The next morning found Emma in the carriage with her brother. They were on their way to Silas Webb’s tenement in Whitechapel, and the very fact that she’d been included on the excursion filled her with happiness.

“Thank you for bringing me along, Ambrose,” she said.

Her brother shifted his gaze from the window to her. “I’m still not certain that it was a good idea. But I seem to have little choice about it.”

Guilt needled her insides. She’d campaigned rather fiercely to be included. “Ambrose, I—”

“I cannot very well exclude our most successful investigator from the case, can I?”

It took a moment for his words to sink in. For her to recognize the faint smile in his golden eyes. “Do you mean that? Truly?” she said.

“I can’t deny the facts, Em. You got information from Strathaven’s maids and those theatre folk that I could not. You are undoubtedly skilled.”

Joy bubbled through her. “Thank you, Ambrose.”

“You’re welcome.” His smile faded a little. “I want you to know, however, that it was never your ability that I doubted. I’ve always known how capable you are, Emma.”

“If you’re worried because of the danger, I’ll take every precaution—”

“Even if you do, I’ll always be concerned. I can’t help it. I’m your brother.” Ambrose studied the pleat on his trousers. “The truth is there’s another reason as well.”

“Because it’s not proper for a female to be an investigator?” she guessed.

Her brother gave her a wry look. “When has a Kent ever cared about convention?”

He had a point.

“What is it then?” she asked.

“Do you recall the time you came to London on your own? When the cottage caught fire, Father was ill, the family was about to be evicted, and you somehow made it here to get help?”

“I remember.” How could she forget? It had been an adventure, terrifying and thrilling. “But why do you bring it up now?”

“You were only sixteen, Em. You should never have gone through that.”

His quiet vehemence startled her.

“It couldn’t be helped,” she said. “I did what needed to be done.”

“Had I earned a better living, been able to take better care of the family, you would have been spared that ordeal.” His jaw clenched. “It was my job to protect all of you.”

Looking at her brother’s face, she saw how genuinely earnest he was.

“You did everything you could,” she protested. “You were working yourself to the bone to support us all. Ambrose, you cannot possibly blame yourself.”

“Marianne tells me the same. Logically, perhaps it is true. But here,”—he placed a hand over his heart—“here I’ll always wish that I’d done better. Especially for you, Em.”

Her throat thickened. She’d had no idea that her brother had carried this burden.

“This is why I want you to have the freedoms, the choices you missed out on as a girl,” he said quietly. “I want you to be happy.”

“I am,” she said tremulously.

Her brother hesitated. “With Strathaven?”

She nodded.

He sighed. “I cannot say I like the man, but I will admit that I may have misjudged him in one regard. The other night, he risked his own life to save McLeod.”

When Ambrose went on to describe Alaric’s heroics during the capture of Palmer, it didn’t surprise Emma one bit. Nor did the fact that Alaric had made no mention to her of his own valiant behavior. One of her father’s sayings echoed in her head.

Virtue doesn’t call attention to itself; it is its own reward.

“Strathaven is a good man,” she said when her brother finished, “but a little complicated.”

“A little?”

Tentatively, she said, “Do you think you could bring yourself to like him?”

“Does it matter?”

“I want you to like him. To like each other,” she admitted.

A pause.

“If that is what will make you happy, then yes, Emma,” Ambrose said gently. “I will try.”

Her heart swelled. “You see, big brother? You’ve always done your best by us. By me.”

Ambrose gave a gruff nod, and she caught the sheen in his eyes before he turned back to the window.

Soon thereafter, they arrived in a part of town she’d never visited before. As they drove through the Whitechapel slums, her heart constricted at the weary resignation she saw on the sooty faces of women and babes dressed in rags. Their carriage stopped in front of dingy tenements, and they were met by Alaric, Mr. McLeod, and a coterie of guards.

Alaric bowed to her, his gaze as possessive as any touch.

“Hello, Miss Kent,” he murmured. “Recovered from your adventure last night?”

She knew that he referred not to the ball itself but what had transpired in the gallery.

“As a matter of fact,” she said, “I feel quite invigorated.”

His lips curved.

“We’ve scouted the place,” Mr. McLeod said brusquely, “and secured the perimeter. We can start questioning the neighbors. Miss Kent, Cooper and I will escort you.”

“As will I,” Alaric said.

Knowing the brothers’ combative relationship, Emma winced at Alaric’s peremptory tone. To her surprise, however, Mr. McLeod’s face split in a grin.

“Never thought I’d see the day. Ach, but you’re a McLeod through and through, brother.”

Alaric gave him a stony stare. “Meaning?”

“Meaning we Scotsmen stake our territory and don’t give up what’s ours.” Mr. McLeod buffeted his brother in the shoulder with enough force to knock any other man off his feet.

Although Alaric didn’t budge, color washed over his high cheekbones.

“If you’re done flapping your lips, Peregrine, let’s get on with it,” he muttered.

