What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

“Well, you know.”
    Gordon grunted. “Your information is out of date, my friend. There’ve been any number of gentlemen who’ve visited her pleasure palace since me, I can tell you that.”
    It was a crude and decidedly unloverlike expression. Sebastian drew a deep breath, his chest lifting in a soulful sigh. “My mother always feared the girl would end up as common Haymarket ware.”
    Gordon snorted. “Nothing common about Rachel. Hell, a man would need to be a lord or a bloody nabob at least, to get past her ivory gates these days.”
    And there, thought Sebastian, lay the source of at least some of this man’s resentment toward his former mistress. When she’d been young and just starting out in the theatrical world, Gordon’s status as one of the titans of the stage must have made him seem powerful, even godlike to her. But once Rachel had established a reputation of her own and attracted the attention of some of London’s wealthiest noblemen, she’d obviously decided she could do better than a common actor. Especially one with a tendency to use his fists on her.
    Gordon took a long, deep drink from his tankard. “She used to talk about the day their noble heads would end up on pikes, and how London’s gutters were going to run with their precious blue blood.” He gave a low, mirthless laugh. “She changed her tune quick enough, didn’t she, when they started buying her silks and pearls?”
    So Rachel York had sympathized with the aims of the French Revolution. Interesting, thought Sebastian. He shook his head soulfully. “And now one of these noblemen has murdered her?”
    “So they say. Although if you ask me, the authorities ought to be taking a closer look at that bloody Frenchman.”
    “She had a French lover?”
    “Lover?” Gordon shoved the last of his bread in his mouth, chewed once or twice, and swallowed hard. “I don’t know if I’d call him that. Although the man was paying the rent on her rooms, all right.”
    “What man is this?”
    “One of those bloody émigrés. Claims to be the son of a count or some such nonsense.” The flawless accent slipped for a moment, allowing a hint of Geordie to peek through. Pushing away his plate, the actor leaned back and dusted the crumbs off his fingers. “Man by the name of Pierrepont. Leo Pierrepont.”

Chapter 17
     
     
    S ir Henry Lovejoy had two passions left in his life. One was for justice and the law. The other was for science.
    Whenever he could, he attended the public lectures given at the Royal Scientific Society; he read the Scientific Quarterly , and he tried very, very hard to apply the scientific method to his investigations and legal deliberations. But every once in a while, Lovejoy went with his instincts, and played a hunch.
    It was his instincts that kept nagging at him over this latest killing, whispering to him that there had to be more to Rachel York’s murder in the Lady Chapel of St. Matthew of the Fields than Constable Edward Maitland had so far discovered. And so late that Thursday afternoon, Lovejoy sought out Viscount Devlin’s friend and erstwhile second, Sir Christopher Farrell, in Brooks’s Club on St. James’s and set about finding out more about the Earl of Hendon’s infamous, rakehell son, Sebastian.
    “Tell me about yesterday morning’s duel between Lord Devlin and Captain John Talbot,” said Lovejoy when Sir Christopher joined him in the discreet little room tucked away at the top of the stairs that the club had provided for them.
    He was an unexpectedly open-faced man, Sir Christopher, with clear gray eyes and an easy manner. Nothing at all like what Lovejoy would have expected in a friend of someone as dark and saturnine as Devlin. AtLovejoy’s question, he opened his eyes wide in a studied parody of innocence. “Duel? What duel?”
    The room contained a large mahogany table surrounded by some half-dozen chairs upholstered in the same blue brocade as the walls. Lovejoy stood with the table between them, his gaze fixed on the other man’s face. “You do your friend no favor, Sir Christopher. I have little interest at the moment in enforcing the codes against dueling. But two days ago, a young woman named Rachel York was brutally assaulted and murdered, and certain evidence combined with accounts from a witness have implicated Lord Devlin. Therefore, the more we know about his lordship’s movements these last few days, the closer we will be to understanding the truth of this matter.