Iphiginia ignored him. She followed him up the stairs and came to a halt beside him in a doorway that opened onto a tiny parlor.

Here everything was in order. The folding table of the secretary desk was neatly closed. The furnishings were not tumbled about. The carpet was not littered with papers.

"This room does not appear to have been disturbed," Iphiginia said.

"No." Marcus turned and walked down the hall. Iphiginia followed.

Together they looked into one small, comfortably furnished room after another and then they climbed the stairs to the top floor.

It was not until Marcus put his hand on the knob of the bedchamber door that Iphiginia was suddenly struck by a deep sense of dread.

"Marcus?"

"I'll go in first."

He opened the door of the last bedchamber and stood very still in the opening.

Iphiginia tried to peer around Marcus's broad shoulders. She could see what appeared to he gray skirts and a pair of high, laced shoes lying on the floor. "Oh, my God. Is that…?"

"No doubt. Stay right here."

This time Iphiginia obeyed. She watched Marcus walk toward the body. He came to a halt beside the dead woman and knelt down to examine her.

"She was shot," Marcus said. He touched one of the fingers of a limp hand.

"She's…?"

"Dead. Yes." Marcus got to his feet. "I would estimate that she has been dead for several hours."

Iphiginia's stomach clenched. She backed hurriedly out of the doorway, gasping for air.

Marcus walked out of the room. He looked at her with concern. "Are you all right?"

Iphiginia nodded hastily. "Yes. I think so."

"Come on, let's get out of here. The last thing we want is to he discovered hanging about a dead woman's rooms."

Marcus took her arm and whisked her down the staircase.

"Do you think Mrs. Wycherly was robbed?" Iphiginia asked.

"No," Marcus said. He came to a halt on the first landing and glanced into the parlor again. "If that were the case, the thief would have taken those silver candlesticks and a few other items."

"Then what happened here?"

"I'm not positive, but I can create a hypothesis which would explain what we see."

"What is your hypothesis?"

"I suspect that Mrs. Wycherley was the blackmailer and that your aunt and my friend were not her only victims. Nor were we the only people who managed to make the connection to the Wycherley Agency."

"You believe that someone else came here after Mr. Manwaring talked to her yesterday?"

"Yes. It's entirely reasonable to assume that Mrs. Wycherley was murdered by one of her victims."

"And after he killed her the victim went through her files searching for the evidence she had used to blackmail him?"

"Yes," Marcus said.

"Marcus, that is brilliant. It would explain everything." Iphiginia frowned. "It also means that the crisis is over.

"It appears that way."

She tried to feel a sense of relief. After all, Aunt Zoe's secret was safe once more.

But the blackmail problem was not the only thing that had disappeared, she realized. Along with it had gone her excuse for continuing her masquerade as Marcus's mistress.

AT SEVEN O'CLOCK THAT EVENING MARCUS SAT AT THE worktable in his laboratory and pondered the dilemma of how to turn a mistress into a wife.

It was a problem he had never thought to encounter. By comparison, the construction of clockwork mechanisms, telescopes, and hydraulic reservoir pens seemed quite simple.

He pushed aside the leather-bound notebook he had opened a few minutes earlier, leaned back in his chair, and propped his booted feet on the cluttered table.

Glumly he contemplated the clockwork butler which he had constructed last year. It stood silent and still, a silver salver in one wooden hand. On a whim, Marcus had painted a proper black coat and a white shirt on the automaton. He had even made an attempt to capture Lovelace's air of aristocratic disdain in the cold eyes and unsmiling mouth.

Life had seemed so simple until Iphiginia had appeared in his carefully regulated universe, Marcus thought.

As though she were a shooting star flashing through.the dark night, she had lit up the sky. But if he did not find a way to catch hold of her, she would either disintegrate in a shower of sparks or fall to earth with a devastating thud.

A knock on the door of the laboratory brought Marcus out of his reverie. "Enter."

"Marcus?" Bennet stuck his head around the door. "Thought you might he in here. Are you working?"

"No. Come in." Bennet walked into the room with his new languid, world-weary stride, closed the door, and approached the worktable. Marcus glanced at him and winced. His brother was very much the stormy-eyed poet again today.

Bennet's dark hair was carefully brushed into a careless, windswept tangle. His shirt was open at his throat and he was not wearing a neckcloth or a waistcoat.

"I trust you intend to put on a cravat before you go out," Marcus muttered. "You'll not he allowed into any ball or soiree tonight if you show up looking as though you just got out of bed."

"I have not yet dressed for the evening." Bennet went to the window and slouched against the frame, ennui personified. He stood gazing out into the garden with a moody expression.

"Was there something you wanted?" Marcus finally prompted.

Bennet looked at him with hooded eyes. "I came here to tell you that I have made a decision."

"You're going on a tour of the Continent?" Marcus asked without much hope.

"I, am going to ask Dorchester for Juliana's hand in marriage.

"Bloody bell." "Marcus, I have got to do it now. For God's sake, don't you understand? If I wait until I return from a tour of the Continent, Dorchester will have married her off to someone else.»

"Only if you are extremely fortunate." "Damn it to hell." Bennet swung around, his expression passionate. "I know that you do not care for Dorchester, but why must you also condemn his daughter? She's not at all like him."

"You think not?"

"She's a true lady. An innocent beauty whose spirit is as pure and untarnished as… as-"

"New fallen snow, perhaps?"

"I warn you, I will not tolerate any of your poor jests about her, Marcus." Bennet clenched his fist. "I intend to ask for her hand, do you comprehend?"

"God save us."

"Do you know what your problem is?"

"I have no doubt but what you will tell me." "You're a bloody cynic, that's what you are. just be

cause you choose to indulge yourself with outrageous little adventuresses such as Mrs. Bright, don't presume to judge a genuine innocent."

Marcus was out of his chair before Bennet even realized what was happening.

He vaulted over the table and crossed the room in two strides. He caught hold of Bennet's shoulder, shoved him hard against the wall, and pinned him there.

"Don't call her an adventuress," Marcus said softly. "What the hell?" Bennet's eyes widened in stunned

amazement. "She's merely another one of your paramours, for God's sake. Everyone knows that."

"She is my very good f6end," Marcus said. "An insult to her is an insult to me. Do you comprehend my meaning, brother?"

"Hell and damnation, yes." Bennet eyed him warily. "Yes, of course I comprehend you. I had no notion you were so touchy on the subject."

Marcus held Bennet against the wall for a moment longer and then released him abruptly. "Perhaps you had better leave. I have work to do and you obviously have plans of your own."

Bennet straightened his rumpled lapels and adjusted the cuffs of his coat. "I apologize for any offense."

"Apology accepted. Now kindly take your leave." "You cannot blame me for mistaking the situation. Your sentiments concerning Mrs. Bright appear to he far stronger than the ones you generally entertain toward your lady friends," Bennet observed.