But that was hardly his concern.

The wherryman caught at the dock, pulling the small boat close enough to fling a rope over one of the wooden posts on the side.

“We’re here, my lady,” Trevillion said to Lady Phoebe, although she probably knew from the lurch of the boat. “There’s a ladder to your right, just past the gunwale of the boat.”

He watched as she felt for the rough wooden ladder with her fingertips.

“Now take my hand, my lady.” He lightly pressed against her forearm so she’d know where his hand was.

“I have it,” she said impatiently, taking his hand nevertheless as she gingerly climbed out.

He made sure to hold her firmly until she was standing on the dock. He followed as swiftly as possible, despite being hampered by both lame leg and cane.

“Wait for us,” he ordered the wherryman, tossing him a coin.

“Aye,” the wherryman muttered, pulling his broad-brimmed hat over his face as he lounged back in his boat. No doubt he meant to fill the time with a nap.

“This way, my lady,” Trevillion said to Lady Phoebe, giving her his left arm. He leaned heavily on his cane with his right hand. A crude path had been cleared, leading from the dock into the garden, but debris still littered the ground. “Mind your step. The ground is uneven.”

She turned her head from side to side as they walked, sniffing the air. “It still smells quite strongly of the fire.”

“Indeed,” he replied, guiding her around a charred lump—perhaps a fallen tree, though it was hard to tell. “The ground is blackened and what trees remain are scorched.”

“How sad,” she murmured. “I did so love this place.”

Her brows were knit, her plump lips drooping.

He cleared his throat. “There are a few signs of rebirth,” he remarked, feeling a fool even as he said it.

She perked up. “Such as?”

“Some green blades of grass. And the sun is shining,” he said lamely. He caught sight of something. “Ah. There’s a sort of small purple flower off to the left as well.”

“Is there?” She brightened. “Show me.”

He took her hand and carefully pulled it down to the pathetic little flower.

She felt it so gently the petals weren’t even bruised.

“A violet, I think,” she said at last, straightening. “I’d pick it to smell, but with so few survivors I don’t want to steal it away.”

He forbore to say that one violet hardly made a garden.

She sighed as they continued. “Very few signs of rebirth indeed. I wonder how Mr. Harte will ever rebuild it?”

Privately he thought the matter a lost cause, but he decided not to share that thought with her.

They were nearing the theater and Trevillion frowned. He’d not thought this out well enough. He hadn’t made specific plans with Lord Kilbourne about where or when to meet. The man might be anywhere.

When they came within sight of the theater, however, his problem was solved. Lord Kilbourne was digging a hole some yards from the theater while a small dark-haired boy sat nearby, apparently chatting with him.

Trevillion felt his brows lift. Where had the boy come from? There were no residences for a half mile at the least in any direction.

The boy had a small, thin dog lying curled at his side, and the creature raised its head at their approach. In a blur it was up and racing over, yapping wildly.

Trevillion scowled at the beast. It was jumping excitedly at Lady Phoebe’s skirts. “Down, you.”

“Oh, Captain, I don’t think I need be protected from a lapdog,” Lady Phoebe said, and before he could ascertain if the animal was friendly or not, knelt before the thing.

Immediately it began pawing at her and licking her face.

Lady Phoebe laughed, hands outstretched, but the dog was too excited to hold still so she might pet it. Her round face was positively lit with joy. “What kind is it?”

“I don’t know,” he replied, looking away from her. “Something small, thin, and hysterical.”

“Daffodil’s an Italian greyhound,” the boy said, having trotted after his dog. “You can pet her if you like. She doesn’t bite, although,” he added, entirely unnecessarily, “she does lick.”

“I can feel that,” Lady Phoebe replied, smiling. Her face was tilted toward the sky. “I once had a friend who had an Italian greyhound. What color is she?”

“Red,” the boy said, adding with the frankness of the young, “can’t you see?”

“Lady Phoebe is blind, boy,” Trevillion said sharply.

His charge winced and turned a glare on him, which was quite effective, unseeing or not.

The child shrank back at his tone, and Trevillion noticed his eyes were mismatched: one blue, one green. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“There’s no need to be,” Lady Phoebe said gently. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Indio,” he said. “That’s Caliban, my friend”—he pointed to Lord Kilbourne, which made Trevillion’s eyebrows rise farther—“and my mama is in the theater.”

Lady Phoebe turned her head at that as if she could look about. “We’re near the theater?”

“Yes.”

“But I thought the theater burned?”

“Well it did, mostly,” Indio replied. “But part of it’s good. That’s where we live.”

Her brows knit. “You live here?”

He nodded, apparently having already forgotten that she couldn’t see him. “My mama is a famous actress. She’s Robin Goodfellow.”

“Is she?” Lady Phoebe breathed, evidently delighted. “Might I meet her? I’m a great admirer.”

And within minutes Lady Phoebe had somehow become fast friends with Miss Goodfellow and was taking tea with her at a table brought out to the garden.

