What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

heard.” Standing up, Lovejoy went to stare out the windowoverlooking the bare branches of the plane trees in Queen Square below. Not for an instant did he believe Lord Hendon’s tale. But if the Earl were to stick to this confession, if he were to insist that he and not his son had perpetrated that savage act of carnage in St. Matthew’s on Tuesday night . . . Abruptly, Lovejoy swung back to face him. “Describe for me the disposition of the body.”
    “What?”
    “Rachel York’s body. You say you killed her. You should be able to describe for me precisely how you left her. Where she was, what she would have looked like when she was found.”
    Lovejoy watched, fascinated, as the nobleman’s face seem to collapse in upon itself, becoming pale and almost slack with horror, as if he were being forced to look again upon that bloodied, savaged body.
    “She was in the Lady Chapel,” Hendon said, his voice hushed, strained. “On the altar steps, on her . . . on her back. She had her knees bent up, and there was blood. . . .” He swallowed hard, the muscles of his throat working with the effort. “The blood was everywhere.”
    Reaching out, Lovejoy wrapped his hands around the wooden back of his desk chair and gripped it hard. “What was she wearing, my lord?”
    “A gown. Some satin. I don’t remember the color.” Hendon paused. “And a pelisse. Velvet, I think. But both were ripped. And stained dark with her blood.” His eyes squeezed closed as if to block out a horrific vision, and he brought up one clenched hand to press the knuckles against his lips.
    Lovejoy stared at the man standing across from him. They had been very, very careful to keep the more sordid details of Rachel York’s murder from the papers. The only way Hendon could have known these things was if he had seen Rachel York’s body himself . . . or had it described to him by someone who had seen her dead. By the man who had killed her.
    Lovejoy pulled out his chair and sat down again. “You say you had an assignation to meet Miss York at St. Matthew’s?”
    “That’s right.”
    Lovejoy yanked a paper pad toward him and reached for his pen. “And for what time was this meeting scheduled?”
    Hendon didn’t even hesitate. “Ten.”
    Lovejoy looked up. “Ten? You’re quite certain, my lord?”
    “Of course I’m certain. I arrived a few minutes late, but not by much.”
    Lovejoy set aside his pen and pressed his fingertips together. “So you arrived at St. Matthew’s a few minutes after ten? And walked inside to meet her? Is that what you’re saying?”
    Hendon’s heavy brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “That’s right.”
    Lovejoy felt a sad, almost pained smile thin his lips. “I’m afraid that’s impossible, my lord. Miss York was killed sometime between five and eight o’clock, which is when St. Matthew of the Fields is locked every evening.”
    “What are you talking about?” Lord Hendon’s fleshy face turned a dark, angry color, his voice booming out so loud that he brought the clerk, Collins, scurrying to the door in alarm. “I arranged to meet that woman in St. Matthew’s at ten, and the door in the north transept sure as hell wasn’t locked when I got there.”
    Lovejoy held himself very still. “With all due respect, my lord, I believe you are attempting to protect your son by taking the blame for Rachel York’s murder yourself.” Reaching across the desk, Lovejoy closed the lid on the dueling pistols case and drew it toward him. “You’ll understand our need to keep this, of course. No doubt it shall prove to be a valuable piece of evidence. . . .” Lovejoy hesitated, then said it anyway. “At your son’s trial.”

Chapter 27
     
     
    B y the time Sebastian reached Kat Boleyn’s townhouse in Harwick Street, the fog was so thick the streetlamps were little more than murky hints of dim light, and the familiar, bitter stench of soot choked the cold evening air. It would be a dark night, a good night for smugglers and housebreakers.
    And grave robbers.
    He pushed the thought from his mind. His assignation with Jumpin’ Jack Cochran and his crew wasn’t until midnight. There was much to do before then.
    Sebastian lifted the collar of his coat against the damp and studied the house opposite. It was early enough that Kat hadn’t left for the theater yet. He could see her slim, elegant shape, silhouetted against the drawing room drapes, along with the shadow of what looked