget it, then why in the name of God can’t you?” He turned away. “Give my best to my grandchildren,” he said over his shoulder, and left.
    Amanda waited until she heard the front door close behind her father. Then she picked up the morning’s edition of the Post and went upstairs to her husband’s dressing room.
    The Wilcox family was an ancient one, older even than the St. Cyrs, and long known for their staid respectability. Far from squandering his