What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

ladder, painting the walls of her dining room.
    “I am grateful you’ve consented to see me on such short notice,” said Lovejoy, taking the seat she indicated in the small, pleasant sitting room overlooking the snow-filled street. The furniture in the room was old-fashioned and battered, he noticed, but tasteful, with good clean lines—the kind of thing one might find tucked away in the attics of some ancient country estate, or for sale, cheap, in the markets of Hatfield Street. If Melanie Talbot’s love match had proved to be an unhappy one, it certainly wasn’t preventing her from working hard to make her home pleasant and comfortable, whatever her reduced financial circumstances.
    She sank into the chair opposite him, a lithe, unusually attractive young woman with very fair hair and large blue eyes set wide in a delicately molded face. Exactly the kind of female to inspire any young buck—and more than a few old ones—with the desire to cast himself in the role of her knight in shining armor.
    She gave Lovejoy a broad, beautiful smile. “And how, precisely, may I help you, Sir Henry?”
    “I have a few questions I’d like to ask about Lord Devlin.”
    Lovejoy, watched, fascinated, as a gust of fear passed across her lovely features. She threw a quick, nervous glance toward the narrow hall, as if to reassure herself that no one could have overheard. Then her smile broadened again, bright and utterly false. “I’m not sure how much I can help you. Lord Devlin and I are the merest of acquaintances only.”
    “Indeed, Mrs. Talbot? I have it on excellent information that you andhis lordship are considerably more than that. And let me hasten to reassure you that if you fear your husband—”
    “And what makes you think I would have reason to fear my husband, Sir Henry?” she asked sharply.
    Lovejoy returned her firm, direct gaze. “I know what happened at the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball last year.”
    “Ah.” Her chest hitched on a small sigh as she sat silent for a moment, seemingly lost in thought. Then her gaze lifted to his again, her jaw hardening. “Very well. Devlin and I are friends, good friends. But nothing more.”
    Lovejoy kept his expression impassive. “It’s my understanding that your husband and Lord Devlin fought a duel last Wednesday morning.”
    Her smile, this time, was neither impish nor sweet. “Surely, Sir Henry, you are aware that we wives are never told of such things?”
    “But you knew.”
    She stood abruptly, going to stand before the painted mantel where a small fire burned feebly on the hearth, providing little warmth. “You must understand, Sir Henry,” she said, her gaze on the fire. “I promised my husband I would sever all contact with Lord Devlin.”
    Lovejoy studied the slim, taut line of her back. “And when did you make this promise?”
    “On Monday last.”
    “You didn’t see Lord Devlin on Tuesday?”
    “No. Of course not. I am a good and obedient wife. That’s what’s expected of a woman, isn’t it?” she said, the sneer in her voice as much for herself as for the society in which she lived.
    “So you wouldn’t be able to tell me where his lordship spent that evening?”
    “No.” She swung to face him, and he was shocked by the strength of the emotion he could see in her face. “But I can tell you how he did not spend Tuesday evening. He didn’t spend it murdering that poor woman you found in St. Matthew of the Fields.”
    “So sure, Mrs. Talbot?”
    She pushed out a harsh breath, her eyebrows twitching together in thought. “Who told you about the Duchess of Devonshire’s ball?”
    “I’m afraid I can’t say.”
    “But you know—you know what brought Sebastian and me together?”
    Lovejoy nodded, noting her unconscious use of the Viscount’s first name.
    “He’d just come back from the war.” She paused. “We both had demons we needed to deal with. I like to think that I helped him at least half as much as he helped me.”
    “The demons a man brings home from war can sometimes drive him to do terrible things.”
    She shook her head. “The kind of demons that haunt Lord Devlin aren’t the sort that drive a man to rape and murder.” She paused, then pushed on resolutely, her head held high. “I would actually have given myself to him, if he’d have had me. Does that shock you, Sir Henry? There was a time I would have been shocked by it. Only . . .” She swallowed, then shook her head and left the rest of the