What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

a stranger who happened to remind her in some vague way of the young viscount she’d once known. She’d tell herself she was silly not to have noticed sooner the shabbiness of his clothing, the touches of gray where his hair showed beneath his hat. But when they found Mary Grant’s body, as they surely would, Mrs. Lavery would recall this chance encounter.
    And tighten the noose around Sebastian’s neck.

     
    “I don’t get it,” said Tom, his small face pinched with the effort of assembling his thoughts. They were in a hackney carriage, the light from the streetlamps flickering over the worn leather upholstery as they turned down Pall Mall, heading toward St. James’s.
    “Lord Frederick is a Whig,” said Sebastian, struggling to explain early nineteenth-century English politics in a way that might make sense to a child of the streets. “But for the last twenty years or so, the Tories have dominated the government.”
    Tom shoved his fists deep into the pockets of the warm coat Sebastian had bought him and made a rude noise through his nose. “Not much to choose between the lot of them, if’n you was to ask me.”
    Sebastian smiled. “In many ways, you’re right. But in general, the Tories see themselves as staunch defenders of the country’s established institutions, such as the monarchy and Church of England, which means they’re against any kind of change, especially things like religious toleration and parliamentary reform—”
    “Things the Whigs is for?”
    “Basically. And unlike the Tories, the Whigs are against continuing the war with Napoleon.”
    Tom looked up in surprise. “You mean, they like the French ?”
    “Hardly. But they question the Tories’ motives for continuing the war. War is costly. It leads to high taxes and government loans taken out at high interest, which is good for the large landowners and merchants who are lending to the government, but not so good for the common people, like farmers and tradesmen and day workers. If the Whigs come to power, we’ll very likely see a peace treaty with France.”
    Tom nodded, his eyes bright with understanding. “So what you thinkin’? That this Lord Frederick’s been playin’ some underhanded game with the French, and ’e offed them two women because they threatened to squeal on ’im?”
    “Perhaps. Or perhaps it’s simply in someone’s best interest to make it appear that way.”
    “Meanin’ the Tories,” said Tom.
    The boy was surprisingly quick. Sebastian nodded. “That’s right.”
    “Your da’s a Tory, ain’t ’e? Chancellor o’ the Somethingeranother?”
    Sebastian glanced sideways at his young friend. “Who told you that?”
    “Miss Kat.”
    “Ah.”
    They were nearing the Recital Rooms on Ryder Street. Faint strains of a violin could be heard, barely discernible above the rattle of carriage wheels and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves. Leaning forward, Sebastian rapped on the front panel, then settled his hat low over his eyes and wound his scarf carefully about his lower face as the jarvey cut in close to the curb and pulled up in the shadowy netherworld between two streetlamps.

     
    Sebastian stood in the shadows and watched the bejeweled, perfumed crowd of men and women descend the front steps of Compton’s Recital Rooms.
    Even in this rarified collection of expensively dressed gentlefolk,Lord Frederick stood out, a handsome, urbane figure in flawless white linen and an inimitably cut coat. Laughing and talking amongst themselves, the small, self-absorbed group had just reached the footpath and turned toward the Mall, probably intending to sup at Richard’s, when Sebastian stepped forward, a dark figure half-hidden in shadow. “Lord Frederick?”
    Lord Frederick turned. “Yes?”
    “I was wondering if’n I might have a word with you, my lord?”
    A shade of annoyance passed over the other man’s amicable features. “Not now, my good man. But you may come see me tomorrow, if you like.”
    “If’n that’s the way you wants it,” said Sebastian, settling his hat even lower. “I was thinkin’ maybe you’d prefer a more private conversation, considering what I got to say. But I could come by your house in the mornin’, if’n you don’t mind your family findin’ out about your dealings with Rachel Y—”
    Lord Frederick took a quick step forward, his breath hissing out a warning as he threw a glance back over his shoulder, as if to make certain his friends hadn’t heard. “For