What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

her, a lot of hate—both because of the things that had been done to her in her own life, and because of what she saw happening to others around her. She spent one afternoon a week working as a volunteer at St. Jude’sFoundling Home. Did you know that? She used to say that Napoleon might have betrayed the Revolution, but what the French had was still better than what most people have here.”
    Sebastian studied the other man’s high-browed, aesthetic face. Hugh Gordon was an actor, a man who made a living out of making people believe a lie. Not for an instant would Sebastian ever trust him. But for all his posturing, his words had a ring of sincerity to them, and that terrible weight of plausibility that can come with an unlooked-for truth.
    Outside, the wind gusted up, driving a flurry of snow against the windowpanes with a violence that sounded unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. He realized Gordon was watching him with narrowed, assessing eyes. “You don’t believe me, do you? Yet you have by now surely verified that what I told you before was true, that Leo Pierrepont was paying the rent on Rachel’s rooms.”
    “What would you have me believe? That Leo Pierrepont acts as Napoleon’s agent?”
    “Nothing as simple as that. Leo Pierrepont is what I think they call a spy master.”
    Sebastian pushed to his feet. “Leo Pierrepont’s family lost everything they owned fleeing the Revolution twenty years ago.”
    Gordon gave a tight little smile. “Pierrepont fled the Revolution and the Republic. But France is no longer a republic, now is it?”
    The point was well made. The bloody, fervent days of the Republic and the Year II belonged to the past. Lately, more and more émigré families had been making their peace with France’s new emperor, swearing allegiance to the new government of France and reclaiming old estates. Sebastian eyed the other man, assessing. “It’s an easy enough accusation to make. Where’s your proof?”
    “Men as good as Pierrepont don’t leave proof.”
    “Indeed. Yet the last time I spoke to you, you would have me believe Leo Pierrepont was Rachel’s lover.”
    Hugh Gordon’s smile widened into something at once genuine and vaguely scornful. “Actually, I believe I said the authorities would do well to look into Rachel’s association with him. I don’t recollect calling him her lover. That was your own assumption.”

Chapter 32
     
     
    T he Earl of Hendon’s visit had done much to overcome Sir Henry Lovejoy’s lingering doubts about the guilt of Viscount Devlin. But Lovejoy was a methodical man, and so on Saturday afternoon he decided to devote a few hours to setting to rest the question of Captain and Mrs. John Talbot.
    The captain, Lovejoy discovered, was a tall, handsome man in his early thirties, the youngest son of a small Devonshire landowner. With a commission in the Horse Guards, he’d had a promising future ahead of him until he’d made the mistake of running away with an heiress named Melanie Peregrin. His superiors hadn’t looked kindly upon this romantic adventure. Captain Talbot’s career had languished, while Melanie’s father had been so infuriated by what he termed his daughter’s perfidy that he cut her off without a penny and refused to allow her to cross his threshold again.
    It was snowing heavily by the time Lovejoy reached the Talbots’ narrow brick townhouse off Upper Union Street in Chelsea. The house was small and undoubtedly hired, but the front door had been painted a cheery red, the knocker polished until it shone, and someone with an artistic eye had placed two potted rosemaries on either side of the entrance. Lovejoy noted these details and stowed them away for future analysis. They didn’t sit well with the image of the weeping, battered wife Sir Christopher had painted for him.
    Nor did the calm, self-possessed young woman who introduced herself as Melanie Talbot.
    He was fortunate enough to find her at home, and alone. Lovejoy apologized for the lateness of his call; Mrs. Talbot apologized for the dishevelment in which he found her.
    “I’m afraid I’m somewhat of a messy painter,” she said, her smile sweet and almost impish as she rubbed her thumb against the splotch of paint that showed dark blue against a pale inner wrist. Lovejoy might have been misled into believing she’d been indulging a genteel, feminine interest in watercolors, except that when he’d first arrived he’d caught a glimpse of her up on a