The next day, Emma paid the hackney driver and descended onto Compton Street, a busy thoroughfare near Soho Square. Storefronts lined both sides of the street, and people and horses jostled along the cobblestone. Emma’s destination was Number Eight, a two-storey building sandwiched between a bakeshop and a pianoforte maker’s store. A small gold placard on the dark green door read simply, “Kent and Associates.”

Stepping inside, Emma paused on the threshold. The sun shone through the bow window at the front of the room, glinting off the reception desk and stairwell that led up to the partners’ new suites, which had been added in the reconstruction. A small waiting area boasted comfortable seating and newspapers to peruse. The scent of baking bread mixed with the occasional discordant chord of an instrument being tuned.

Something about the office had always reminded Emma of the cottage in Chudleigh Crest. Perhaps it was the coziness, the hodgepodge of sights, sounds, and smells, and the hum of activity. Coming here was like coming ... home.

She couldn’t give up. She had to convince her brother to give her a chance.

I am capable of being an investigator, she thought fiercely. I’ll show everyone—especially Strathaven.

For a brief instant yesterday, it’d seemed as if she and the duke had reached an armistice. She’d discovered his approachable side, a hotchpotch-eating fellow with a heart-melting smile. Then he’d attacked her for no reason, disparaged her goals ... and shown her hot, wicked pleasure, the likes of which she hadn’t known existed. Her toes curled in memory of that mind-obliterating bliss.

His carnal whisper shivered over her. God, why can’t I get enough of you?

As if he ... needed her.

The notion thrilled, confused, and dismayed her. Why did they share this intense physical attraction when they were ill-suited in every other way? Strathaven was nothing like the sort of man she would envision for herself. He wasn’t principled or kindhearted; he wasn’t a man devoted to his family. He was complicated, moody—and a duke to top it off.

The only thing they had in common, it seemed, was stubbornness. He faced imminent peril and yet he still refused her help. How could he expect her to stand by and do nothing?

“Miss Kent, what a pleasant surprise!”

Mr. Hobson, the bespectacled clerk, came bounding down the hallway toward her with a tea tray in hand. Around her age, he had a puppyish quality owing to his downy golden-brown hair and cheerful disposition. His eagerness to please was matched only by his innate clumsiness—a fact that exasperated Ambrose and his partners to no end.

If Hobson hasn’t spilled or broken something, then the day’s not over, Mr. McLeod was wont to grumble.

What Hobson lacked in adroitness, however, he made up for in loyalty, optimism, and unquenchable enthusiasm. One couldn’t help but like him. Even if he constantly splattered ink over everything and smashed all the good tea cups.

From experience, Emma knew to keep her distance from the tray in his tenuous grasp.

“Hello, Mr. Hobson. Is my brother in?” she said.

“Indeed.” The clerk lowered his voice. “He’s with the Mr. Hilliards upstairs. They dropped by unannounced.”

“Ah,” Emma said.

The Hilliards were the father and son bankers who had provided the loan for the rebuilding of the office. Shrewd businessmen, they popped in now and again to ascertain the health of the business—and their investment.

“I was about to bring up tea. Got cakes from the bakery. Thought they might sweeten the two up a bit,” Hobson whispered.

Emma looked at the tray. Two of the cakes had fingerprints embedded on the glaze. The other two had clearly crumbled and been put back together ... oddly. They now resembled haphazard little haystacks.

“I had some trouble getting them out of the box.” Hobson’s brow pleated. “Do you think anyone will notice?”

She was saved from the need to reply by voices and footsteps coming down the stairs. Ambrose appeared with the Hilliards in tow.

“Emma,” he said in surprise. “I wasn’t expecting you. You remember the Hilliards?”

She curtsied politely. “Good day, sirs.”

“And to you, Miss Kent.” Mr. Hilliard Junior bent over her hand. Dressed in somber black relieved only by the white of his shirt, he reminded her a bit of a penguin. He was short and rotund, a younger replica of his father. “Father and I are most impressed with the progress that’s been made here, and Mr. Kent tells us you played a hand in things.”

“I’m always happy to assist where I can,” Emma said.

“A young lady who isn’t afraid to roll her sleeves up, eh?” Mr. Hilliard Senior winked broadly at his son. “Don’t find many of those around these days.”

His son’s ears turned red.

“I’ll see you out, sirs,” Ambrose said abruptly. “Emma, wait for me upstairs?”

As the men went outside, Emma headed up to the new floor, which was bisected by a main hallway with offices on either side. Ambrose’s suite was at the end of the corridor, a comfortable space paneled in oak. Leather seats were clustered by the stone fireplace, and a shelf of books took up one wall. The desk sat by the front window.

