“One thing,” Jacob said, glancing around the room as if making certain none of us objected to him speaking up at a meeting. “Sir Broderick has me studying accountancy and I asked my tutor about the suspects Lord Hancock listed. He showed me how to look at public records about shares and companies.”

Jacob looked at Sir Broderick, who nodded. “The Earl of Waxpool’s son couldn’t have been stealing from the family. Their wealth has grown nicely each year for the last several. The earl has a brilliant mind for business. My tutor introduced me to his man of affairs, who was willing to tell me the earl is very hands-on. He won’t let his son, who has no interest in commerce, near any of the accounts. He never has let his heir have any role in their financial affairs.”

“So the story the earl gave me was just that. A story,” I said. Had he lied to hide the real reason, a compelling reason, why he was having Nicholas Drake hunted down?

“Sir Broderick’s having you trained as an accountant?” Emma said.

“The lad can’t be my valet and errand boy forever. He’s far too bright. If he picks up some extra skills, he can help the Archivists long after I’m gone.” Sir Broderick cleared his throat. “Is there anything else?”

I studied our leader’s face. He looked healthy to me. He often planned ahead. This must just be another instance of Sir Broderick’s foresightedness. I hoped.

“Just finding Drake’s murderer,” Fogarty said from where he’d momentarily stopped in front of a bookcase.

When Sir Broderick suggested we take a hansom cab home, I jumped at the idea. Even knowing it was Blackford’s man who was following, I was still anxious from the footsteps constantly echoing behind us.

“Georgia, one moment if you please. It’ll take Jacob a minute to find a cab.”

I sat down by Sir Broderick, trying to ignore the sweat springing up under my clothes.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time in Hyde Park Place lately.”

“That’s where I saw my parents’ killer.”

“Where you thought you saw him. What’s next? Knocking on the door of Surrey House and asking Lord Battersea if he knows any murderers?”

“Does he live along there?” I matched Sir Broderick’s sarcasm. I wasn’t going to stop hunting for the murderer. This was too important.

“Number seven.”

I’d thought the first time I saw the killer that he was a powerful man. Considering the neighborhood where I’d seen him, I’d have to add rich to powerful. “Then I’ll have to be more circumspect, because I’m going to continue to search for him.”

“Be careful, Georgia. You don’t know him, but he knows you.”

“I doubt their killer remembers me.” So far, everything had gone his way. But one day, he would slip up and then I’d find him.

Emma and I rode home to find Phyllida waiting for us. “Is the weather improving? Your skirts don’t look as dirty.”

“We’ve been more careful, Auntie,” Emma said, grinning.

Phyllida pressed her lips together, but the corners edged up. “None of your cheek, young lady. I know better than that. I heard the carriage outside. Take off your skirt so I can dry it in the kitchen before you brush it.”

Both of us obediently took off our skirts and handed them over. From the kitchen, Phyllida said, “You had a caller this evening.”

I walked into the kitchen in my stocking feet and petticoat. “Who?”

“Lord Hancock. He wants to sell a rare book. He said he’d come by the shop first thing in the morning.”

“Did you let him in?”

Phyllida heard the concern in my voice. “No. He didn’t get past the landing. Why?”

“How many rare book collectors have you ever seen come to this flat rather than the shop?”

We stared at each other as the temperature in the room chilled. “None.”

*

LORD HANCOCK ARRIVED the next morning as soon as I flipped over the Open sign. Walking to the counter, he laid a wrapped parcel on the smooth wooden surface and looked at me expectantly.

At least I had no reason to have worried about Phyllida’s safety. As I unwrapped the package, I said, “My aunt said you’d be here first thing this morning.”

“Phyllida Monthalf is your aunt?”

“Yes.” I looked at him suspiciously.

“We introduced ourselves last evening. Is she a member of the mad Monthalfs?”

They’d earned that reputation long before her brother had inflicted his depravity on the city. “A cadet branch. They’re only slightly mad.”

I looked down at the book I’d unwrapped. Definitely old and in good condition. Damp marks and a moldy cover, but no bookworm holes. “How much do you want?”

“One hundred pounds.”

He was madder than the Monthalfs. “It’s not worth more than ten.” I’d go up to fifteen, thinking I could eventually sell it for twenty. One hundred? Never.

“It’s the subject matter. It’s an alchemist book of formulas.”

“I don’t sell rare books on subject, but on the worth of the book to a collector. I’m sorry, Lord Hancock, but we’re too far apart to try to negotiate.”

“You won’t reconsider?”

“Ten pounds. That’s the best I can do.” I hoped he wouldn’t take it. I didn’t want a book on alchemy in my shop. I doubted people still believed such things were possible, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

He rewrapped his book with rapid, jerky movements. “You’ll be sorry,” he mumbled.

I hoped I’d misunderstood him. “What did you say?”

“You’ll be sorry. One day, you’ll all be sorry.” His package tucked under one arm, he stormed out of the shop, nearly knocking Frances Atterby over as she arrived to travel with me to visit Anne Drake.

I was already sorry. Nicholas Drake was dead, and I had to tell his widow.

*

I LEFT FRANCES later that morning dealing with Anne Drake’s grief. Now that she’d been forced to admit she wasn’t her sister, Edith Carter, she had no reason to hide either her identity or her love for her husband. Her carefully crafted world of lies, and the need for them, fell apart with Drake’s death. She broke down into a gasping, soggy mess.

Frances ordered Anne’s maid to bring heavily sugared tea and laudanum. Years of managing the family hotel with her husband had left Frances with the ability to handle any crisis, no matter how difficult the person or the situation. For now she sat with Anne, holding the new widow against her well-padded bosom as she rocked and crooned. Promising to do everything I could to find justice for Drake, I departed in haste.

My guilt followed me to Lady Westover’s. When I marched into her greenhouse and stared at her, she looked up from her spraying and said, “You’re in a temper.”

“I’ve just come from Nicholas Drake’s wife, informing her she’s a widow.”

She set the sprayer down and walked over to me, stripping off her large canvas gloves. Taking my hands, she said, “I am so sorry. That can’t have been easy for you. Always seeing your parents’ death and Sir Broderick’s accident whenever you have to deliver bad news.”

“No, I just—”

“Georgia, I am far too old to be put off by your denials.”

I pulled my hands away and studied the terra-cotta tile floor, fighting the tears that threatened to rend my heart.