He nodded. “The Memento-Mori Man’s stock-in-trade was a gift for misdirection. If this new killer has patterned himself on such a master, he will favor the same strategy. Therefore, I think we can assume that the blond hair was false. And I am also certain that the female attire was meant to conceal a man.”

She hesitated. “I do not feel that we can assume the murderer is a man. But I do agree that there is a strong likelihood the blond hair was a wig.”

“It is a starting point, at least.” He wrapped one hand around the door frame and considered. “If blond wigs are so unfashionable, they will be uncommon in the shops. There cannot be that many wigmakers in London. We should be able to discover which ones sold yellow false hair in recent months.”

“Do not be so sure of that. It is true that any wig-maker who took a commission for a wig in such an unfashionable shade would no doubt remember his client well. But I fear that we cannot depend upon locating the shop. The wig may have been commissioned somewhere other than London. A great many fashionable ladies and gentlemen obtain their wigs in Paris. There is also the possibility that the false hair was stolen from a theater or taken from an actor’s

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“trunk. A search for the particular wig-maker who created the killer’s false hair could well prove to be a complete waste of time.”

“Nevertheless, the blond wig is a clue, and at the moment it is one of the few in our possession.”

She did not quarrel with that conclusion, but her brows knitted in thought. “Tobias, is it merely the fact that the killer may have worn false hair that makes you believe we are dealing with a man?

“Because I really do not think we should depend too heavily upon that. We might overlook valuable evidence if we ignore the possibility that it was a woman I saw with Fullerton tonight.”

He gripped the door frame tightly. “There is more to it than the business with the wig.”

“Is it so difficult for you to imagine a woman as a professional murderess?”

“Not entirely. It is the matter of the memento-mori ring that convinces me we are hunting a man,” he said quietly. The signature is far too deliberately reminiscent of Zachary Elland’s work.”

“What of it? A woman might wish to emulate him.”

He shook his head, uncertain how to shore up with logic what he intuitively felt had to be true. “It seems more likely that a man would seek to compare himself to another man.”

“Ah, yes,” she said with a wise air. “I have noticed that men are inclined to be intensely competitive. They do love their horse races and boxing matches and wagers, do they not?”

He raised a brow at that. “Pray do not try to tell me that women lack the competitive instinct. I have seen the gentle warfare that is conducted in the ballrooms of the polite world during the Season. It is no secret that a matchmaking mama is capable of a degree of plotting and strategy that would incite awe and admiration in Wellington himself.”

To his surprise she did not smile. Instead, she inclined her head in somber acknowledgment of that observation.

“The business of marriage warrants extreme attention and sober planning. After all, a woman’s entire future as well as the future of whatever children she may bear is at stake.”

“Huh. I suppose I had not thought of it in quite such dramatic terms.”

“In my experience, men rarely do contemplate marriage in such dramatic terms.”

He frowned, aware from her tone that he might have missed something, but before he could demand further explanations, Lavinia raised a hand to pat a tiny yawn.

“I really do not think that I can give this case the serious contemplation it requires tonight,” she said. “I suggest we save this discussion for the morrow. It is a long drive back to town. We will have a great deal of time to talk.”

“Do not remind me.” He gazed thoughtfully down the long hall.

“Good night, Tobias.”

“One question before I leave.”

“Yes?”

“Is it the fashion among hairdressers to wear their shirts half unfastened in front of respectable ladies?”

Lavinia chuckled. “Hairdressers are artists, sir. They are entitled to set their own fashion.”

“Huh.”

“She stepped back and started to ease the door closed. Her eyes gleamed with amusement in the shadows. You need not concern yourself with the delicate sensibilities of either Miss Richards or Miss Gilway. Although the vision of Mr. Pierce in dishabille was no doubt one of the most stimulating sights they have seen in years, I must point out that you yourself gave them a great deal to admire as well.”

He realized she was gazing pointedly at his chest.

“What the devil?”

He glanced down and was startled to see that his shirt was unfastened several inches. It had no doubt come undone in the course of the few minutes he and Lavinia spent together before Fullerton so dramatically interrupted their tryst. He now comprehended all too well the curious, veiled looks Miss Richards and Miss Gilway had cast in his direction.

“Hell’s teeth,” he muttered.

“I do believe that together, you and Mr. Pierce have provided Miss Richards and Miss Gilway with enough inspiration for conversation and speculation to last them for months,” Lavinia said.

She chuckled and closed the door very gently in his face.

He released his grip on the door frame and walked back toward the staircase, brooding on the disaster that the country-house party had become. It had all seemed like such a brilliant notion back at the start, he reflected. But just about everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. Even his left leg, which had been behaving

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rather well for the past month thanks to the warm, sunny weather, ached a little now. Too much running up and down staircases this evening, no doubt.

He had not even managed the one event he’d planned for with such optimism and enthusiasm: an uninterrupted night in a comfortable bed with Lavinia.

In point of fact, he could not even retire to his own bed yet. There was something else he had to do first.

He made his way downstairs and found that all was once again quiet on this floor. The guests had returned to their bed chambers and the house was settling once more for what remained of the night.

A pair of wall sconces lit the path to Aspasia’s door. In front of her room he stopped, hesitating for a second or two. Then he rapped softly.

She opened the door at once, as though she had been waiting for him. Her green satin wrapper swirled around her ankles.

Ill-concealed anxiety shadowed her eyes. Tension tightened her full mouth.

“Well?” she whispered.

He looked at her, a part of him realizing that she was probably the most beautiful woman he had ever met, and he was suddenly very tired. He also understood that this was a weariness that was too deep to be cured by a few hours of sleep. It would haunt him until this brush with the past was finished.

Absently, he rubbed the back of his neck. Your conclusions are correct. Someone has, indeed, reinvented himself as the Memento

“Mori Man. Whoever he is, he was here tonight.”

She clutched the edges of her satin robe at her throat. “Fullerton?”

“Yes. I found a ring in the bed chamber.”

She squeezed her eyes shut briefly. When she opened them, he could see the fear that even she, with all her worldly skills and experience, could not hide.

“He staged this murder deliberately for your benefit, didn’t he?”

she asked. “He knew that you would be here tonight. He wanted to make certain that you understood he was back.”

Irritation sparked through him. “Do not say that. Elland is not back from the dead.”

“Of course. I know that.” She sighed. “I should not have spoken so carelessly. Forgive me. I have been possessed by chills and the most dreadful nervous sensations since my housekeeper brought me that little box with the ring in it this morning. I fear the combination has left me somewhat muddleheaded.”