What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

of the British art of unemotional calm. Only his tense lower jaw and subtly increased breathing betrayed any hint of shock or anxiety.
    Crossing to the brandy decanter warming on a small table near the fire, Sebastian eased out the cut-crystal stopper and soaked his handkerchief with the neat alcohol. “I’ve just had a rather interesting encounter with Monsieur Léon Pierrepont.”
    “Ah, yes. I’d heard he was to have a masquerade tonight.”
    “I found this in his library.” Reaching his left hand into his pocket, Sebastian produced the small cylinder and tossed it to his father.
    Hendon caught it neatly. “What is it?”
    Sebastian dabbed the alcohol-sodden cloth against first one, then thenext of his various cuts, the breath hissing out through his clenched teeth. “It’s a Jefferson cipher. I think the man is spying for the French.” Sebastian watched his father’s broad, plain-featured face for some flicker of surprise. There was none. “You don’t strike me as being particularly shocked by the possibility.”
    Setting aside the cylinder, Hendon folded his hands, calmly, on the swell of his stomach. “About a year ago, a certain gentleman whose name is irrelevant allowed Monsieur Pierrepont to catch him in a potentially embarrassing escapade.”
    “Exactly what kind of escapade?”
    “A sexual one. The gentleman involved—let’s call him Mr. Smith, shall we—has somewhat unusual tastes. Tastes he’d prefer not be made public.”
    Sebastian pressed the handkerchief against the cut on his cheek and held it there. “And?”
    “He wisely realized the need to confess the entire sordid tale and ask for guidance. I discussed the matter with Lord Jarvis, and between the two of us, we decided we could use Mr. Smith.”
    “You mean as a double agent, feeding selected information to the French via Pierrepont?” Sebastian tossed the blood-soaked cloth aside and poured himself a drink.
    “Yes.” The Earl shoved up from his chair and went to stand before the fire. “The French will always have spies and their spy masters in London. It’s better for us if at least some of the players are known. That way, they can be watched and the flow of potentially damaging information can be managed . . . to some extent.”
    “And Rachel York? Was she passing information to Pierrepont?”
    Hendon’s face went suddenly ashen. “Good God. Who told you that?”
    “The same person who told me about Pierrepont. Is it true? Was Rachel one of Pierrepont’s spies?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Sebastian fixed his father with a hard stare. “Are you sure? She wasn’t blackmailing you into passing government secrets to the French?”
    Hendon’s blue eyes flashed dangerously, his fists clenching at his sides. “My God. If you were anyone but my son, I’d call you out for that.”
    Sebastian slammed down his drink. “What else am I to think?
    The Earl stood very still, his jaw working back and forth in thought. He let out a strained sigh, then said, “That morning, the Tuesday she died, Rachel York came to me. She said she had in her possession a certain document that she was willing to sell.”
    “What sort of document?”
    Hendon hesitated.
    “What was it, damn it?”
    The Earl’s face had taken on an odd, ashen quality. “An affidavit, providing detailed proof of an indiscretion committed by your mother.”
    “My mother?”
    Sebastian knew an odd sense of dislocation. His mother had died long ago, in a yachting accident off the coast of Brighton the summer he was eleven. A kaleidoscope of memories from that time swirled around him, of sun-sparkled sea and a woman’s sweet laughter and a deep, profound sense of loss. He pushed them away. “Were you able to obtain this document?”
    “No. I told you, the girl was dead by the time I reached the chapel. I looked for it but she didn’t have it on her.”
    The coals on the hearth hissed, the sound seeming unnaturally loud in the sudden, strained silence. “You do realize, don’t you,” said Sebastian, “that this document was very likely the motive for the killing?”
    “Don’t be ridiculous.” Hendon fumbled in the pockets of his dressing gown and came up with his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. “The disclosure of its contents would embarrass me, but no more.”
    “How much were you willing to pay for it?”
    “Five thousand pounds.”
    Sebastian let out a low, soundless whistle. “There are those who would consider five thousand pounds more