What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

actor, his lips pressing together in annoyance as he cast a distracted glance toward the ornate ormolu clock on his sitting room mantel. He kept the door open no more than a foot. “I don’t have a great deal of time at the moment—”
    “It won’t take long,” said Sebastian, smiling hopefully.
    Gordon hesitated, then pushed his breath out in a sigh and opened the door wider. “Very well. What is it?”
    “I was wondering if perhaps you could clear up something for me,” said Sebastian, scooting through the door. “The thing is, you see, I was speaking with the very kind gentleman who owns the jewelry store across the street from Covent Garden Theater—you know the place, don’t you? The one with the new gaslights? Well, Mr. Touro was telling me—that’s the proprietor’s name, Mr. Jacob Touro?—he was telling me how Rachel was in his shop on the very afternoon she died. But what I find confusing, you see, is that while you told me that you hadn’t seen Rachel for the better part of six months, Mr. Touro says that you came in his shop that same afternoon and confronted Rachel.” Sebastian fixed the actor with an anxious gaze. “Actually, accosted is the word he used.”
    Hugh Gordon returned Sebastian’s stare with a bland look. “Obviously, the man is mistaken.”
    “Well, one might think so. Except, he’s a particular fan of yours, is Mr. Touro,” Sebastian continued, smiling amicably as he seated himself—without invitation—on a high-backed settee covered in burgundy brocade. “He says he hasn’t missed a one of your performances in the past five years. And I gather that Cousin Rachel was one of his best customers, if you know what I mean? So, of course, when he read the next day about what had happened to Rachel, he remembered the incident. Although I must assure you that he has no intention of telling the authorities about the argument, or the way you seized Rachel’s arm and threatened to kill her.”
    Gordon stood in the middle of his ornate, burgundy, and lace-draped sitting room, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully, as if he were beginning to reassess his attitude toward Rachel’s Cousin Simon. “I never did any such thing.”
    “You’re right: I exaggerate. According to Mr. Touro, the precise phrase you used was ‘Beat you within an inch of your life.’ ”
    The actor was silent for a moment, as if considering whether to continue denying the meeting or to provide Sebastian with some abbreviated, distorted version of the truth. Abbreviated distortion won.
    “Rachel owed me money,” he said, swinging away to pour himself a brandy from an ornate tray of heavy gold-rimmed glasses that looked as if it might have been part of the stage props for a production of the Arabian Nights . “She has owed it to me ever since she first started at the theater. She wasn’t making much in those days, so I provided her with everything she needed in the way of dresses and such. She always knew it was no gift.”
    “I’m sure you were more than generous with her,” said Sebastian, his smile hard.
    Gordon’s brows drew together in an exaggerated frown. Everything about the man was exaggerated, Sebastian decided, from the opulent, plush burgundy and gold trappings of his sitting room to his stentorian speech and theatrical gestures. One of the hazards, one might suppose, of always playing to a large, distant audience. “She used those dresses to sink her avaricious little talons into another man and leave me,” said the actor, his brandy-clutching hand waving expansively through the air. “What would you expect me to do? Just forget it?”
    “You seem to have forgotten it for the better part of two years.”
    Gordon shrugged. “A man has expenses.”
    Sebastian studied the actor’s gaunt cheeks and shadowed, preoccupied eyes. It was a look one saw often these days in the gaming hells and clubs of London—the haunted look of a man who was badly dipped. “What’s your poison? Faro?”
    A wry smile curved the actor’s full lips. “Actually, I’ve chosen hazard as my own particular road to perdition.”
    Sebastian regarded the other man thoughtfully. Debt had a way of making people desperate. And a desperate man could be a dangerous man. “There are those who say you’ve a ready fist,” said Sebastian, “when it comes to women.”
    Gordon drained his drink with one practiced flick of the wrist, then pointed a finger at Sebastian over the rim of the empty glass. “Women like a