Memphis didn’t know if he loved Taylor or simply wanted to acquire her, but either way, having that gray-eyed woman in his life made him feel alive for the first time since his wife, Evan, died.

Besides, he wasn’t lying about his psychologist friend. Dr. Madeira James was married to one of Memphis’s best chums from school, Roland MacDonald, the second son of the Earl of Killicrankie. Roland was content to live the squire’s life, not having to work, spending his time hunting, fishing and otherwise engaged outdoors. He’d gone to America in the late ’90s and returned with Madeira, already in possession of a doctorate at the tender age of twenty-two, already ripe with his child. Maddee, as she was known, was great fun, a beautiful woman with long, dark hair and a wide smile: a good mother, a good wife, and a good friend to Memphis and Evan. She’d helped pick up the pieces after Evan’s death, and Memphis trusted her with his life.

She’d be perfect for Taylor.

If only Taylor would agree to come over. He doubted his money or title impressed her; she’d grown up with largesse and wasn’t enamored of its abilities to smooth one’s life. It was going to take much more to steal her away from Nashville. It would take compassion, and understanding, and freedom. Freedom most of all. And that he had the ability to give her.

They had so much in common, more than she really knew. Privileged upbringings, yet a desire to eradicate evil, to solve crimes, to put away the bad guys. He knew Taylor was reacting to her father’s illegal activities when she decided to become a cop. His path was more direct.

There was a killer, famous in the U.K., who was on a rampage while Memphis was in school. He was known as the Jeweler. He started killing the same year as the infamous Babes in the Woods murders, 1986, and was forever linked to the two young girls found strangled in the woods outside Brighton, even though he wasn’t actually responsible for their murders. He’d killed eight women, all by stabbing, then disappeared off the map. He’d been suspected in the murders of dozens more, women who were lost and never found. Mostly prostitutes, but a few upscale schoolgirls as well.

During the killings, Memphis was just finishing at Eton, on his way to Cambridge, and was convinced that those murders, plus the two lost girls in the woods, with their constant news coverage, instilled the investigative bug into his world. He was captivated by the case in Brighton, followed it in the papers. One night, he and a couple of school chums had gotten legless on whisky and taken a drive up to the woods. He remembered stumbling into the forest, then stopping, certain that the ghosts of the strangled girls were nearby. He nearly pissed himself getting back to the car, his chums in no better shape.

It took more than the idea of a specter to run him off a case now.

He stepped out of the Waverly train station into a spitting cold rain at half six, grabbed a taxi and headed up the Royal Mile.

The rain began falling in earnest. He ducked into the alleyway that led to The Witchery, one of his favorite restaurants in the world. He skipped the main dining room and went to the second door, to what was known as the Secret Garden. The maître d’ recognized him, gave him a wide smile.

“My Lord Dulsie, what a pleasure to see you. As always. Our favorite earl is below. Shall I take you to him?”

“Yes, please, Alfred. Lovely to see you as well.”

They descended the stairs under the watchful eye of a large elk. The earl was tucked away in the corner, at the best table, his serious brown eyes focused on the menu, though he knew it by heart.

Memphis let Alfred take his coat and slid into the chair opposite. “Happy Birthday, Father. You’re looking well.”

The earl set his menu down and smiled warmly at his eldest son. “Ah, James, my boy. So good to see you. You’ve come alone? If I had known I’d have invited Jenny Blakely.” He cast an appraising eye over his son.

His father was forever hoping he’d get over the death of Evan and find a new woman to settle down with, and was keen on making the match himself. They’d had a few minor rows about it already, his father proclaiming, “If this was two hundred years ago, I’d have made the match for you and you would have thanked me for it.” The earl was full of it. He was about as dedicated to the antiquities of the peerage as Memphis was.

“Jenny Blakely is a pretentious cow and you know it.”

The earl spit out a laugh, then shook his head in admonishment. “Now, now, Memphis, that’s no way to talk about a lady.”

“She’s not a lady, Father. Have you seen the mole on her eye? It deserves a title of its own.”

They went on like this for an hour, teasing, poking, eating a luscious meal and chasing it with a fine port. The earl grew serious as he signed the bill.

“I know this is a difficult time for you, James. Why don’t you come to Johannesburg with us? Get away from here. From the ghost of Evanelle. I can see her haunting you, still. It breaks my heart to see you suffer.”

Memphis squeezed his father’s arm. “I know it does. I promise, things are better. But no, I won’t be able to get away. Work, you know. And I’ve invited a friend to come stay for the holiday.”

“A friend?” His father wasn’t subtle, he waggled his eyebrows at him lasciviously. Memphis smiled.

“A good friend. The investigator I met in Nashville. I’ve mentioned her before, I believe. Taylor Jackson.”

“You have. Well. I hope that she comes. For your sake. No one should spend Christmas alone.”

“No need to worry about me, Father. I have more than enough to keep me busy.”

The earl insisted on dropping Memphis at the station, good-naturedly grumbling about him not coming back to the estate. They parted with a hearty handshake, as always, and Memphis boarded the last train back up to London.

Accepting a cup of tea from the trolley girl, he checked his email and sighed. He was in for a long night. The commander hadn’t bothered to wait until the morning; he was calling Memphis into the Straithwhite case immediately.

So much for his escape.

Despite his grousing to Taylor, he had to admit this case was intriguing. A challenge. He always did love a challenge.

He put a call in to his detective constable, Penelope Micklebury, known far and wide as Pen. She answered on the first ring, the annoyance clear in her voice.

“Left me to stand in the rain while you had a beautiful dinner with Daddy, eh, Memphis?”

“My repasts are none of your concern, Pen. You eat like a bird anyway, you would have hated it. Tureens of soup and platters overflowing with rich, juicy meat. I can barely move, I’m creakingly full.”

Pen was a vegan; she moaned aloud at the thought. “That stuff’s going to rot you from the inside, Memphis.”

“Perhaps. Where are you?”

He could hear her heels clicking on the pavement, then a door slammed and things quieted down. She must have stepped into her car.

“Victoria. Had a date. Did you get a call from the Boy Toy?” she asked in turn.

“He sent me an email. I’ve just seen it. And if you keep calling him that, he will find out. And I won’t be able to save you.”

“It’s just a bleeding nickname. You’ll be in tomorrow?”

“Unless you need me tonight?”

“No. I’ve got things covered here. Assembling the files, all that. Go and have a rest.”

“Fine, Pen. Until then.”

He hung up, watched the lights from the village to his right flash by as the train crossed the countryside. In the daylight, this was a beautiful part of the trip, but in the darkness it became murky and lonely. A fitting scene, really. He was feeling rather lonely tonight.