“Gladly, Your Grace.” Mr. McLeod was still grinning.

Emma marveled at the lighthearted banter. Recalling what Ambrose had told her in the carriage, she wondered if Alaric’s selfless act had triggered the healing of old wounds.

“Miss Kent?” Alaric offered his arm.

As they moved toward the tenements, she murmured, “Are things all right? With you and Mr. McLeod, I mean?”

Alaric hesitated. In a low, bemused voice, he said, “Aye. I think they may finally be.”

The team split into several groups, going door to door through the tenements. The most common response to their enquiries was a suspicious glare, accompanied by some variation of, “I mind me own business and don’t know nothin’.” A few inhabitants spouted tales that were obviously fabricated, based on a desire for reward money rather than reality. And no one seemed surprised or concerned by the fact that one of their neighbors had been found dead.

After an hour of fruitless canvassing, Emma found herself back on the first floor by Webb’s apartment. She idly surveyed the dusty street. The other side was almost a mirror image of the one she was standing on, with tenements directly across the way. A movement caught her eye: laundry fluttering on a line, the whiteness of the linen a stark contrast to the dirty exterior of the building.

On a hunch, she put a hand on Alaric’s sleeve. “Let’s go over there. To the tenement with the clean laundry.”

“See something, pet?” he said.

“Call it an intuition.”

“That’s more than anything else we’ve got thus far,” he said wryly.

Accompanied by Ambrose and Mr. McLeod, they went over and knocked. From within came the squeals of children and a dog barking, the scent of simmering food. A minute later, the door opened, revealing a sturdy matron with rosy cheeks and clothes that were old and darned but washed and pressed. Her cap sat neatly atop salt and pepper curls.

“Whate’er you’re peddlin’, I ain’t buyin’,” she said.

“Pardon, ma’am.” Ambrose doffed his hat. “We’re investigators looking into a matter concerning a man who lived across the street—”

“Don’t know ’im, an’ don’t want to know ’im. Now I got a pepper pot o’er the fire an’ no time for palaverin’—”

“Excuse me, ma’am.” Nudging her way forward, Emma dropped a curtsy. “My name is Miss Kent. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”

“Mrs. Gibney’s the name,” the woman said reluctantly.

“We’ll only take a few minutes of your time. And I’d be happy to compensate you for it,” Emma said. “If you’d rather, I can come in and talk with you while you attend to the stew. The gentlemen can wait outside.”

The woman frowned, but her gaze went to Emma’s reticule. “Compensate?”

“Say, five pounds?” Emma said.

The woman’s eyes grew big. “How do I know you’re not pullin’ my leg?”

Opening her reticule, Emma counted out five sovereigns and offered them. “Here you go. Now may I come in?”

“You’re supposed to give the money after you receive the information,” Mr. McLeod muttered from behind her.

The woman, who had stretched her hand toward the money, now snatched it away as if burned. Glaring at the Scotsman, she said, “I ain’t a thief. If that’s what you’re suggestin’, you can take your blunt an’—”

“No one’s suggesting such a thing, Mrs. Gibney,” Emma said quickly. “The money is for your time, fair and square. Please take it.”

Finally, the woman relented. Pocketing the coins in her apron, she waved Emma inside.

Alaric followed.

Mrs. Gibney blocked his path. “The miss said only she was to come in.”

“I’m not leaving her alone,” Alaric said. “Kindly step aside, madam.”

Something in his tone made even the assertive matron back down. The three of them entered the cramped space, which consisted of one main room where a tangle of children were playing with a puppy. Despite its small size, Emma noted how lovingly the home was kept and how clean and well-nourished the little ones were. A cracked vase of wildflowers and herbs adorned an all-purpose table on which fresh vegetables lay ready for chopping.

All of this fit with what she’d deduced about Mrs. Gibney. This was a proud, hard-working woman, one who might not trust strangers, but who would not lie to them. One who believed cleanliness was next to Godliness—and if the whiteness of her linens was any indication, that meant she had to be out of doors often, hanging up and taking down the laundry before it got dirty again from the sooty air and muck from the streets.

Ergo, this would put Mrs. Gibney in frequent, front and center view of Silas Webb’s dwelling.

“Who’re they, Ma?” A boy of six or seven trotted up to them.

“Mind your manners, Tommy,” Mrs. Gibney scolded.

“I’m Miss Kent,” Emma said, smiling at the child, “and this is the Duke of Strathaven.”

“A duke? In our ’ouse? Pull me other leg, miss,” Tommy scoffed, “it’s shorter.”

“Manners,” his mother said. “Go play with your brothers and sisters or start scrubbin’ the chamber pots—’tis your choice.”

Tommy scampered off to the former option.

“You have lovely children,” Emma said sincerely, “and keep a lovely home.”

“It ain’t Carleton House,” Mrs. Gibney snorted, “but it’ll do.” She went to the hearth, stirred the black iron pot over the fire. “Now what do you want to ask me?”

