What Angels Fear: A Sebastian St. Cyr Mystery by C.S. Harris Read Free Book Online

rearing up.
    “You there!” Sebastian heard Maitland shout. Looking back, Sebastian saw the constable leap onto the gig’s high seat. “Give me those reins.”
    “I say, I say,” bleated Yellow Coat.
    “Get down,” snarled Maitland, bringing the snorting horse under control and pushing Yellow Coat off his perch.
    Up ahead, a crush of vehicles jammed the street. Sebastian collected his reins, his eyes narrowing against the steady downpour as he judged the distance between a stalled dowager’s barouche and the donkey cart making its slow, ponderous way up the street.
    “My lord!” shouted Sir Henry Lovejoy, his rain-lashed head and half his upper body protruding from the landau’s open window, his fist pounding against the ancient panels. “In the King’s name, I demand you stop this carriage at once .”
    Bloody hell , thought Sebastian. He’d forgotten about the magistrate. “Keep your head in,” he shouted, sparing Sir Henry one swift glance.
    “I said, I demand you—” Sir Henry broke off, his eyes widening as Sebastian swung around the barouche, nipping in so close that one of the carriage’s dangling lamps caught the brim of the magistrate’s hat.
    “ Good God, ” said the magistrate, jerking his bald head back inside the hackney.
    Hauling on the reins, Sebastian brought the landau careening in a sharp left onto Maddox Street. Behind them, the donkey brayed and kicked, upending its cart to spill a load of squawking, feather-ruffled chickens across the wet pavement.
    “Get that bloody donkey cart out of my way!” screamed Maitland, the gig at a standstill, the blowsy chestnut snorting and tossing its head as the constable jabbed at the ribbons.
    The bays were stretched full out now. Sebastian gave them their heads, plowing up Maddox Street past the dignified stone pile of St. George’s. A gentle tolling of church bells cut through the crisp evening air. Fashionable ladies in gaily colored gowns and gentlemen holding aloft umbrellas scattered before the charging hackney.
    “Stop this hackney,” shouted Lovejoy, banging his fist again as Sebastian swerved around the back of the church and onto Mill Street, “in the name of the King!”
    Sebastian threw a quick glance behind them, but the street was empty except for a lamplighter and his boy. Sebastian swung back around just as the bays erupted into the rain-washed expanse of Conduit Street and a big-boned black hack, ridden by a young lady struggling to bring her mount under control, reared up before them.
    He hauled on the reins, wrenching the bays sideways. The horses plunged, snorting, hooves striking sparks from the edge of the footpath. The joints of the old landau squealed. Wood snapped. The coach body crashed to the pavement, the box skewing sideways.
    “ Devlin ,” screamed Sir Henry, struggling to push open the hackney’s door.
    “Shit,” whispered Sebastian. Rain sluiced down his face; at some point, he realized, he’d lost his hat. Sliding off the box, he skidded on the wet paving blocks and dodged the young lady’s groom as the man scrambled off his own mount to grab the bridle of his mistress’s squealing, wide-eyed black.
    Well mannered and patient, the groom’s mount stood with its big-boned, gray head down, its reins trailing loose in the swirling gutter. Snatching up the wet leather, Sebastian vaulted into the saddle.
    “Hey! You there! Stop!” The white-faced groom swung around, his hands full with his mistress’s still-skittish hack. “ Stop! Horse thief !”
    Sebastian kneed the gray into a flat-out gallop that carried them down the rain darkened street, toward Covent Garden and the shadowy underworld of St. Giles beyond.

Chapter 8
     
     
    C harles, Lord Jarvis, couldn’t remember precisely when he’d become aware of the level of incredible stupidity that characterized the vast majority of his fellow beings. He supposed the realization must have come upon him gradually over the years as he observed the