She went to look out the curtains and saw Ambrose talking with the Hilliards by their carriage. Idly, her gaze went to his desk ... and landed on his appointment book. Before she could question her actions, she was flipping through the pages.

Her brother had been busy in the last week, making many enquiries on Strathaven’s behalf. Leafing through, she found the record of the visit to the duke’s cottage and memorized the address in St. John’s Wood. Hearing footsteps, she quickly closed the book and dashed to the other side of the desk, plopping herself into a chair. Her pulse thudded guiltily.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Em,” her brother said as he entered.

“Is everything all right?” she said. “With the Hilliards, I mean?”

Ambrose sat across the desk from her, his expression rueful. “As long as we make our monthly payments, they’ve no basis for complaint.”

Emma’s guilt doubled as she saw the strain on her brother’s face. He was a man who disliked debts; such a large one must sit uneasily on his broad shoulders. She felt an acute yearning for the old days, when he’d shared his burdens with her. When they’d been a team.

“Please let me help,” she blurted.

“Don’t worry your head over it, Em,” he said. “The agency is doing fine. Our clientele is expanding—we’ll keep the Hilliards happy.”

“But you could use an extra pair of hands. I know Strathaven’s case has taken up much of your time. I’ve been thinking,” she plunged on, “about ways I could contribute. For instance, if you’d give me a chance to interview his staff—”

“We’ve been through this. I don’t want you involved.” Though quiet, Ambrose’s tone possessed an edge of steely finality. “Especially with the Duke of Strathaven.”

“I—I’m not involved with him.” Her cheeks heated.

“I see the way he looks at you,” her brother said flatly. “He’s a rake, Emma, an unsavory sort. You’re too innocent to understand, but I assure you his intentions are not honorable.”

A foreign and mutinous urge crept over her to tell her brother that she not only knew what Strathaven’s intentions entailed, she’d already experienced them. Twice.

Instead, she bit her tongue and said, “I owe him, Ambrose. After how I misjudged him—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Frustrated, she stared at her brother. “You used to trust me.”

Surprise flickered in his amber eyes. “I do trust you. But this is men’s business, rife with danger. I won’t allow you to get hurt.”

“There’s nothing I can say to convince you to let me help?”

Why are you treating me like I’m useless?

“None at all, though I appreciate the offer.” He came over and patted her on the shoulder. “Run along, Em. I’m sure you can find something to do at home.”

* * *

Emma had never willfully disobeyed her brother before, and her heart and head were in turmoil as the hackney entered St. John’s Wood. She felt guilty over defying Ambrose, yet her sense of resolution was stronger. She knew that both he and Strathaven needed her help, and she couldn’t stand by wringing her hands. She was a Kent, after all.

In this case, she would have to act first, apologize later.

Follow the wisdom of your heart.

That advice brought her to Alaric’s “cottage,” a luxurious Italianate villa nestled within a bucolic setting of woods and flowering plants which seemed a world away from the city. As the hackney rolled up the long drive, she observed the privacy afforded by the towering trees and hedges.

When she rang the bell, a woman in her middling years answered. Her black taffeta dress and firmly secured knot of grey hair announced her as the housekeeper.

“How may I help you, miss?” she said.

“I am Emma Kent.” Squelching her guilt, Emma handed over the business card she’d filched from Mr. Hobson’s desk on her way out from the office. “Kent and Associates was hired by His Grace to investigate the matter of Lady Osgood.”

Frowning, the good lady looked at the card, then at her.

Emma assumed her most professional expression.

“Those gentlemen from your firm were here earlier this week,” the housekeeper said.

“I’m following up,” Emma improvised. “I have a few more questions.”

The woman scrutinized her for a few more moments before standing aside. “I am Mrs. Millbury, the housekeeper, and I’ve already told the gentlemen what I know about Lily Hutchins, which is very little. If you must, however, you may speak to the maids again.”

Emma could barely contain her excitement. “Thank you, Mrs. Millbury.”

She was brought to wait in a salon, which had been decorated with an exotic flair. Bronze bamboo-patterned silk covered the walls, and the furnishings were upholstered in a rich shade of Oriental blue. The overall feeling was one of decadence. Thinking of the guests Alaric must entertain here, Emma felt her chest tighten with a foreign feeling ... jealousy?

Surely not. She had no attachment to him, no claim.

You’re here to find a murderer. So focus.

Two maids entered, a plump brunette and a ginger-haired girl. Both bent their knees.