Emma gestured at the vegetables on the chopping board. “Shall I?”

The matron shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

Aware of Alaric’s amused regard, Emma began to deftly slice the carrots and onions. “A man was found dead across the street,” she said. “His name was Silas Webb.”

“Don’t know ’im.”

“Perhaps not by name,” Emma acknowledged, “but he lived just across the way. In the tenement that directly faces yours.”

Mrs. Gibney said nothing and continued stirring.

“We’re looking for any information about him—in particular, any associates he might have had.” Emma started on the potatoes. “Webb was a villain, you see. He attempted twice to murder Strathaven here.”

Mrs. Gibney’s eyebrows inched toward her cap. “Murder, you say?”

“Aye,” Alaric said.

“Anything you might have noticed would be helpful. A man’s life is at stake,” Emma said.

Mrs. Gibney set her spoon down on the table. “Perhaps I did see a man visit there once.”

Emma’s nape tingled. “Yes?”

“Little o’er a week, it was. I was puttin’ up the washing, and a carriage drives up. A fine one like ’is.” Mrs. Gibney jerked her chin at Alaric—proving Emma’s theory that the matron didn’t miss much.

“Could you describe the carriage? Did it have any special markings?” Emma asked.

“It was black and shiny, that’s all I recall. A cart ’ad o’er turned that day, blockin’ the other side o’ the street, so the driver parked right in front o’ me place. Blocked out the sun, ’e did, and what was I supposed to do with all me wet things an’ no sun to dry ’em? Driver took no notice, o’ course.” Mrs. Gibney chuffed with indignation. “Just said to me, Be off—as if I should leave me own ’ome so that Lord So-and-So could do ’is business in a public thoroughfare.”

“Did you get the gentleman’s name?” Emma said eagerly.

Mrs. Gibney shook her head. “But I didn’t trust that driver worth a farthin’. Kept me eye on the carriage from me door—an’ that’s when I saw a man come runnin’ across the street. From that tenement you mentioned.”

“What did the man look like?” Alaric said tersely.

“Short. Black ’air, meat on ’is bones. An’ spectacles.”

“Silas Webb,” Alaric confirmed.

Trying to contain her excitement, Emma said, “What else did you see, Mrs. Gibney?”

“Well, the carriage door opened, an’ I think the nob inside ’ad yellow ’air—but I only got a glimpse, mind you, before that Webb fellow climbed right in an’ shut the door. The curtains were pulled so I didn’t see what they were up to. ’Bout ten minutes later, Webb comes out, and I ’ear ’im say,”—Mrs. Gibney’s forehead scrunched—“I’ll take care o’ Palmer. You handle Billings.”

Emma could scarcely breathe as pieces of the puzzle fell together. Palmer. Billings.

“That Webb fellow went back to ’is place an’ the carriage took off wif the nob inside.” Mrs. Gibney gave a decisive nod. “I ain’t got more to say than that.”

“You’ve been incredibly helpful, Mrs. Gibney,” Emma said. “Thank you.”

Shrugging, the matron peered over at the vegetables that Emma had prepared. “Thank you, missy. That’s as fine a chopping job as any.”

Alaric came forward and discreetly deposited a banknote on the table.

With a bow, he said, “Thank you for your time, madam.”

“Already paid me for it. We Gibneys don’t need charity.” It was a measure of the woman’s pride that she didn’t even glance at the amount of the bill.

Emma did, however, and her heart swelled at Alaric’s generosity.

“It’s a gift, Mrs. Gibney. For the little ones,” she said.

The matron hesitated, then gave a gruff nod. “I thank ye, then.”

Outside, Alaric and she were met immediately by the others.

“Well?” Mr. McLeod said. “Did you learn anything?”

“Indeed, thanks to Miss Kent’s ingenuity. Let’s talk in private,” Alaric said.

Once the four of them were inside the carriage, Emma blurted, “We have a new lead. Mrs. Gibney saw Silas Webb with a gentleman—blond, she thinks. She overheard Webb say that he would take care of the business with the shooter while our mystery man was to deal with Billings.”

“What sort of billings? Is our murderer a man of business?” Mr. McLeod said, his brow furrowing.

Emma frowned—then she understood. “I don’t think he was referring to the settling of accounts but to a person. Someone by the name of Billings.”

“What draws you to that conclusion, Em?” Ambrose said.

She told them about meeting Gabby Billings at last night’s ball. “It could be a coincidence, of course, but Gabby did mention that her father was a banker. And that she had been invited to the Blackwoods through some influential patron who owed her father a rather large favor.” As possibilities tumbled through her head, Emma bit her lip. “I do hope Gabby’s father isn’t mixed up in this. She’s a lovely girl.”

“’Tis as you always say, Kent,” Mr. McLeod said. “Follow the money.”

“Let us pay the banker a visit,” Alaric said.