“No, indeed,” Victoria replied. Unless you counted the pile of ash that had poofed all over her bedchamber. She kept a bit of it in a small container on her dressing table. “But we had a burial service anyway . . . and, forgive me, but I cannot recall if you were in attendance?”

“Oh, no, I’m so sorry, my dear lady, but we had already repaired to the Country by then. Grouse season.” Lady Breadlington had the grace to look abashed, which had exactly been Victoria’s intention.

Most of the twenty or so women who crowded the Grantworth parlor were not close friends of Victoria’s mother. They were here because they couldn’t stand not to be the first to see the infamous Lady Rockley, who’d married, shockingly, for love, and whose husband had died tragically little more than a month after their wedding. And who hadn’t been seen in Society since, even after her year of mourning.

“Odd,” grumbled elderly Lady Thurling, her shiny, knobby fingers closed over the top of her walking stick, “last time I saw Lord Rockley, he claimed he would attend my granddaughter’s wedding in four days, and yet two days later”—she paused to catch a wheezing breath—“sets off on a voyage without his new wife. And never comes back.” She glared at Victoria with watery blue eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

She’d said exactly what had been on everyone’s mind.

Victoria made what she hoped was a sad smile. “Yes, indeed, it was tragic. He was called away and hardly had the time to say good-bye, and I . . . well—”

“We thought at the time Victoria was in no condition,” Lady Melly interrupted with a properly sad smile of her own, “to go with him.”

There was a small chorus of sympathetic gasps, and then eyes became rounder and hands began to grasp at and pat Victoria’s, and even a nose or two—the pointiest ones—tinged a bit red on the tips.

Nothing could have been further from the truth, except that it had been Lady Melly’s baseless hope, but Victoria was delighted to have the conversation rerouted. She glanced surreptitiously at the watch pinned to Lady Thurlington’s dress. It was the only one large enough to read from across the tea table, but it was fastened upside down so that the elderly lady could look down and easily read it.

Half past three. She’d been here only an hour.

Victoria endured another twenty minutes of sly queries and sympathy coated more thickly than the iced basil cakes before the opportunity for escape presented itself.

“A turn around the park?” she said. “Why, Mr. and Miss Needleton, I should greatly enjoy that.” She was up and out of her seat before her mother could protest.

Mr. and Miss Needleton—a brother and sister—and their other companion, Miss Durfingdale, were the only visitors who had not been overly inquisitive, and were also in close proximity to Victoria’s own age of twenty.

When Lady Melly opened her mouth—surely to argue—Victoria surged forward to hug her, effectively smothering anything she might have said. Her nostrils filled with the sweet yet comforting milk rose scent her mother always wore, she whispered, “I heard Mr. Needleton has more than forty thousand a year.”

Lady Melly stiffened under her hands, but when she pulled away, Victoria saw that her mother had a most calculating look on her face as she examined the unfortunate Mr. Needleton, whose squashed nose resembled anything but his name. Even though Victoria had inherited a generous income from both her husband and aunt, Lady Melly was of the mind that one could never have too much money. “Have a lovely time, my dear.”

As Victoria left the room, the last thing she heard was, “—so glad to see her get out with young people her own age. It’s been far too long, and—” The door closed, and she was with her new companions.

Victoria would have preferred driving her own curricle alongside the Needleton carriage, enabling her to divest herself of their company as soon as was polite. But Miss Needleton was to have none of it.

She was no more than a wisp of a girl, with flyaway hair of a nondescript brown, and soulful brown eyes. In addition, she had an excuse that made it impossible for Victoria to decline her request that she ride in the carriage.

“I knew Rockley when he was a young boy,” Miss Needleton said. “Perhaps if you sit next to me, I could tell you some stories about him.”

Curiosity won out, of course. Victoria climbed into the carriage with the help of Mr. Needleton, whose pale cheeks flushed with pleasure as their gloved hands skidded against each other. Smiling at him, and settling her day dress skirts so that they didn’t infringe upon his sister’s or Miss Durfingdale’s, she realized how easy it could be for her to slip back into this world. Perhaps too easy.

If her mother had her way, Victoria would be intent on finding a new husband in order to provide Lady Melly with grandchildren (and an heir to the Grantworth estates). Instead all she could think about was what that copper ring meant to Sebastian, and whether he meant to give it to the Venators, or keep it for some other reason. And how to find Max to tell him about Briyani. And what George Starcasset was doing here in London with Sarafina. And how she felt about Sebastian.

