What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

seem to forget who we are. Who I am. Do you seriously think I will allow a son of mine to be brought up on murder charges like some common criminal?”
    Sebastian kept his voice steady. “You can’t fix this, Father. A woman is dead.”
    “An inconsequential whore?” Hendon swiped at the air between them. “Her death I could have dealt with. What I want to know is what the hell you thought you were about, stabbing a constable and leading the authorities on a chase across London?”
    “The man slipped and fell against another constable. It wasn’t even my knife.”
    “That’s not what they’re saying.”
    “They’re lying.”
    Sebastian met his father’s gaze and held it. Hendon let out a long sigh. “The constable’s not dead yet, but from what I hear it’s only a matter of time. You’ll need to leave the country until I can sort all this out.”
    Sebastian smiled. “And Jarvis? You can’t tell me the King’s very busy cousin isn’t behind the authorities’ haste to see me arrested.”
    Sebastian knew from the way his father’s jaw worked that he was right. United the two men might be in their hatred of the French, republicanism, and Catholics, but Hendon was far too much a stickler for the preeminence of rules and propriety to ever find favor with a Machiavellian schemer like Jarvis. “I can take care of Jarvis.”
    Sebastian pressed his lips together and said nothing.
    “I’ve made arrangements,” Hendon said, pushing up from the table. “With the captain of a ship—”
    “I’m not running.”
    Hendon went to jerk open a small drawer in the bureau on the far side of the bed. “There is no shame in temporarily removing yourself from harm’s way.”
    The big old house seemed to stretch out around them, painfully familiar and suddenly, unexpectedly dear in the hushed stillness of thenight. “I’m not running,” Sebastian said again. “I’m going to stay here and find out who killed that woman. And why.”
    Hendon turned, a flash of what might have been fear flaring in his eyes. He hesitated, then thrust out his hand. “Here. At least take this.”
    Sebastian glanced down at the banknotes in his father’s big, blunt-fingered, outstretched hand. “I don’t need money.”
    “Don’t be a bloody ass. Of course you need money.”
    It was true. His various purchases at the Rag Fair and in Haymarket had seriously depleted his funds, and he would need more in the days to come.
    He took the money and turned toward the window, only to pause as a thought occurred to him. “Leo Pierrepont claims he was hosting a dinner party the night Rachel York was killed. Can you find out if it’s true?”
    “Pierrepont? The French émigré? What the hell’s he to do with this?”
    “Maybe nothing. Maybe everything. Can you find out?”
    That expression Sebastian could never quite read was back on his father’s face. “For God’s sake, Sebastian. This is madness. If you won’t leave the country, then at least lie low until it all blows over. I’ll hire the best Bow Street has to offer. They’ll track down the real killer. Just concentrate on keeping yourself safe.”
    Sebastian gave a soft laugh and turned to fling up the sash. “I’m afraid you’ll find that the best of Bow Street is already busy.” He threw one leg over the sill, then paused to glance back at his father’s tense, troubled face. “They’re all out there right now. Looking for me.”

     
    The next morning the clouds hung low and heavy, and there was a bite to the air that spoke of snow before nightfall.
    Turning up the collar of his greatcoat against the cold, Sebastian set off on foot toward the City, walking briskly to keep warm. At the base of Tower Hill he bought a bag of roasted chestnuts from an old woman, then ended up giving most of them away to the small knot of ragged children who huddled nearby, stamping their feet and rubbing their hands in the bitter cold. He knew they had always been there, these bands of half-starved urchins, just like the desperate mothers clutchingtheir wailing, dying infants, and the homeless, helpless old men and women. Yet it seemed to Sebastian as if he had, somehow, never really noticed them before. Or perhaps it was simply that he had never before walked among them, alone and vulnerable and sharing their fear.
    “You don’t look as if you went to bed last night,” said Paul Gibson, when the surgeon’s young maidservant led Sebastian back to the kitchen where the Irishman