What Angels Fear

Chapter 59

Sebastian came awake to a sense of movement, to the clip-clop of horses’ hooves and the clatter of carriage wheels jolting over uneven paving.

Through a dizzying spiral of pain, his thoughts flew at once to Kat. The horror of what he knew Wilcox would do to her was so powerful he was nearly shaking with the need to control it, with the need to keep himself from lashing out in mindless, useless frustration. He forced himself to keep his eyes closed and lie still, fighting down a wave of nausea that burned sour in his throat as he concentrated all his senses on the task of understanding the situation in which he now found himself.

He lay on the cracked leather seat of an old carriage. The forward seat. Rough ropes bit into his wrists, binding them together before him. His ankles were bound as well. But he could detect the steady breathing of only one other person in the carriage with him, a man who sat quiet and alert on the opposite seat. One man.

Which man?

Sebastian opened his eyes to find Sir Henry Lovejoy regarding him through narrowed, watchful brown eyes. “Well,” said Sebastian in a pleasantly conversational tone, “I wouldn’t have expected the Beau Brummell of Queen Square to willingly miss this.”

“If you are referring to Senior Constable Maitland, he is currently otherwise occupied. Conveying two of his fellow constables to the surgeon, to be precise.”

Fighting down a fresh wave of nauseous dizziness, Sebastian shifted his weight slightly and discovered that in addition to being tied together, his wrists were also tethered to a ring bolted to the carriage floor. He tightened his jaw against a violent upswelling of rage, but some hint of his feelings must have shown on Sebastian’s face because he noticed the magistrate sink back farther into his corner, his eyes wide and watchful.

Sebastian showed his teeth in a smile. “You aren’t afraid I’ll murder you between here and the Public Office? Cut off your head and take a bath in your blood and do all manner of other ungodly things to your person?”

Lovejoy was not amused. “I think not.”

Sebastian glanced out the window as the carriage swung around a corner. The foggy void of the night swirled about them. “And the boy?” he asked casually.

“If you mean that appallingly foul-mouthed urchin who was taken up in your company, he slipped out of my grip and darted off as we were leaving the inn.”

It was a crumb of comfort, pitifully small. There were too many things that could go wrong. Hendon could refuse to see the boy, or simply refuse to believe him. And even if the Earl did believe the boy’s tale, what then? Whether Hendon sent a party of constables to the wharf, or went himself, the result would be disastrous. Martin Wilcox might be a murderer, but he was no fool and he knew what was at stake. The trap he had laid for Sebastian would be cleverly, carefully planned and orchestrated so that, whatever the outcome, Kat would die. Wilcox couldn’t afford to let her live to tell the tale.

Sebastian fixed Sir Henry Lovejoy with an intense stare. “You must let me go.”

The little magistrate thrust his hands into his pockets and settled deeper into his overcoat, as if bothered by the cold that seeped up from the straw-strewn floorboards and whistled in with the wind through the cracked windows. “It might be some consolation for you to know that I have reason to believe that you are indeed innocent of the deaths of those two women, Rachel York and Mary Grant. However, once the formalities are satisfied—”

“You don’t understand,” said Sebastian, his voice low and earnest. “You need to let me go now. The man who killed those women has taken another one, Kat Boleyn. If I don’t get to her in time, he’ll kill her, too.”

The carriage lurched suddenly, slowing to a crawl as a thickening press of bodies engulfed them. At first Sebastian thought it another bread riot. Then he heard a cry, “Huzzah for Florizel,” and saw the laughter and bright expectation in the swell of upturned faces shining in the golden light of the carriage lamps, and he understood. This was not a mob, but a crowd of revelers celebrating the installation of the Prince as Regent, which was to take place in the morning. They genuinely believed their hard-pressed, desperate lives were finally going to take a turn for the better. They didn’t understand that nothing would really change, that they were simply replacing an earnest but mad old king with a vain, pleasure-loving, self-indulgent prince who gave far more thought to the cut of his coats than to the spiraling cost of bread; who had never heard the wail of a child starving in the cold, never seen those stacks of pitifully small, white-shrouded bodies waiting for the quicklime of the poor hole.