“Did… they already… know each other?” Lord Kilbourne asked.

He and Trevillion had taken themselves far enough from the theater that they couldn’t be heard by the ladies, but were close enough for Trevillion to keep an eye on his charge. Kilbourne had glanced once at his cane and suggested a fallen log to sit on. Trevillion had been too grateful for the respite for his leg to worry about his pride.

Somehow, in the days since Trevillion had seen him, the viscount had miraculously regained the power of speech, though his words were slow and his voice quite rough. There was a story there, Trevillion knew, but it didn’t concern him at the moment.

“Not at all,” Trevillion said, watching as Lady Phoebe laughed at something Miss Goodfellow told her.

“You’re sure.”

“Quite.”

“Simply… marvelous,” Kilbourne muttered, sounding nonetheless confused. His gaze, Trevillion noticed, lingered a fraction too long on the actress.

“If you say so, my lord.”

The other looked at him at that and Trevillion noticed that the viscount was sporting a series of new scratches across his face.

“I do,” Kilbourne replied coolly. “I collect… you have some… information for me?”

Trevillion straightened. “Yes, my lord. I’ve made some inquiries into the histories and situations of your friends who died that night. Maubry, as you said, was destined to become a churchman. According to his remaining friends he had no enemies and wasn’t in debt, nor had he offended anyone in the months before his death. I think we may consider him a blameless victim.”

Kilbourne nodded, looking grim. He was watching the ladies again.

Trevillion turned to look as well, observing as Lady Phoebe discreetly felt the tartlet on her plate with her fingertips before taking a bite. She was very deft at living with her infirmity, he mused.

“Mr. Tate was indeed his uncle’s heir,” he continued. “At Tate’s death, a very distant cousin became heir and eventually inherited the uncle’s estate of some two thousand pounds per annum—not a fortune, but by no means an insignificant sum. However, the cousin in question lived in the American Colonies until only a year ago. While he might certainly have sent agents to murder his cousin, it seems, on the surface at least, unlikely.”

“I agree,” Kilbourne replied, sounding a little absentminded.

Miss Goodfellow was at that moment licking her lips of some tartlet crumbs.

Trevillion cleared his throat. “As for Smithers, the last man, there I did find something of interest.”

Kilbourne looked at him sharply. “How… so?”

“Unlike the rest of you,” Trevillion said, “he was in debt—and for quite a large amount, to a rather nasty sort—men running a gambling den in the stews of Whitechapel.”

“Then that was… it?” Kilbourne’s face was stoically blank.

“I don’t think so,” Trevillion said reluctantly. “His creditors didn’t recoup their money on his death, nor was it widely known that he owed them.” He shrugged. “Murdering Smithers along with two other gentlemen would’ve been a poor business decision, and these villains are, if nothing else, quite sharp men of business.”

A muscle in Kilbourne’s jaw flexed and he glanced away—for the first time not at Miss Goodfellow. “Then… you have nothing.”

“Not quite, my lord,” Trevillion replied softly.

Kilbourne merely stared at him stonily, as if he’d let hope seize his emotions too many times in the past to permit it free rein again.

Trevillion met his gaze and said bluntly, “Your uncle is in debt, my lord, to your grandfather, the earl’s, estate—and has been for at least a decade. If you inherit the title, I suspect he would find himself in a very awkward position, for he doesn’t have the monies to repay the estate. Had you died that night, he would’ve inherited the title—and the money that goes with it upon your grandfather’s death. He would never have to repay the debt and wouldn’t fear the courts or debtor’s prison.”

Kilbourne’s expression didn’t even flicker—proving that he was as intelligent as Trevillion had suspected. “But I… didn’t die. Instead… apparently I… was drugged.”

“Think,” Kilbourne murmured low, for if what he suspected was true, they had a powerful man as an enemy. “Had you been murdered then, had not a common thief or some such been apprehended, your uncle, as the next heir to the earldom, would’ve been the natural suspect. But if you were drugged and your friends killed instead, you are made the murderer, and must perforce be brought to justice—and the hangman. A scandal, surely, but in no way your uncle’s fault—and with the same result as if he’d murdered you himself: your death. It was,” he added thoughtfully, “a rather elegant scheme, you must admit, my lord.”

“You’ll… forgive me if… I don’t,” Kilbourne replied drily. “I would’ve… been dead these four years… had not my distant… cousin, the Earl of… Brightmore not been so horrified… at the thought of a relation… of his being tried for… murder that he bundled… me away in Bedlam instead.” He paused, swallowing, after such a long speech. “Scant… comfort though… that was at the time. I think… I might’ve preferred… the noose.”

Trevillion reflected sardonically that he must be grateful, then, to Brightmore, for he’d saved Trevillion from indirectly sending an innocent man to his death.

“Why…” Kilbourne started, and then had to cough and clear his throat. “If your… theory is true, why… wouldn’t my… uncle have had me killed in Bedlam?”

“Perhaps he thought you would die there, my lord.” Trevillion shrugged. “Many do.”

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