Read What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery for Free Online

here to see you this morning have returned. With another.”
    Viscount Devlin stood with one buckskin-clad hip resting on the edge of his desk, a shade of annoyance crossing his finely chiseled features as he glanced up from the sheaf of papers he held in his hands. He was built long and lean, with dark hair and a high forehead across which something—or someone—had recently left a nasty gash. “Yes?” he said. “What is it?”
    Lovejoy waited for the majordomo to withdraw, then executed a neat bow and said, “I am Sir Henry Lovejoy, chief magistrate at Queen Square. A warrant has been issued in your name, my lord. For the murder of Rachel York.”
    Lovejoy couldn’t have said what sort of reaction he’d been expecting: a flush of guilt, perhaps, or a passionate protestation of innocence. At the very least one might have anticipated expressions of shock and sorrow over the death of a beautiful woman Devlin must surely have admired. But the young man’s face remained impassive, unmoved by any emotion except for a faint quiver of what looked very much like boredom.
    He set aside the papers. “What is this? Some sort of jest?”
    “No jest, my lord. You have been implicated both by evidence found at the scene of Miss York’s death and by the testimony of witnesses.”
    The Viscount crossed his arms at his chest and shifted his weight so that he could thrust his long legs out in front of him. “Really? That’s interesting. What evidence? And who are these witnesses?”
    Lovejoy returned the younger man’s stare. He had uncanny eyes, as hard and yellow as a noonday sun. It was with effort that Lovejoy kept his voice steady. “I must ask you, first of all, if you can account for your whereabouts between the hours of five and eight yesterday evening?”
    The Viscount blinked. “I was out.”
    “Out?” said Edward Maitland, his jaw thrust aggressively forward. “Out? Out where?”
    The Viscount swung his head to subject the senior constable to a long, cool stare. “Out . . . walking.”
    An angry flush darkened Maitland’s cheeks. It had been a miscalculation after all, Lovejoy now realized, to bring the constables. Maitland was far too pugnacious and aggressive, too abrasive and hotheaded, to deal well with a man of Devlin’s ilk. Lovejoy cast his subordinate awarning look and said quietly, “You forget yourself, Constable.” To Devlin he said, “Can anyone vouch for you, my lord?”
    The Viscount brought his gaze back to Lovejoy. They were inhuman, really, those eyes. Wild and feral, like something one might see gleaming out of the darkness of a wolves’ den. “No.”
    Lovejoy knew a flicker of disappointment. How much simpler it would have been for them all if the Viscount had spent those fatal hours dining with friends, or at a pugilistic match. “Then I fear I must request you to accompany us to Queen Square, my lord.”
    Those disconcerting yellow eyes narrowed. “I wonder, am I allowed to send a servant to fetch a greatcoat and other foul-weather accouterments? I understand it can be rather chilly this time of year in”—he swung to fix Edward Maitland with a bland, ironic gaze—“Newgate, didn’t you say?”
    Lovejoy felt a quick shiver run up his spine. There was no way the Viscount could have heard the senior constable’s whispered remark, earlier, in the hall. It was impossible. And yet . . . Lovejoy remembered hearing tales, near-legendary accounts he had always dismissed, of this young man’s disconcertingly acute eyesight and hearing, of lethal reflexes and a catlike ability to see in the dark. Invaluable abilities he’d exercised to such deadly effect against the French in the Peninsula before he’d come home for reasons shrouded in rumor and innuendo.
    “You may, of course, fortify yourself against the cold with whatever vestments you require,” Lovejoy said hastily.
    An unexpected gleam of amusement flared in those terrible yellow eyes, then died. “Thank you,” said