What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

the opposite bench, Tom wrapped his hands around one of the pies and twitched his shoulder in a careless shrug. “ ’E’s a foreigner. People around ’ere don’t seem to ’ave much to do with ’im. Although they noticed the girl, all right. She musta been some looker, that Rachel.”
    “She was.” Sebastian ate silently for a moment, then said, “Any other women visit his studio frequently?”
    “Not so’s anyone noticed.” Tom took a large bite of pie, and spoke around it. “Think ’e was tupping her?”
    “Possibly, but I’m not sure. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
    Tom swallowed, hard, his eyes widening with the effort. “So we didn’t learn nothin’ from all this?”
    “Oh, we learned something.” Sebastian took a deep drought of ale and leaned his shoulders back against the wall. “According to our painter friend, a man was following Rachel about for months. A gentleman, to be precise.”
    Tom polished off the last of his pie and set about licking his fingers clean. “Did he tell you this cove’s name?”
    “Yes. His name is Bayard Wilcox.”
    Something in Sebastian’s tone caused the boy to stop with his last finger halfway to his mouth. “Know the bloke, do you?”
    Sebastian drained his tankard and stood up abruptly. “Quite well, as a matter of fact. Bayard is my nephew.”

Chapter 24
     
     
    C harles, Lord Jarvis, paused in the doorway of the princely dressing room and watched His Royal Highness, George, the Prince of Wales, pivot first one way, then the other as he studied his reflection in the series of ornate, gilt-framed looking glasses that lined the room’s silk-covered walls. Several of the Prince’s boon companions, Lord Frederick Fairchild among them, lounged at their ease about the cavernous, crimson and gold room, their discussions ranging from the use of champagne in boot polish to the newest opera dancers to catch their fancy. A dozen ruined cravats lay scattered across the chamber’s richly hued Turkey carpet, while the Prince’s man hovered at the ready with another armload of starched white linen neckcloths, should the Prince’s present endeavor be no more successful than the last. Prince George might require the assistance of two footmen to shove his corpulent body into his coat, and a mechanical contrivance to hoist him into the saddle, but he always insisted on tying his own cravats.
    “Ah, there you are, Jarvis,” said the Prince, looking up.
    Jarvis, who had spent the past half hour trying to soothe the wounded dignity of the Russian ambassador, simply bowed and said, “Sir?”
    “What’s this Lord Frederick is telling me about Spencer Perceval and his damned Tory government pushing for restrictions on our regency?”The Prince’s full, petulant mouth puckered into a frown. “Restrictions? What restrictions?”
    Jarvis shifted a crumpled shirt and torn satin waistcoat from a gilded chair shaped like a lotus blossom, and sat down. “A temporary restriction only,” he said blandly, “to be lifted after one year.”
    “A year!”
    “The doctors insist the King continues to improve,” said Lord Frederick, his voice tight with worry. It was the Whigs’ greatest fear that mad old King George III might recover before they were able to return to power. “There are those in the Commons who are saying a regency may not be necessary after all.”
    “What do you think?” said George, whirling to face his friends. It took Jarvis a moment to realize that the question referred not to his father’s health, but to the Prince’s latest attempt at executing a complicated new knot for his cravat.
    Sir John Bethany, an aging roué with full, ruddy cheeks and a girth to rival the Prince’s, hauled out his quizzing glass and subjected his friend to a long, thorough inspection while the Prince waited in an agony of suspense. “Brummell himself could do no better,” said Bethany at last, letting the quizzing glass fall.
    The Prince’s face broke into a wide smile that collapsed almost at once. “You’re just saying that.” With an impatient oath, he ripped off his latest creation and began again, one eye cocking back toward Jarvis. “Our powers will be the same as the King’s, of course?”
    Jarvis cleared his throat. “Not quite, sir. But you will be allowed to form a government—”
    “I should rather think so,” interjected the Prince.
    “Although it will need to be announced before you are sworn in by the Privy Council.”
    The