What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery

line of color touched the boy’s cheeks, but all he said was, “I knows.”
    Sebastian let that pass. “So Gordon went out before nine?”
    Tom nodded. That’s right. And get this—our Paddy even knows where the cove went—‘eard ’im giving orders to the jarvey.”
    “And?”
    “He told the ’ackney driver to take ’im to Westminster.”

Chapter 47
     
     
    K at was in her dressing room, attending to her correspondence some hours after Sebastian had left, when her flustered maid showed Leo Pierrepont to the room. Kat looked up from her writing desk in surprise. “Is this wise, Leo?”
    Pierrepont tossed his hat onto a nearby table and went to stand before a window overlooking the street. “He was here last night, was he?”
    “Sebastian, you mean? Dear Leo. What have you been doing? Peeking through my curtains?”
    He kept his gaze on the scene outside the window. “And Lord Stoneleigh?”
    Kat set aside her pen and leaned back in her chair. “I’ve grown tired of his lordship. I’ve no doubt he’ll recover from the heartbreak in”—she hesitated, a cynical smile touching her lips—“a fortnight, shall we say?”
    Leo said nothing. Their association had always been like this. Kat had made it clear from the beginning that she would choose her own lovers—or victims, as Leo liked to refer to them. For while Kat frequently cooperated with Leo, she had never precisely worked for him. He might make requests, but he knew better than to try to give her orders.
    He swung suddenly away from the window, his face unexpectedly drawn in the pale morning light. “This involvement of yours with Devlin is dangerous. You realize that, don’t you? He suspects that my relationship with Paris is not precisely as I would have people believe it to be.”
    Kat pushed away from her writing desk and stood up. “As long as it’s only a suspicion—”
    “He also knows about the missing documents.”
    Kat stood perfectly still. “What missing documents, Leo?”
    His thin nostrils flared on a suddenly indrawn breath. “Last week while I was in Hampshire someone took some papers from the hidden compartment in my library’s mantel. A man and a woman, working together.”
    “Who do you suspect? Me?”
    Leo shook his head. “This was the work of amateurs.” He hesitated, then said, “I think it was probably Rachel.”
    Kat felt a shiver of apprehension run up her spine. “What sort of documents are we talking about here, Leo?
    One of his shoulders twitched in a typically Gallic gesture. “Love letters from Lord Frederick to a handsome young clerk in the Foreign Office. The birth certificate of a child born on the Continent some years ago to Princess Caroline. That sort of thing.”
    “What else?”
    Amusement suddenly lightened his intense gray eyes. “You don’t really expect me to tell you, now do you, mon amie ?”
    Kat did not smile. “Anything that implicates me?”
    He shook his head. “No. You should be safe enough—unless you do something foolish. I, on the other hand, might find it prudent to leave London precipitously. If so, I’ll try to send you word. You know where to go?”
    “Yes.” It had all been arranged before, including the name of the out-of-the way inn south of town where she would try to meet with him, if possible, should he be forced to flee England.
    Kat watched him reach for his hat. This theft of what must have beena valuable cache of documents cast Rachel’s death in a new, sinister light. “Tell me something, Leo. Why did you return early from Lord Edgeworth’s country house party last Tuesday?”
    He swung to look back at her. “I received word that an emissary from Paris would be contacting me. Why?”
    “So you were meeting with him during the hour or so that you neglected your guests?”
    “Yes. He arrived earlier than I expected.” Leo cocked his head, his assessing gaze studying her face. “Are you back to thinking that I killed Rachel, hmm?”
    “It would appear you had reason.”
    Pierrepont settled his hat on his head. “So did your young viscount.”
    “Did he? And how’s that?”
    The Frenchman smiled. “Ask him.”

     
    Sebastian was just leaving the Rose and Crown and heading toward Covent Garden when a scruffy boy of about eight came running after him with a note from Paul Gibson.
    Come see me when you get the chance , the Irishman had written in a hasty scrawl. I’ll be at the Chalks Street Almshouse until noon.
    Tossing the boy a penny,