What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

disaster were subtle, but there—in the furtive looks cast in Amanda’s direction, the whispered conversations that broke off abruptly when she drew too near. Amanda felt a cold anger hardening her heart as she moved with easy determination amidst the steely-eyed matrons and turbaned dowagers. She was Lady Amanda, wife of the Prince’s boon companion Lord Wilcox and daughter of the Earl of Hendon, Chancellor of the Exchequer. They would offend her at their peril.
    Midway through the evening, she was surprised to see her own husband approaching her through the throng. Having no taste for the whirl of social functions or visits to the theater and opera that occupied his wife’s time, Wilcox normally retreated after dinner either to an evening session of the House of Lords or to one of his clubs.
    “Something wrong, dear?” she said in a smiling aside as she lifted a glass of champagne from a passing servant’s silver tray. “Has Sebastian’s latest exploit resulted in your being blackballed from White’s? Or has Boney landed at Dover?”
    Wilcox’s habitual placid smile was firmly in place, but his eyes were grave. “Bayard tells me his uncle paid you a visit this afternoon.” Even ashe spoke, he kept his gaze moving casually over the glittering crowd. “Is that wise, my dear?”
    “Really, Martin. Do you seriously think I had extended Devlin an invitation? Suggested he might want to hide out in the carriage house, or perhaps pose as one of our footmen?”
    “No. I suppose not.” For one telling moment, Wilcox’s smile slipped. “Where the devil is he hiding, anyway?”
    “He didn’t happen to mention it. But unless I miss my guess, he’s taken refuge with that light skirt he made such a fool of himself over when he first came down from Oxford.”
    Wilcox swung his head to stare at her. “You can’t be serious.”
    “Oh, but I am.” Amanda set aside her glass. “Ah, there’s Lady Bainbridge. Do excuse me, dear.” And she left him then, to make use of the information or not, as he chose.

     
    Sebastian watched Leo Pierrepont rein in before the open door of his carriage house. Night came early to the streets of London in February; by four, the mews and the gardens leading up to the house were already dark. “Giles!” the Frenchman shouted, his voice echoing hollowly in the cold stillness. “Giles? Où est tu ?” He waited expectantly. “Charles?”
    Swearing to himself, he swung from the saddle to lead the tired chestnut into the stables. He lit the lamp suspended from the rafters, glanced around the softly lit area, then said, “Merde,” under his breath and reached to unbuckle his cinch.
    From the shadows of an empty stall at the end of the row, Sebastian waited, listening to the muttered grunts of a man unused to the task of unsaddling and grooming his own horse. The smell of warming oil mingled with the scents of hay and oats and horseflesh. In a nearby stall, one of Pierrepont’s carriage horses moved restlessly.
    Slipping the flintlock pistol from his pocket, Sebastian crept to where the Frenchman, still grumbling, crouched to run a currycomb over his chestnut’s wet belly. Sebastian held out the pistol until the muzzle was scant inches from Pierrepont’s ear. At the sound of the hammer being pulled back, Pierrepont froze.
    “Move very carefully, Monsieur Pierrepont.”
    Pierrepont turned his head, his gaze focusing on the pistol before lifting to Sebastian’s face. “Where are my groom and coachman?”
    “Someplace where we don’t need to worry about them disturbing us.”
    The Frenchman straightened slowly. “What do you want?”
    “I thought I’d tell you a story.”
    Pierrepont’s eyebrows lifted. “A story.”
    “A story.” Sebastian settled back against the edge of a bale of hay, the pistol still held, loosely, in his hand. “It goes something like this: Once upon a time, in a place we’ll call Windsor Castle, there lived a mad old King.”
    “How original.”
    “Yes, isn’t it? Anyway, while our King slips deeper and deeper into his own mad world, his houses of Parliament in nearby Londontown are busy negotiating the details of a bill that will make the King’s eldest son Regent, meaning he will rule in his father’s place.”
    “This is fascinating.” Pierrepont leaned against a nearby wooden post and crossed his arms at his chest. “I do hope there’s a point to it.”
    “I’m getting there. The story has a villain, you see. A man named