“It’s been a dozen years since you lost your family and Sir Broderick ended up in a wheeled chair because of his injuries. You’ve grown up, but you haven’t lost your pain.”

I gritted my teeth. Swallowing my sobs, I forced my voice into something approaching normality. “I have to give Nicholas Drake justice. Then maybe I won’t grieve so much because I failed my family.”

She took my hands again. “I know, Georgia. I know.”

We stood in silence while the early spring sunshine shone through the glass panes, heating the air around us. The fragrance of moist soil and delicate blooms filled the air. This room always helped to ease my wounded heart. Once again I was reminded of how much time Lady Westover spent here on the anniversaries of events she wished had never happened.

I helped her off with her hat. “You must not tell anyone but your grandson that Drake is dead. We’re keeping it a secret for now so that the killer is the only suspect who knows.”

“All right,” she said with a feeble smile but a businesslike tone. “What do you plan to do now?”

“I need to speak to Lady Dutton-Cox again.”

“No, Georgia.”

“She believes her daughter was murdered. I believe Drake was murdered. If they both died by the same hand, we have to stop the killer.”

“If. Don’t you hear yourself?” Lady Westover shook her poufy gray à la concierge hairdo. I knew if I tried such a move, my hair would be around my shoulders in an instant. A knot worn on top of the head might be fashionable, but I wasn’t born to be fashionable.

Drawing my attention back to her words, I said, “You’re afraid your friend is behind Drake’s death, aren’t you?”

She took a half step back from me and looked out the window at the blooms in the garden. “I know you were terribly rude to her last time I took you to see Lady Dutton-Cox. I don’t want a repeat.”

“I only want to know if she or her husband received blackmail threats because of letters their daughter Victoria had written. Or if they were blackmailed due to something else entirely,” I added, not wanting to miss any possibility. I knew there wouldn’t be a third chance to question her.

“What will that prove?” Lady Westover’s blue eyes sharpened inside her scowl.

“Something Lady Dutton-Cox’s husband said makes me suspect Victoria’s death has nothing to do with Drake blackmailing them. Drake’s thefts are part of a pattern, and the reason why he was killed in a fire.”

“Someone wanted to burn the letters they couldn’t get away from Mr. Drake.” She nodded and walked away from me, sliding out of her enveloping apron. “I hope we can assure Honoria Dutton-Cox that her letters have been burned.”

“If they were in that house, they were destroyed.” I helped her out of her canvas duster.

“If they were? That’s not much comfort, Georgia.”

“That’s all I can give at the moment.” I went to follow Lady Westover into the main part of the town house, but she stopped me in the doorway.

“I’ve visited Lady Dutton-Cox since you saw her. She’s grown more reclusive. More fragile. I also lost my favorite child, and I thought for a long time I would lose my mind. Perhaps I did. Honoria was there for me. I won’t have you making her life more difficult. Do you understand?”

“I have to stop a murderer.”

“Not at the expense of making Honoria Dutton-Cox suffer more for something she didn’t do.”

I nodded. I understood Lady Westover’s determination to spare her friend, but I couldn’t chance letting a murderer go free. “This is the only way she can see her daughter’s murderer punished.”

Lady Westover looked at me and shook her head. “That’s not what she wants. Or needs.” Nevertheless, she called to her maid to get her ready to go out.

Chapter Fourteen

LADY Westover decreed the day was suitable for walking, so we arrived by foot at the Dutton-Cox town house. We found Lady Dutton-Cox in her morning room with a piece of half-finished embroidery on her lap. She immediately sent the footman away to have someone bring us tea and bade us sit, all without rising from her chair.

“How are you enjoying your stay in London, Miss Peabody?” she asked as soon as we were settled. She took a sip from the nearly full teacup on the table at her side, but I saw no sign of teapot or sugar or even a spoon. I wanted to get close enough to smell the brew in her cup. Brandy, most likely.

The skin beneath her eyes looked faintly bruised, as if she hadn’t had a restful night’s sleep in some time. Her face looked puffy, and she gazed at me without appearing to really focus on my face. And it was early afternoon. I glanced at Lady Westover and she threw me a warning look.

I managed a few bland comments about London, the weather, and the traffic one saw at all hours of the day. “For a while I was afraid to send any letters home. I kept hearing stories of Mr. Drake, that friend of your daughter Victoria, stealing letters and blackmailing the sender.”

Lady Dutton-Cox looked me over, scorn in her expression. “You have nothing to worry about. It’s only rich, beautiful girls like Victoria and Elizabeth who need to worry about Drake stealing their letters.”

Silence fell as the tea tray was carried in. Lady Westover fixed tea for herself and me. When she offered to pour some for Lady Dutton-Cox, the woman smiled slightly and shook her head, sipping from her own teacup.

The silence lengthened. I glanced at Lady Westover, who narrowed her eyes before taking a sip of tea. I needed to know if Drake had stolen letters from Lady Dutton-Cox or her daughter, and this brittle quiet was doing no good. “Did Drake steal any of Victoria’s letters and then try to blackmail her?”

“You certainly are a nosy young woman.”

“Did he?”

“No.”

“Then he had obtained letters you wrote?”

“I rarely write letters. Hadn’t you noticed? I’m a recluse. It would hardly do to be a recluse and then send letters all over the isle.” She drank the rest of the liquid in her teacup in one gulp and then swayed slightly in her chair.

“So Mr. Drake didn’t blackmail anyone in this house?” I must have sounded amazed, because the woman laughed at me.

“Not in this house.” She rang for her servants. One appeared immediately. “My teapot.”

“Do you think . . . ,” the footman began and quickly made his voice fade.

“My. Teapot.”

He disappeared and was replaced by a maid, who poured her mistress a cupful from a blue-flowered teapot and then left.

“Honoria, do you want us to leave?” Lady Westover asked.

Before I could glare at her, Lady Dutton-Cox said, “I don’t care. I haven’t cared since my beautiful Victoria died before she became a duchess. She should have been a duchess. It’s not fair. Nothing matters anymore.”

Lady Westover rose and crossed over to her friend. There was no place to sit near our hostess, since her chair was in a corner with tables standing sentinel on both sides of her. I pulled over a chair for Lady Westover to sit facing her friend. She was more likely to get the answers I needed. And I had failed twice today in being sympathetic. I was completely ashamed of my lack of tact. Not ashamed enough to stop this investigation, but embarrassed by my dearth of compassion.