Read Online What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery by C.S. Harris - Free Book Online
Authors: C.S. Harris
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father she’d ever known, and he encouraged her to do things that sometimes frightened her mother.
“Life is full of scary things,” he used to tell Kat. “The trick is not tolet your fears get in the way of your living . Whatever else you do, Katherine, don’t settle for a life half-lived.”
Kat had tried to tell herself that, the day the English soldiers came. The mist had been thick that morning, and heavy with the acrid scent of burning. She’d stood in the dim morning light and repeated her father’s words to herself over and over again as they dragged her mother kicking and screaming from that pretty little white house. They’d made Kat watch what they did to her mother that day, and they’d made Kat’s father watch, too. And then they’d hanged them, side by side, Kat’s mother and father both, from the oak at the edge of the green.
Those days belonged to a different lifetime, to a different person. The woman who now drove her phaeton and pair at a smart clip through London’s lamp-lit streets called herself Kat Boleyn, and she was one of the most acclaimed actresses of the London stage. The velvet pelisse she wore that evening was a bright cherry red, not a smoke-smudged gray, and she wore a string of pearls at her throat, rather than a black band of mourning.
But she still hated the mist.
Reining in before the townhouse of Monsieur Léon Pierrepont, Kat handed the ribbons to her groom and stepped down, easily, from her high-perch seat. “Walk them, George.”
“Yes, miss.”
She paused on the footpath to stare up at the classical façade before her, lit softly by the gleam of flickering oil lamps. Like so much else about Leo Pierrepont, this house on Half Moon Street was carefully calculated to create just the right impression: large, but not too large, elegant, and with a touch of the faded grandeur to be expected from a proud nobleman now forced to live in exile. When one lived a life that was, essentially, a lie, appearances were everything.
She found him alone, in his dining room, just sitting down to a table laid for one with fine china and gleaming silver and the sparkle of old crystal. He was a slim, delicately built man upon whom the passing years, however difficult they might have been, nevertheless seemed to have rested easily. His face was largely unlined, his light brown hair barely touched with gray. Kat had never known his precise age, but given thathe’d been almost thirty when driven from Paris by the Reign of Terror, she knew he must be in his late forties by now.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Leo said, his attention seemingly all for his soup.
Kat jerked off her gloves and tossed them with reticule, pelisse, and hat onto a nearby chair. “Whose reputation are you afraid will be compromised, Leo? Mine, or yours?”
He glanced up, gray eyes gleaming with a faint smile. “Mine, of course. You have no reputation left to lose.” He signaled for the servants to leave them, then sat back. The smile faded. “You’ve heard what happened to Rachel, I suppose?”
Kat pressed her flattened palms against the tabletop and leaned into them. Beneath the silk bodice of her gown, her heart thudded hard and fast, but she managed to keep her voice calm, steady. “Did you do it?”
If he had, he wouldn’t admit it; Kat knew that. But she wanted to watch his face while he denied it.
Leo dipped his spoon into his soup and brought it carefully to his lips. “Come now, ma petite . Even if I had wanted Rachel dead, do you seriously think I would have killed her in such a spectacular fashion? In a church ? From what I understand, the walls were practically painted with her blood.”
Kat watched his long, slim hands reach for a piece of bread. “One of your minions could have got carried away.”
“I choose my minions more carefully than that.”
“So who killed her?”
A shadow touched the Frenchman’s features, a brief ghost of concern that Kat almost— almost —believed
“Life is full of scary things,” he used to tell Kat. “The trick is not tolet your fears get in the way of your living . Whatever else you do, Katherine, don’t settle for a life half-lived.”
Kat had tried to tell herself that, the day the English soldiers came. The mist had been thick that morning, and heavy with the acrid scent of burning. She’d stood in the dim morning light and repeated her father’s words to herself over and over again as they dragged her mother kicking and screaming from that pretty little white house. They’d made Kat watch what they did to her mother that day, and they’d made Kat’s father watch, too. And then they’d hanged them, side by side, Kat’s mother and father both, from the oak at the edge of the green.
Those days belonged to a different lifetime, to a different person. The woman who now drove her phaeton and pair at a smart clip through London’s lamp-lit streets called herself Kat Boleyn, and she was one of the most acclaimed actresses of the London stage. The velvet pelisse she wore that evening was a bright cherry red, not a smoke-smudged gray, and she wore a string of pearls at her throat, rather than a black band of mourning.
But she still hated the mist.
Reining in before the townhouse of Monsieur Léon Pierrepont, Kat handed the ribbons to her groom and stepped down, easily, from her high-perch seat. “Walk them, George.”
“Yes, miss.”
She paused on the footpath to stare up at the classical façade before her, lit softly by the gleam of flickering oil lamps. Like so much else about Leo Pierrepont, this house on Half Moon Street was carefully calculated to create just the right impression: large, but not too large, elegant, and with a touch of the faded grandeur to be expected from a proud nobleman now forced to live in exile. When one lived a life that was, essentially, a lie, appearances were everything.
She found him alone, in his dining room, just sitting down to a table laid for one with fine china and gleaming silver and the sparkle of old crystal. He was a slim, delicately built man upon whom the passing years, however difficult they might have been, nevertheless seemed to have rested easily. His face was largely unlined, his light brown hair barely touched with gray. Kat had never known his precise age, but given thathe’d been almost thirty when driven from Paris by the Reign of Terror, she knew he must be in his late forties by now.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Leo said, his attention seemingly all for his soup.
Kat jerked off her gloves and tossed them with reticule, pelisse, and hat onto a nearby chair. “Whose reputation are you afraid will be compromised, Leo? Mine, or yours?”
He glanced up, gray eyes gleaming with a faint smile. “Mine, of course. You have no reputation left to lose.” He signaled for the servants to leave them, then sat back. The smile faded. “You’ve heard what happened to Rachel, I suppose?”
Kat pressed her flattened palms against the tabletop and leaned into them. Beneath the silk bodice of her gown, her heart thudded hard and fast, but she managed to keep her voice calm, steady. “Did you do it?”
If he had, he wouldn’t admit it; Kat knew that. But she wanted to watch his face while he denied it.
Leo dipped his spoon into his soup and brought it carefully to his lips. “Come now, ma petite . Even if I had wanted Rachel dead, do you seriously think I would have killed her in such a spectacular fashion? In a church ? From what I understand, the walls were practically painted with her blood.”
Kat watched his long, slim hands reach for a piece of bread. “One of your minions could have got carried away.”
“I choose my minions more carefully than that.”
“So who killed her?”
A shadow touched the Frenchman’s features, a brief ghost of concern that Kat almost— almost —believed
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