What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

“The son of a French comte attend the funeral of a common English actress? Surely you jest.”
    Sebastian smiled. “And Giorgio Donatelli?”
    “He was there, weeping profusely. I hadn’t realized he and Rachelwere so close. But then, he’s Italian. Perhaps he simply cries easily.” She leaned her head back against the silk cushions, the flickering light from the candles in their wall sconces shimmering gold over the smooth bare flesh of her throat as she looked up at him. “Did you have an opportunity to speak to Hugh?”
    Sebastian wanted to touch her, to run his fingertips down the curve of her neck to her breasts. Instead, he shifted to stare down at the coals glowing on the hearth. The mantel was of white Carrara marble, he noticed, the Sèvres vases exquisite, and the oil painting above them looked like a Watteau. Kat had done very well for herself in the past six years. And he had survived.
    “You were right,” he said, his voice sounding strained, even to himself. “Hugh Gordon is still furious with Rachel for having left him. Perhaps furious enough to kill.”
    “You think he did it?”
    “I think he’s hiding something. He was seen arguing with her near the theater on the afternoon she was killed.”
    “Do you know what about?”
    “No. But he said he’d make her pay.” Sebastian swung about as the housemaid reappeared at the door, a tray of tea things in her arms. “I’d like to know where he was later that night.”
    “He’s doing Hamlet at the Stein.” Kat reached for the teapot. “But they’re not set to open until this Friday.”
    Sebastian waited until the maid had withdrawn again, then he said, “I also had an opportunity to make the acquaintance of the painter, Giorgio Donatelli. It seems Rachel was modeling for him.”
    Kat glanced up from pouring the tea. “Nothing ominous there.”
    “Perhaps. Unless she was sleeping with him, too.”
    “He is a very beautiful man. And Rachel liked beautiful men.”
    Sebastian reached to take the cup from her hand. He was very, very careful not to let his fingers brush hers. “According to Donatelli, Bayard Wilcox has been following Rachel around since before Christmas.”
    “Isn’t he your nephew?”
    “Yes, he is. Did she never tell you about it?”
    “She did mention once or twice that some nobleman was watchingher, although she never told me his name. She tried to laugh it off, but I thought she was being less than honest with herself, that he was making her nervous.” Kat took her own cup into her hands. “Is he capable of such a thing, do you think? A crime of such passion, such violence?”
    Sebastian brought his cup to his lips, and nodded. “Except that he says he was with his friends until just before nine that night, at which point he passed out drunk and had to be carried home by his father.”
    “But you don’t believe him.” She said it as a statement, not a question.
    “I learned long ago not to trust anything Bayard tells me. But in this case, it should be easy enough to find out if he’s telling the truth or not.”
    Kat sat back, her gaze on the cup she held, idle, in her lap. “You do realize, of course, that it’s possible Rachel didn’t know her killer? He could be anyone. Anyone at all.”
    “I don’t think so. If she’d been found in the streets, or even in her rooms, then I might believe that. But she went to that church on Tuesday specifically to meet someone. I know it wasn’t me. So who was it?”
    “It couldn’t have been some cousin named St. Cyr?”
    Sebastian shook his head. “No.” They weren’t a family that tended to breed, the St. Cyrs. His father had several cousins he disliked intensely, but they all lived up north, in Yorkshire or some such place. And it was not a common name. “I keep coming back to that appointment book. Whoever removed those pages did it to prevent something from being known. And yet the book was left so that it could be found. Why?”
    “But the book was hidden!”
    “Yes. Except you knew where to look for it. It’s conceivable others could have, as well. Pierrepont, for instance? He was paying the rent on her rooms. He might very well have a key.”
    She sat silent for a moment, as if considering this. “The woman upstairs described the man she saw the morning after Rachel’s death as young. Pierrepont must be almost fifty.”
    “He could have sent someone.”
    Kat thrust aside her teacup and stood up. “You think Pierrepont killed