“I know it.” She summoned that ghostly smile I had glimpsed on her lips the previous evening. “How Simon loved that ship! He was always his father's child— haunting the seawalls and the quays, intent upon every anchorage. I could no more deny him a berth than I could cease to breathe. And I did regard Tom Seagrave — before I learned of his capacity for murder.”

She shuddered.

Was this another calculated ploy? A deliberate subterfuge, from a lady who had enticed a man to his death?

“We had a glimpse of you on Wednesday night,” I said carelessly, as though to change the tenor of the conversation. “In French Street, at the theatre. How did you like Mrs. Jordan? “

“Exceedingly,” she replied. “Her antics spared me the necessity of conversation. Sir Francis had only just descended upon the town, and was most pressing in his invitation — I could not bear to entertain him in Bugle Street, where I lodge, and thus resorted to the theatre.”

She endeavoured to make it plain she did not like the Baronet's attentions. I wondered at her energy in expressing so personal a sentiment, to a relative stranger; and thought the hint of design was in her words.

“How unfortunate, then, that you were obliged to quit the place after the first act,” observed Frank engagingly. “We had intended to force acquaintance on Sir Francis at the interval, and were denied the privilege.”

Mrs. Carruthers's nostrils flared. “I found that I was unequal to the effort of appearing in public. It is a strain, you understand, to parade as though one is insensible to grief — as though every word and look must not inspire the most painful recollections! I begged to be quit of the crowd at the first opportunity, and Sir Francis obliged me in this.”

“How unfortunate! And so you fled one frying pan, only to end in the fire!”

Her delicate brows curled in perplexity. “I do not understand you, Miss Austen.”

I cast a look of amusement at my brother. “To bid Sir Francis adieu, only to find Tom Seagrave at the door!”

“I did not know the Captain was in Bugle Street,” she replied steadily. “He left no card. It is as well we failed to meet; I have not seen him since Simon's death, and might have uttered reproaches I should regret. Though Captain Seagrave may carry Simon on his conscience until he dies, I should not wish to carry him on mine.

“And one might expect the two men to come to blows,” I added sympathetically. “Thank Heaven you were spared such a scene.”

For the first time, her complexion lost some of its colour. “To blows? Sir Francis and Captain Seagrave? What could you possibly suggest, Miss Austen?”

“From something Sir Francis said last night, I gathered that he holds the Captain in low regard.”

“That is hardly singular. All of Southampton might say the same.”

“But Sir Francis is not of Southampton, Mrs. Carruthers. Has he any cause for so pronounced a dislike? Some professional discourtesy, perhaps, on Seagrave's part?”

“None that I know of.”

“Then perhaps he merely thinks to support your grief, and your sentiments.”

For the length of several heartbeats, Phoebe Carruthers said nothing. Her green gaze held my own. Then she set down her cup. “Sir Francis is not always the perfect master of his temper, Miss Austen, as you have reason to know. He is often betrayed into speech he may regret. He is a man of great passions and considerable jealousies, and may imperfectly understand the circumstances of those around him.”

“You have been acquainted with the Baronet for some time, I see.”

“Nearly twenty years. I was governess to his little sisters when I was but eighteen, and spent nearly a year in the bosom of the Farnham family. When one has observed the formation of a man's character, one may forgive a great deal.”

“Certainly one may respect the enduring nature of his regard,” I observed. “Twenty years is a period! And yet Sir Francis's admiration for you is unflagging.” What had Frank said? That Phoebe Carruthers had been involved in scandal while a governess … something to do with the family's eldest son … and her marriage to her cousin had followed hard upon the business. Sir Francis — jealous Sir Francis — had married and acceded to his title; but he had not forgot the golden beauty. He had waited, and bided his time — and plotted to remove his rivals….

“Always his father's child,” I murmured. “It is remarkable how blood will out, Mrs. Carruthers.”

Her green eyes widened suddenly with alarm. She reached for her gloves.

“I must beg your pardon for trying your patience so long,” Phoebe Carruthers said, rising. “It has been delightful to make your acquaintance, Miss Austen.”

• • •

MY BROTHER SHOWED THE LADY TO THE DOOR, WITH many a fine flourish regarding his hopes of seeing her in future, and all the assurances of his wife's regret in having lost such an opportunity to form Mrs. Carruthers's acquaintance; and when she had dwindled down the street, he rounded upon me in indignation.

“Jane, you were exceedingly rude just now. Poor Mrs. Carruthers is the picture of grief — and you must interrogate her regarding Sir Francis Farnham! It is obvious she doesn't like the fellow's company, and only suffers his attentions because she is too well-bred to send him packing! You might have shown some consideration!”

“She is altogether too picture-perfect for my liking, Fly,” I said abruptly. “She displays her grief at the slightest urging; desires us to believe that she has no designs upon a baronet; adopts the general tone of disapprobation towards Captain Seagrave, and denies all knowledge of him in Southampton on Wednesday evening. It was a performance intended to distance her from murder, and that alone must make it suspect.”

My brother's countenance hardened. “You think her afraid, Jane? You believe her bent upon deceit?”

“I think that Sir Francis determined to destroy his rival for Mrs. Carruthers's attentions. That he plotted Seagrave's disgrace by offering advancement to his lieutenant, in return for betrayal. That he used the signal line to despatch a set of orders the Admiralty never contemplated — and that when Chessyre despaired of his guilt and dishonour, Sir Francis determined to be rid of him. I believe that Phoebe Carruthers went in search of Chessyre in the Baronet's coach on Wednesday night, and carried the man away to meet with Farnham. I do not need to inform you of the result.”

Frank took a turn about the room in considerable agitation. It is hard for such a man — trained up in the ways of gallantry — to credit a beautiful woman with evil.

“I could accept all this, provided Phoebe Carruthers had no notion of what she did. The wife of Hugh Carruthers should never collude to murder a man.”

“Very well. Call her merely a handmaiden — too stupid to know her purpose — and she will thank you for it from the bottom of her heart.”

“She don't even like that fellow Farnham!”

“Perhaps not,” I agreed, “but she may feel herself in some wise bound to his purpose. How did she phrase things just now? 'Not all our obligations are matters of choice.' How soon after her marriage to her cousin was Simon Carruthers born?”

Frank stared. “I have not the slightest notion!”

“You should do well to enquire. Phoebe Carruthers might do much for the father of her dead child, however little she has cause to love him — particularly when Sir Francis's quarrel is with the man she blames for her son's death.”