“Good mornin’, Miss Kent.” The brunette was bran-faced, with dimpled cheeks that hinted at a jolly disposition. “Mrs. Millbury said you wanted to speak wif us?”

“Yes, Miss …?”

“I’m Jenny.” Clearly the leader, the brunette jerked her chin at her companion. “And this ’ere is Gretchen.”

Gretchen ducked her chin shyly.

“Won’t you both sit down?” Emma said.

“Don’t mind if I do.” Jenny plopped herself on the divan while Gretchen perched on its edge.

Taking the adjacent wingchair, Emma pulled out a pencil and notebook from her reticule. “I understand that both of you knew Lily Hutchins. Would you describe her to me?”

“Ash-blond ’air, ’azel eyes, the kind o’ female gents take notice o’, if you catch my meaning.” Jenny snorted. “Lily started work ’ere about a month ago, but as I told the other investigators, she was too hoity-toity to rub shoulders with the likes o’ me and Gretchen. Myself, I wouldn’t be surprised if she were the one that done the poisoning.”

“Why do you say that?” Emma said swiftly.

Jenny tapped her temple. “I know people, miss. Worked in more than a few ’ouseholds in my time, and there was somefin’ not right ’bout Lily.”

“What wasn’t right about her?”

“She didn’t know things, for starters. Once, I caught ’er using silver polish on a copper pot.”

“When a dash of salt and lemon juice would have sufficed,” Emma said, her brow scrunching. Any housemaid ought to know that.

Jenny gave her a woman-to-woman look. “’Xactly. Lily made plenty o’ other mistakes, too, but got away wif it on account o’ ’er charms. ’Ad Billy—’e’s the second footman—running in circles doing ’er chores.”

“Do you think Billy might know her whereabouts?”

“Nah.” Jenny rolled her eyes. “’E was just a pigeon and didn’t know ’e were getting plucked. Cried like a babe, ’e did, when Lily up and left.”

“Did she mention any places she frequented, anywhere she might have gone?”

Jenny shook her head. “Quiet as a clam, that one. Lily ne’er breathed word ’bout ’erself.”

“Actually … she did mention something once,” a timid voice said.

Emma’s gaze shot to the other maid, whose cheeks now matched the color of her hair.

“Why didn’t you mention it before?” Jenny demanded. “To the master or the investigators?”

“I couldn’t say it in front o’ gentlemen. It’s embarrassing,” Gretchen mumbled. “Besides, I’m certain it isn’t important.”

“Anything you remember could be helpful, Gretchen.” Emma gave her a reassuring smile. “Please, I’d like to hear it.”

Fingers twisting her skirts, Gretchen said haltingly, “Me and Lily, we were cleaning up ’Is Grace’s bedchamber this one time. Suddenly, she curses—on account o’ snagging ’er stocking, you see. Since it was just us two, she pulled up ’er skirts to take a closer look, and bless me, if my jaw didn’t drop at what I saw.”

Emma’s spine tingled. “What did you see?”

“’Er stockings, miss. Made o’ the finest silk they were, with clocking that stretched from calf to knee.” The girl’s eyes were as big as dinner plates. “She must have seen me staring, for a strange smile came over her face, and she said, I’ll bet a little maid like you hasn’t ever seen something so pretty in all your life, have you? I told ’er, No, Lily, I ’aven’t. And then she … she showed me something else.”

“Yes, Gretchen?” Emma leaned forward.

The maid bit her lip. “She made me promise to keep it a secret.”

“If she’s a murderer, you best not be keeping ’er secrets,” Jenny said in stern tones.

In a small voice, Gretchen said, “She let me see … ’er petticoat. Lord, it was beautiful.” Her voice hushed with wonder. “Embroidered with bumblebees and vines and all sorts o’ fancy flowers.”

Emma’s pulse sped up. What was a maid doing with such expensive undergarments?

“Do you know where Lily got the petticoat and stockings?” Emma said.

“Come to think o’ it, she did mention a name.” Concentration lined Gretchen’s forehead. “When I said ’er petticoat looked fit for a queen, Lily laughed and said, ’Tis a king’s ransom Madame Marieur charges, but for me, she offers a special discount.”

Madame Marieur. A lead.

With thrumming excitement, Emma said, “Can you recall anything else, Gretchen?”

“That’s it, I swear. I—I didn’t think talk o’ undergarments was important.” The maid’s bottom lip trembled. “Am I in trouble, miss?”

“On the contrary, you have been extraordinarily helpful,” Emma said. “My thanks to both of you, and now I must take my leave.”

Because she had a suspect to find—and a trail to follow.