How she really felt about Sebastian. A warm flush spread through her. Whatever her feelings, it was clear that he made her skin tingle and her head light—even when he wasn’t around.

Victoria realized with a start that her hands had clasped tightly together, and that Mr. Needleton—ignoring his sister’s agenda for conversation—had been expounding quite profusely about the merits of a certain filly at the Derby, and why he expected she should take the cup.

The oaks and cottonwoods were thick and stately as the carriage turned past the stucco villas and into the Outer Circle of Regent’s Park. When Victoria and Phillip had driven through here, John Nash had just begun the park’s redesign. Though it wasn’t near completion, the park already showed his influence, with its sweeping pathways and havens for waterfowl.

“Miss Needleton,” Victoria said when the young woman’s brother stopped for a breath of air, “did you say that you were acquainted with my husband as a young boy?”

“Yes, my lady,” she replied. “His mother was a friend of my mother’s, and we spent two summers together when I was seven and he was perhaps thirteen. He was frightfully fond of raspberries, though his mother forbade him to eat any, for they gave him a terrible rash. I recall how he convinced me to go berry picking with him one day—”

Her story was interrupted as the carriage approached that of another high-strung vehicle. As was expected, the Needletons stopped in order to greet the others. It was Gwendolyn and her earl, Brodebaugh. He seemed vaguely attentive to his adoring fiancée, but kind enough to agree with her when she pressed him for his thoughts on the weather. This was the first time Victoria recalled meeting him—although, according to Gwendolyn, he’d attended the Straithwaite musical the summer of their debut. They exchanged pleasantries for a short time. When the Needleton carriage was ready to move on, another conveyance had approached, and the conversation was extended. Victoria waved to Gwendolyn as Brodebaugh drove away, wishing she’d invited herself to ride back with them, for she didn’t anticipate extricating herself any time soon.

For now that word had spread from carriage to rider to curricle that the Marchioness of Rockley was in the Needleton vehicle, everyone seemed to converge on their path.

Victoria’s mouth was tired of smiling and her palms were sore from the score of her nails biting through her cotton gloves. She was just about to suggest that they return to the Grantworth home when someone screamed.

They all turned to look toward the terrified cry, which had been cut off in a sort of bubbling way. It had come from the direction of a far distant clump of thick bushes and grass that had not yet been subjected to Mr. Nash’s attentions. Victoria bolted to her feet, causing the carriage to sway—but she caught herself before she hurtled out of the vehicle like a madwoman. Miss Needleton looked up at her in astonishment, for apparently it had never occurred to her that she might be of assistance.

Of course it wouldn’t. Women of the ton let everything be done for and about them. Victoria remained standing, however, as Mr. Needleton and several other men leaped from their vehicles, dashing toward the cry of distress.

“Oh, my,” Miss Durfingdale squeaked rather belatedly, and Victoria, who had nearly forgotten her existence, looked at her in surprise. Was she knocked for six by the scream, or the equally amazing speed at which the men had moved?

“Perhaps they may need assistance,” Victoria said, lifting her skirts to climb carefully down from the carriage— an unusual feat for a woman, but one that she was well accustomed to performing. “If she is in distress.”

Miss Needleton’s mild protestations ringing in her ears, Victoria hurried as quickly as she could through the tall grasses in the wake of the men. As soon as she was out of sight of the carriage, she thrashed through the brush, heedless of her new muslin day dress, and found herself running down a small incline. At the bottom, a creek trickled beneath scattered trees. Ahead of her, she heard the men running and calling to each other, but she remained silent as she ran pell-mell down the creek bank. There’d been no other cries from the victim, and at last Victoria came to a rushing halt when she reached the small stream.

Panting, she looked around for some sign of trouble, but saw nothing but dappled sunlight over the smooth stones scattered in the creek. Just then, a splash of pink caught her attention behind a massive, felled tree trunk.

It took her only a moment to reach the crumpled figure, and when she did, Victoria gasped in shock. Blood spattered the grass around her, staining the pink gown that had caught her attention. When she turned the young woman over, Victoria stared down at the horror.

The victim’s bodice had been torn away, and the flesh of her chest and over her collarbones was marked with three large Xs, gouged into her skin. Fresh blood seeped through the fabric and oozed from her wounds. But what caught Victoria’s attention were the four small marks on the girl’s blue-white neck.