There was a tension in the admiral’s face that Charles couldn’t quite read. Was it apprehension, or evasion, or was it deceit? Charles gave what might have been seen as an affirming nod, and North appeared to relax.

“Indeed,” he said, with a touch of cordiality. “I think you can appreciate why I want you to intervene in this, Charles. The problem is very clear. The Newmarket constabulary simply can’t be allowed to intrude into what might very well turn out to be vital Club interests.”

“Yes,” Charles said. “I see.” He didn’t, really, though, and he was troubled by that elusive look on Owen North’s face. He let the silence lengthen, then sat forward in his chair, engaging the admiral’s eyes. He spoke firmly.

“I cannot undertake this aspect of the investigation without your word as a gentleman that the murderer, if and when he is discovered, will be handed over to the authorites and dealt with according to the law.” If the Club believed itself above the law, or intended to use him to subvert the law, he would wash his hands of this dirty business forthwith. He would walk out of the room and fetch Kate and they could both go back to Bishop’s Keep. He would-

“Oh, very well,” North said shortly, “you may have my word-although I cannot think why you should need it. Naturally, the law will be taken into account.”

Charles said nothing. It was not the wholehearted assurance he had hoped for. But now he was beginning to feel intrigued. North seemed to know, or suspect, more than he was saying. But perhaps more to the point, if Charles refused to take on the investigation, he felt it quite likely that North would find someone else who would-and who might not be so concerned about the law’s jurisdiction.

The admiral, taking silence for consent, smiled with evident relief. “Well, then,” he said briskly, “the matter is in your hands. And of course, you shall have Mr. Murray’s excellent assistance.” He pulled out a gold watch and frowned down at it, then up to the clock on the wall. “Blasted clock is twenty minutes late. I’m afraid I must be off. His Majesty is at the Rothschilds’ today and wants to discuss some Club affairs.” He stood. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to know that you’re looking into this matter for us, Charles. He has the greatest confidence in you.”

When he had gone, Charles allowed the silence to settle. Finally, he looked at Jack Murray, who was staring out the window. “It appears that there is more to this than we knew, Murray.”

“It seems so, sir,” Murray said, turning. His face was glum. “But it’s just as likely that Badger was done in to avoid the payment of a debt, or because he’d crossed someone he shouldn’t.” He sighed heavily. “It’s happened before, sir.”

“I imagine that there is a great deal of risk attached to the profession,” Charles agreed. “I don’t suppose you’d happen to know precisely where Mr. Day carried out his business.”

Murray became more alert. “I do, sir. In St. James Street. Number Twenty-nine.”

“And whether he had an assistant?”

“There’s a clerk, sir, and a partner. The clerk is called Sobersides. The partner is named Baggs, Edward Baggs. Eddie, they call him.”

“Mr. Murray,” Charles said, “you are a fount of information.” He rose and put on his hat. “I propose that we pay a visit to Number Twenty-Nine and see what we can learn from Sobersides or Mr. Edward Baggs, or both.”

Kate was awakened at eight-thirty when Amelia brought a tray with tea and a copy of the Times, with a front-page story about the International Congress of Women, which would take place later that month at the Church-house, Westminster. The Countess of Aberdeen would preside, and delegates from various colonies and foreign countries were expected. Kate noted the date, June 26, and decided that she would attend. Perhaps there would be an opportunity to speak with interested women about her school.

But important as the Congress might be, it was not topmost in Kate’s mind, for she had a great deal to think about as she sipped her morning tea. Her heart was filled with delight and relief at seeing Patrick. How strong and resourceful he had grown, and how handsome! But although he seemed happy enough, she sensed that he harbored more uneasiness about that horse-and perhaps more guilt over the death of his jockey friend-than he had been willing to show the night before. She hoped Charles would find a way to help the boy.

But while Kate’s heart was full of Patrick, her mind was occupied with other things. There was the unhappy event of last night: Patrick’s discovery of the murdered man in the alleyway behind the Great Horse. But far more urgently, there was the intense and growing fascination she felt for Lillie Langtry-the Gilded Lily, Bradford had called her. Today she would make a concentrated effort to learn more about the woman-about the private person who must live somewhere within the actress. Under the guise of an interviewer for The Strand, she would probe as deeply as she dared, looking for the real Lillie.

Kate dressed and went down for breakfast carrying a small notebook and fountain pen. She was shown to a smaller room adjacent to the dining room, wallpapered in a pale green flock, with green draperies over sheer curtains that softened and dimmed the light from the east-facing windows. French doors opened onto a flower-filled glass conservatory, and the sweet scent of jasmine filled the air.

Lillie Langtry, dressed in an elegant blue shantung silk with chemisette and collar of ecru tucked net, was already at the table, reading a folded newspaper and breakfasting on dry toast and coffee. When Kate entered, she looked up and smiled warmly.

“Ah, Beryl, good morning!” She gestured toward the sideboard, which was laden with chafing dishes filled with eggs, sausages, kippers, muffins, and toast. “Choose what you like, my dear. If you prefer something else, it can be brought from the kitchen.”

“Thank you,” Kate replied, and allowed the footman to help her to an egg, a sausage, some fruit, and a muffin. As the footman held her chair, the butler appeared with a silver coffee pot, poured a steaming cup, and both withdrew.

“You’re lovely this morning, dear,” Lillie said, glancing at Kate. She opened a brocade cigarette pouch and took out a cigarette, fitting it into an elaborately carved ivory holder. “Such a sweet little white dress. I do so like batiste for summer, although I don’t wear it myself, as I once did.”

Kate smiled slightly as she stirred her coffee. “I trust you enjoyed your dinner with the Prince last evening.”

“Oh, I did, very much,” Lillie said, “although we made an early evening of it.” She lit her cigarette with a match and took several puffs. “I was home and asleep by midnight.”

This was strange, Kate thought, since she had heard Lillie’s carriage arriving in the gravel drive shortly after three in the morning. Or perhaps it was not Lillie’s carriage. Perhaps she had entertained a guest, and he was not arriving, but departing. Glancing up, she saw that the bruise on the actress’s cheek, while it was still evident, had been artfully camouflaged, and it crossed her mind that the softly filtered light in the room might be contrived to conceal the facial imperfections of a woman who would be fifty in a few more years. For an instant, Kate felt a fleeting pity for Lillie, whose face and figure were literally her fortune and who lived as a public spectacle. She must fret each moment that someone might take a critical view of the lines on her face, or find fault with the simplicity of her dress, or remark that her figure wasn’t what it had once been. But the pity flickered out in an instant, for Kate knew that Lillie Langtry had chosen to live in this way and could choose differently whenever she wished-if she were willing to pay the price.