“There is still the matter of Constable Simplot,” said Sir Henry. “While I can understand—”

“God damn it,” Sebastian swore, coming half upright only to be thrown off balance by his bound ankles. “I didn’t attack your bloody constable. Why would I? Did you not hear what I said? A woman is going to die. Tonight.”

A string of firecrackers went off next to the carriage, startling the horse and bringing a roar of excitement from the crowd. “If that is true,” said Lovejoy, his nervous gaze darting to the window, “then tell me where this man is keeping her. I’ll send constables after them.”

Sebastian let out a harsh laugh. “She’s bait in a trap set for me. If your constables go charging in there, she’ll die.”

“I think you underestimate the capabilities of my constables.”

“Do I?”

“This man—the one you say is killing these women. Who is he?”

“My brother-in-law. Lord Wilcox.”

The magistrate’s lips parted as if on a gasp, but he kept his features otherwise admirably controlled. Still, it was several moments before he said, “And your proof?”

Sebastian had to beat back an uncharacteristic welling of frustration and despair. Proof? He had none. “The only proof I have is that he has taken Kat Boleyn.”

“And your proof of that?”

A sudden explosion of fireworks ripped through the night, filling the street with a shower of sparks that glowed eerily in the heavy fog. “I have none.”

Lovejoy nodded, the light of a new burst of fireworks winking on the lenses of his eyeglasses. “And if you walk into this trap you say Lord Wilcox has set for you? How will that save her?”

“I have no intention of falling neatly into Wilcox’s trap.”

“Yet you might. If you will simply tell me—”

“Goddamn you!” Sebastian cried, yanking painfully, uselessly, at the ropes that tethered him. “You stupid, bloody-minded, self-congratulating bastard. Every minute you keep me here, you are killing her.”

Sebastian went suddenly still, his chest jerking on a quick intake of cold, smoke-fouled air as he carefully trained his gaze away from the window through which he had seen, briefly, the small, thin arm of a boy who clung to the back of the carriage.

“I understand your frustration,” said Sir Henry with a plodding calm that made Sebastian want to scream. “But the law—” He broke off as the hackney’s near door jerked open and a small, roughly dressed body appeared on the step. “I say—” he began, then broke off again when Tom swung up into the carriage. The flaring glow from an explosion of fireworks gleamed bright and dangerous on the blade he held gripped tightly in one fist.

“Make a sound or move a whisker,” said the boy fiercely, “an’ I’ll slit yer gullet.”

“Heaven preserve us,” said Sir Henry, one hand groping for the strap as the carriage gave a sudden lurch.

“I know I didn’t do what you done told me,” Tom said as he leapt to slice through the ropes at Sebastian’s wrists.

“Thank God for that.” Sebastian flung aside the remnants of the ropes while the boy crouched to cut the bindings at his ankles. Careful to keep one eye on the white-faced magistrate, Sebastian gripped Tom’s shoulder, his hand tightening in a spasm of wordless gratitude as the boy rose to his feet. “But do it now, lad. Quickly. And this time, don’t look back.”

Tom’s head jerked, his face settling into stubborn lines. “I’m coming with you.”

Sebastian urged him toward the door. “No. You have your instructions. I expect you to follow them.”

“But—”

The need for haste welled up within Sebastian, so fierce and white-hot, it burned in his chest as he swallowed down the impulse to scream at the boy. “Something might go wrong,” said Sebastian, struggling to keep his voice calm and steady while every fiber of his being hummed with desperate impatience. “If it does, I’m counting on you to see this bastard brought to justice.” Conscious of the magistrate’s wrathful presence, Sebastian chose his words carefully. “You know what I need you to do. Can you do it? Can you?”

The boy hesitated, his throat working as he swallowed, hard. Then he ducked his head and nodded. “Aye, guv’nor. I’ll do it.” He pressed the handle of his knife into Sebastian’s fist. “ ’Ere. You might be needin’ this,” he said, and, without looking back, slipped off the step into the crowd.

Sebastian watched the small figure disappear into the surging, cheering press of humanity. Then he tucked the knife away in his boot, and prepared to follow.

“This woman,” said Sir Henry suddenly. “Tell me where she’s being kept.”

Sebastian paused at the open door, one hand tightening on the frame as he glanced back. “I think not,” he said, and dropped off the step to be swallowed up by the night.