Anthony opened the last of the small volumes. “This, I suspect, will prove to be a record of extortion payments.”

“We must return those items to their rightful owners immediately,” Louisa said.

“I agree. But some discretion will be required.”

“Yes, of course. We cannot reveal our own identities.” She paused. “What of the business papers?”

“Those I will keep,” Anthony said coolly.

“But they belong to Hastings. It is one thing to take the blackmail items, but I think we should restore the papers to the safe.”

He looked at her, his eyes pitiless in the soft light. “The bastard is not only a blackmailer, he is also a cold-blooded murderer. I feel under no obligation to return anything to him.”

She felt everything inside her turn to ice. “That is the second time you have said you believe him to be a murderer. Do you have any evidence?”

“I didn’t until tonight.”

He withdrew a black velvet pouch, opened it, and turned it upside down. She watched a cascade of gold and blazing gems spill into his fingers.

“Good heavens,” she whispered. “It must be worth a fortune.”

“It is. And it also proves that Hastings is guilty of murder.”

“I don’t understand. You took that from his safe tonight?”

“Yes.”

She stared at the glittering pool, stunned in spite of herself. “You really are a jewel thief.”

“This necklace belonged to a woman named Fiona Risby.”

She jerked her gaze back up to his grim face. “Your fiancée? The woman who threw herself off a bridge?”

“I was never completely convinced that Fiona committed suicide. Finding this necklace in Hastings’s safe proves I was right. He killed her.”

“You’re certain that is her necklace?”

He poured the necklace back into the pouch. “Yes. It is quite distinctive. A family heirloom. Fiona wore it the night she died.”

“What are you going to do? Now that you have taken it from Hastings’s safe, it is no longer evidence against him because it is not in his possession.” She paused delicately. “I hesitate to point this out, sir, but if the police discover that you have the necklace they might well consider you a suspect.”

“I couldn’t leave it behind in the safe; it would never be found there. Hastings would never allow the police to search his mansion.”

“I see what you mean. But what are you going to do with it?”

“I’m not sure yet,” he admitted. “But by the time I call on you tomorrow, I hope to have a plan.”

“You are going to visit me in Arden Square tomorrow?” she asked, suddenly cautious.

“Of course.” Anthony’s smile was dangerously enigmatic. “I have yet to collect my fee for this night’s work.”

Anthony let himself into the darkened town house. There was no one around to open the door. His small staff knew that they were not expected to wait up for him.

He went into the library and tossed the heavy overcoat across the back of a chair. He peeled off his evening coat, unknotted his black tie, and loosened the stiff collar of his shirt.

He set the items that he had removed from the safe on a table next to a reading chair and splashed some brandy into a glass. After taking a long swallow of the brandy, he lowered himself into the chair. Picking up some of the business papers, he began to read.

Twenty minutes later he had no doubt about what he was looking at. The papers were confirmation of the rumors he had been hearing in his clubs. Elwin Hastings was masterminding another investment consortium. There was nothing surprising in that. Hastings had been involved in a number of financial ventures over the past few years. What was strikingly unusual about this particular scheme was the identity of one of the participants.

He finished the brandy, rose, and poured himself another. It was late, but he was in no hurry to go to bed. He knew that when he finally did sleep he would likely dream of Fiona Risby. He would not see the young, beautiful, vibrant woman she had been in life; rather he would see her as she appeared after they pulled her out of the river, dead eyes filled with accusation.

He took the necklace out of the velvet pouch and studied it. One of the two questions that had been driving him for the past year and two months had been answered with ringing finality as far as he was concerned. Fiona had not committed suicide. Hastings had murdered her.

But the second question still remained. He needed to know why Fiona had been killed. Above all he had to discover if he was responsible for forcing her into the dangerous situation that had resulted in her death.

He drank some more brandy. A plan began to take shape in his mind.

Some time later he went upstairs to bed. To his amazement it was not the image of Fiona’s body that disturbed his sleep; it was Louisa Bryce’s face he saw. She looked at him through the invisible veil of her spectacles, watchful and mysterious. In his dreams he chased her through an endless maze of corridors knowing that he could not stop until he had unlocked her secrets.

The nightmare began the way it always did…

A muffled thud reverberates down below. The sound comes from the rear of the shop. The new lock that she installed last week has just been forced.

She is suddenly cold from head to toe, paralyzed by fear. Her heart is pounding. Panic roils her stomach. Icy perspiration dampens her nightgown. She is clutching the quilt as though it were a shield.

Iron hinges squeak. The door is opening. The monster is inside the shop.

He has come for her. For the past month she has lived with a growing dread. Tonight her worst fears have come true.

She must move. She cannot stay here in bed like a terrified child waiting for the demon to find her.

The bottom step creaks beneath the weight of a heavy, booted foot. There is no attempt at stealth. He wants her to know he is coming for her.

She must get out of bed this instant or there is no hope. Screaming will do no good. There is no one in the room next door to hear her. She is not even certain that she could call for help. The frightening paralysis has affected her voice as well as the rest of her body.

She forces herself to concentrate on the desperate plan that she concocted a few days ago. The act of focusing her mind on something other than raw fear gives her strength.

Employing every ounce of will she possesses, she pushes aside the covers and gets to her feet. The floor is very cold. Somehow that helps to steady her nerves.

Another step creaks. He is midway up the stairs now. Not hurrying. Taking his time.

“I warned you, Joanna.” His voice is filled with a chilling lust. “Did you really think you could defy me? You are nothing but a foolish little shopkeeper. A nobody who must be taught her place in the world.”

With the next step his voice sharpens, rage surfacing. “You should have been grateful that a gentleman of my rank was willing to give you so much as a second glance. Grateful, do you hear me, you stupid bitch? You should have begged me to take you.”

The bedroom has no door. There is only a heavy curtain to block the intruder’s path. It is closed.

She realizes that the window is uncovered and that she is silhouetted against the slant of light cast by the fog-drenched moon. Hastily she draws the drapes, plunging the small room into inky darkness.

She knows this cramped space well. The monster has never seen it, though. With luck, he will fumble about when he moves into the deep shadows, allowing her an opportunity to escape through the doorway behind him.