Even as I called myself a fool, I said, “I’ll speak to the duke. Then we’ll see if we have enough to begin a search.”

Miss Carter stood and nodded. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice. Life without Nicholas is unbearable. And when I saw the blood on the floor—”

“What?” I sprang from my chair.

“When Mrs. Cummings, his housekeeper, arrived that morning, she found a pool of blood in the front hall. She cleaned it up, but it stained the wood.”

“Did either of you tell the police this?”

“I did, but she denied it. It was just a stain when they arrived and could have been anything.”

People didn’t bleed profusely from business discussions. Not real blood. But people did kill for money, and I still knew nothing about Nicholas Drake or his finances. “Do you know anything of the items he was brokering currently?”

“No. But the Duke of Blackford is a terrible man. Mr. Drake was afraid of him.” She reached out and grabbed my hands. Her grip hurt.

“Did he say why?”

“He said the duke’s sister killed a friend of his. He’s afraid his life’s in danger, since he knows what really happened.”

“What happened? When was this?”

Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Before I moved next door, so it was over a year ago. I won’t say exactly what happened, but it had to do with the death of the duke’s intended bride.”

“You need to tell me what happened.”

“I was sworn to secrecy. But I will say the duke and his fiancée had a terrible row over his sister. The next day, the sister and the fiancée met, and the fiancée was dead within the hour. Mr. Drake’s life was threatened if he ever spoke of those events to anyone.”

“Do you know where we can find a photograph of Mr. Drake? It would be very helpful if we could recognize him.”

She let go of my hands and reached into a pocket. Gently she smoothed the back of the thick paper then handed the photo to me. It was postcard size, taken in a photography studio in Durham, showing a fair-haired young man with a pleasant face trying very hard to look serious and failing.

“May I keep this, please, for copying? I’ll return it to you unharmed.”

After a moment, she nodded.

I wrote down a few details and ushered Miss Carter into her cloak. As we walked to the front door of the shop, I saw all three customers had wandered into travel, the section closest to the office. All three were closely examining books, their faces averted. Emma stood with them, her business smile in place.

Miss Carter bid me good day and left, holding her umbrella at an angle to block the wind and rain. Then I turned and faced our customers. “Does anyone need help?”

With the excitement over, all three paid for their purchases and left, leaving Emma and me in an empty shop.

“Do we have a case, Georgia?”

“Possibly. I don’t trust her, but the story is so amazing it may be true. Can you handle the shop by yourself?”

Emma glanced around the vacant shop and gave me a dry stare. I’ve seen strong men grovel at her feet after such a look, probably because of her blond beauty. After working with her for years, I hardly noticed anymore that men looked around me to stare at her.

That didn’t mean that her youth, good looks, and self-assurance didn’t annoy me on occasion. Not bothering to hide my sarcasm, I said, “Since you have no objections, I’ll be absent for a few hours. More if I float down the Thames. Don’t leave until I return.”

She picked up a novel and sat on the stool behind the counter. The new electric chandelier above her gave perfect light for reading, even on a day when gray, waterlogged light came in the large front windows of the shop. “I have everything I need.”

I checked the omnibus schedule and found the one I needed to take me into the new suburbs northwest of town. The vehicle was jammed but dry, and I managed to get a seat where I could look through the window at the activity outside. Pedestrians hurried along the sidewalk bundled in drab wool, pale faces peering out from under umbrellas and hats.

We were riding along Hyde Park Place just past Marble Arch, and I was staring at the crowded sidewalk. Moving smartly in the opposite direction, a book tucked under one arm, was my parents’ killer.

As we approached, I could see most of his face above his ornately tied cravat, and then as we passed, I studied his profile under his top hat until a carriage blocked my view. I pressed my face to the glass, wishing the carriage away. It moved, and I was able to glimpse the murderer again from behind.

For a moment I stared openmouthed. He was dressed similarly to the other businessmen on the street, but I was certain.

It was him.

And I wasn’t going to lose him a second time. Every muscle tensed as I leaped up. My heart pounded as I ran to the back of the bus, ready to jump off if the driver didn’t stop the horses immediately.

“Wait, miss,” the conductor said, blocking my path as he signaled the driver to stop.

After a dozen years, I’d finally seen the monster again. I pushed the conductor aside and was off before the horses came to a halt. Heavy traffic flowed around me, blocking my way to the sidewalk. Knowing the man I sought must have a minute’s head start on me, I was braver than usual, dodging behind a brewer’s cart and a hansom cab. After close misses with a carriage and horse waste in the road, I was on the sidewalk, pushing past people in my hurry.

There were top hats in front of me as far as I could see. Which one was his?

As I strode down the sidewalk, looking each man in the face as I passed, being shoved aside by taller, heavier bodies, I was once more a powerless seventeen-year-old. My parents were newly dead. I suddenly had no one in this world to care about me. Tears again welled up with the grief and the terror. That horrible day was never far from my mind.

I had been helping my mother dust the shelves, since we’d just opened for the morning, and this immaculately well-tailored man was our first customer.

My father came forward to greet the man when he entered our bookshop. The man took off his top hat as he entered but left his newspaper under his arm. His hair was a white blond or silver and his stance proclaimed him a man of power and status. The man talked in a low voice to my father, who took a step back and said, “We don’t have anything like that.”

The man grabbed him by the collar with his free hand and said, “I know better. Don’t lie to me.”

Then he threw my father to the side and forced his way behind the counter. My father’s mouth opened and shut twice without any sound emerging, as he grabbed at the man’s sleeve. The man began to search through the antiquarian volumes but didn’t find what he wanted. In his fury, he knocked books and papers off the counter, which my father kept trying to catch.

Then the man removed a gun from inside the newspaper and pointed the barrel at my father. My father raised his hands as an antiquarian volume he’d caught slid from his grip and fell to the floor in a cascade of pages.

My mother gasped. The man said, “If you want to see your husband alive at the end of the day, do as I say, Mrs. Fenchurch. You, too, Miss Fenchurch.”

His gaze on me made my skin feel like I’d fallen in a coal furnace, stabbing hot and falling away from my bones. How could I forget the wide brow, the long nose, the thin lips, the cruel eyes?

Unable to find what he was looking for, he forced us all outside into his well-kept black carriage. We left civilized London for the emptiness of the small farms just north of town. And all the time we huddled together, he kept his pistol aimed at us.