“Rubbish. Everyone’s dreams are important.” Impulsively, she reached into her basket, selected a peach, and held it out to him. “Would you like one of these? I could not resist them. They looked so plump and juicy.”

“How kind of you.” He took the peach from her gloved fingers and regarded it with a small, private smile. “I will enjoy this very much.”

“You’re welcome. And do not ever tell yourself that your dreams are not important.”

“Even if they are the dreams of my younger days and came to naught?”

She contemplated that for a moment. “It is surely a wonderful thing when one’s dreams are realized. But in truth, that does not happen very often, does it?”

“No, it does not.”

“Perhaps it is for the best. Not all dreams are good. Some are no doubt best left unfulfilled, and others are probably never meant to be given shape and substance.”

“I will not quarrel with that, my dear,” he murmured. “But allow me to tell you that, from the perspective of my years, some dreams are worth the risk required to make them real.”

“I believe you.” She hesitated. “Perhaps what really matters in the end is that we took some action to make our finest dreams come true. Even if we fail, we will have the satisfaction of knowing that it was not because we lacked for strength of will and determination.”

“Ah, a philosopher after my own heart.” He smiled. “I could not agree with you more, my dear. It would be a sad thing, indeed, to look back at the end of one’s life and know that one had lacked the resolve to take a few risks, eh?”

She found herself transfixed by his vivid blue eyes. “Something tells me, sir, that if your dreams failed, it was not because you lacked resolve.”

“And something tells me, my dear, that we are alike in that regard.” He took a small penknife out of his pocket and started to peel the peach. “I am glad that you still have many years left in which to shape your dreams. My doctor has informed me that I only have about six months. A bad heart, I’m told.”

She frowned. “Bah, pay no attention to the doctors. They are wrong more often than not, when it comes to predicting that sort of thing. None of us knows how much time is allotted to us.”

“True enough.” He took a bite of the peach, eyes narrowed with a pleasure that was almost sensual.

“There is an herbalist in Wren Street named Mrs. Morgan,” she said. “My mother always claimed that she was far more skilled than any doctor. I suggest that you seek her out and tell her about your symptoms. She may be able to prescribe a tonic that will help you.”

“Thank you for the advice. I shall follow it.” He ate another bite of peach. “Come here to enjoy the sun, did you?”

“Well, no, not exactly.” She glanced at the door of Aspasia’s town house. “I am going to call on someone who lives here in the square.”

He followed her gaze, squinting a little. “Would that be Number Seventeen you’re looking at?”

“It would.”

He returned his attention to the peach. “The lady who lives there has gone out for the afternoon. Saw her depart in her carriage a short time ago.”

“Really?” Lavinia murmured smoothly. “How unfortunate. It appears I have missed her. Well, then, I’ll just leave my card with her housekeeper.”

“Housekeeper’s not home either.” He took another loving bite of the peach. “I saw an urchin go to the door. He must have given her a message, because a short time later she took off in a great hurry.”

“Indeed.”

She had planned to talk her way into the house by persuading the housekeeper that she had important news for Aspasia and would await her return. No need to put me in the drawing room. The library or Mrs. Gray’s study will do nicely. She had hoped to have an opportunity to look around a bit when the housekeeper inevitably retreated to the kitchen to make tea. If nothing else, a visitor could always make the excuse that she needed to use the necessary.

Admittedly, the plan had been somewhat vague and she really had no idea whatsoever of what it was she hoped to discover. But she felt compelled to learn more about Aspasia Gray.

“There is no one at home.” The old man raised his bushy brows. “It would appear that you’ll have to come back another time.”

“Evidently.” She stepped back. Well, I must be off. Do not forget the herbalist in Wren Street.”

“I won’t.” He pocketed the knife. “I shall not forget our little discussion of dreams either.”

“Neither will I. Good day, sir.” She gave him another smile and walked away.

She crossed the street and went to the corner. There she paused to glance back over her shoulder. The old man had finished the peach and returned to his nap. His chin was tipped forward onto his chest.

She darted into the narrow alley that led behind the town houses and counted garden gates until she reached the one that serviced Number 17. The gate was latched from the other side, and the top of the stone wall was several inches above her head. She required something to stand on if she hoped to get over it.

She glanced around and saw an old ladder that had doubtless been left behind by a gardener. It was the work of only a moment to angle it against the stone wall of Number 17. She climbed quickly to the top. When she looked down she saw a conveniently placed bench. Hiking up her skirts, she got first one leg and then the other over the top of the wall. She lowered herself to the bench.

All was silent and still at the back of Number 17. She made her way to the kitchen door and opened her reticule to remove her new lock picks.

She was chagrined that the business of picking the lock took her far longer than it would have taken Tobias. But in the end, she heard the satisfying clink that told her she had been successful. She stopped breathing for a few seconds, opened the door, and stepped stealthily into the back hall. A cramped staircase designed for the use of the servants was to her left. The lure was irresistible.

Intuition told her that if Aspasia Gray had any secrets, they would be hidden upstairs in her most private chambers.

Tobias sat down at his desk and slowly opened the journal of accounts that had belonged to the murdered wig-maker. He did not know what he hoped to discover this time that he had not found the first time he went through Swaine’s transactions, but he was certain he had missed something important.

Last night he had told Lavinia that he wanted to find out who schooled Zachary Elland and Pierce in the art of murder. But later, alone in his bed, he had dreamed about wigs, the journal of accounts, and the memory of Pierce handing a small business card to Lavinia.

When he awoke shortly before dawn he knew that the case was not yet concluded. There was another murderer, one who would soon kill again.

Emeline stood in the lobby of the Institute with Priscilla and watched Anthony and Dominic come up the steps. Each was once again dressed in the first stare of fashion, and there did not appear to be any signs of hostility between them. Nevertheless, she could see at once that something was wrong. Both men moved in a somber and deliberate manner.

“I vow, they look as if they have been asked to dig some graves,” Priscilla said.

Emeline recalled what Lavinia had told her about how Anthony and Dominic were with Mr. March when the hairdresser’s body was found. “The scene in Mr. Pierce’s bed chamber must have been quite ghastly last night.”

Priscilla swallowed. “I can certainly understand that it might not have left either of them in a mood for a science lecture today. I am not feeling particularly enthusiastic myself. It is quite troubling to imagine Mr. Pierce lying there on the floor in a puddle of blood, is it not? He was so young and handsome and talented.”

“Indeed, and if it is difficult for us, one can only imagine how it must have been for Anthony and Dominic. I know that they have both lost people they loved in the past, but I heard Tobias tell Aunt Lavinia that neither of them had ever before witnessed such a violent and bloody end.”