What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

all you have. You’ve no proof. And no idea at all of what you’re really caught up in. You’re a fool. You should have left London days ago, while you still could.”
    Sebastian’s lips pulled back into a hard smile. “There’s just one thing I don’t understand. My mother’s affidavit—which I gather Rachel also stole from you; why did you have it? To put pressure on my father?”
    Pierrepont assumed an exaggerated expression of consternation. “ Alors. Is there something in your father’s past that would make him vulnerable to pressure?”
    “Now who’s being the fool?” Sebastian raised the pistol and leveled it at the other man’s chest. “What was it for?”
    Pierrepont shrugged. “Evidence of dirty little secrets in the lives of important men are always useful.” He glanced toward the darkness beyond the open carriage house doors. But Sebastian had heard it long before—the sound of stealthy footfalls, coming through the garden. Fast.
    He slid off the bale, moving behind the Frenchman to catch him around the neck with one forearm and press the pistol’s muzzle against his temple.
    “Tell them to pull back,” Sebastian whispered. Then added, “Now!” when Pierrepont hesitated.
    “ Restez-en là ,” called Pierrepont. The footsteps stopped.
    “It might be a good idea to let them know we’re coming out. And don’t even think of trying anything,” Sebastian added, as Pierrepont called out again.
    “You’re wrong, you know,” said Pierrepont over his shoulder as Sebastian dragged him toward the entrance.
    “About what?”
    To his surprise, Pierrepont laughed. “About the rest of it, I won’t say. But you’re wrong in this,” he said, as Sebastian let him go and stepped back into the night. “I didn’t kill Rachel York.”

Chapter 45
     
     
    A day of relative inactivity had left Jarvis feeling restless. Restless and impatient for the events to come. In less than thirty-six hours, the Prince of Wales would be sworn in as Regent. Tomorrow would be an entertaining day. Most entertaining.
    Some time after midnight, he set aside the report he’d been reading and stretched to his feet. The house lay empty and silent around him, all the troublesome women of his life having long ago retired to their respective rooms.
    Making his way down to the library, he poured himself a glass of brandy, then went to unlock the upper right-hand drawer of his desk and ease it open. It wasn’t often that Jarvis allowed himself the luxury of gloating, but he indulged himself now, sliding the paper out to hold it for a moment in his hands.
    Smiling softly to himself, he was just closing the drawer again when he heard his daughter’s voice. “Is something wrong?”
    He looked up to find her standing in the doorway, one hand cupped around the flickering flame of her chamberstick to shield it from drafts. She was a tall woman, Hero. Too tall, in Jarvis’s way of thinking, and far too thin, with narrow hips and no bosom. She had mousy brown hair she wore unstylishly long and straight, and lately she’d taken to pulling it back in a severe style more suited to some Evangelical missionary than toa young lady of fashion. But she’d let it down tonight, and in the golden glow of the candlelight it struck him suddenly that his daughter might actually be passably pretty, if she’d only try.
    He frowned and said, “What’s wrong is the way you’ve taken to doing your hair. You ought to wear it down more often. Get the front cut in curls the way they’re doing these days.”
    She gave a startled trill of laughter. “I’d look ridiculous in curls and you know it. And I wasn’t talking about me.” Her smile faded into a look of concern. “Are you certain you’re all right?”
    Jarvis had been blessed with a particularly winning smile. He’d learned long ago to use it, to reward and cajole and mislead. He used it now, and saw the lines of worry on his daughter’s face ease as she smiled back at him.
    “I’m fine, child,” he said, and turned the lock on the desk drawer.

Chapter 46
     
     
    K at closed her eyes, and smiled. The years of artifice and practiced calculation, of determinedly holding herself aloof, had slowly obliterated the memories. She’d forgotten what it could be like, forgotten the warm, inner glow of joy that could come from palms sliding over beloved, sweat-slicked skin. Forgotten, too, the stomach-clenching thrill of seeing familiar dark shoulders rise above her, the