In the Bow Street magistrate’s house, Jason learned that the magistrate’s findings declared Bart’s death a probable suicide because he was already desperately ill and in great pain. Dalby, the Bow Street runner, had lost interest in the case.

“It’s like finding a needle in a stack of hay,” he said. “Can’t afford to waste me time on it when there’s ready money to be made elsewhere.”

“I thought Lady Kinsey employed you,” Jason said, surprised but also relieved to have free rein to find the killer. Runners always looked for a lucrative job. Surely this was one.

Dalby’s expression turned sour. “Fired me. Said she’d rather you dealt with it, milord. Feels it’s a delicate matter. Doesn’t want me upsetting the household.”

“Did you turn up anything?”

“A long shot, but it’s possible the tonic was tampered with before it reached Kinsey House. Bartholomew Smythe was known to enjoy a few ales at the Lamb and Flag in Westminster on his afternoons off. The innkeeper recalls him showing the bottle to the drinkers in the taproom.”

Jason took a hackney to the narrow brick two-story inn situated in Lazenby Court, a back lane off Rose Street, known for its bare-knuckle fighting.

In the lane outside the pub, two lady-birds in their shabby finery sidled up to Jason with hopeful smiles. He winked, shook his head, and entered the taproom. A blend of unpleasant odors greeted him in the damp air, hops, smoke, and unwashed bodies. Jason wondered what the attraction such a place had for Bart. Perhaps just the fellowship he’d enjoyed in the army. A lone sailor sat in a corner, staring forlornly into his ale.

“Bart was in high dudgeon that evening, milord. Eager to draw someone’s cork,” the innkeeper said, running a cloth over the tables. His broken nose, muscled chest, and tattooed, beefy forearms revealed a history of bare-knuckle boxing and time spent in the Navy. “Picked an argument with some cove.”

“What did the man look like?”

“Eh? Big dark-haired bruiser. Not one of me regulars. I had to separate the two of ’em in the end.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Pluck to the backbone was Bart. Wanted to prove he could win a fight with one arm. He accounted for himself well with an excellent right hook. Drew quite an audience. But while they was sorting it out, he’d left his tonic bottle on the table, and it got knocked over. Didn’t spill, but anyone could have got at it with everyone watching the fight.”

Jason shook his head. “Hardly likely to carry arsenic around on them.”

“But they wouldn’t have to, milord. I keep it here.” He gestured with his thumb at the cupboard door behind him. “Use it to get rid of the rats. It’s common knowledge.”

“Do you think any of them were likely to do Bart in with arsenic?”

He paused then shook his head. “They’d prefer using their fists or knives to poison. Poisoning’s a woman’s game.”

Jason nodded toward the door into the inn’s parlor, where the two women sat drinking. “Did Bart show any interest in the light-skirts?”

“Saw ’em approach him a few times, but Bart didn’t seem to be in the petticoat line.”

Jason took out some coins and placed them on the table. “Would you ask your regulars who witnessed Bart’s fight if they know what caused it? I’ll be back in a day or so.”

The innkeeper’s words stayed with Jason as he traveled home. He’d heard the view expressed that women favored poison. But he was sure Newgate had accommodated its fair share of male poisoners in the cells. Could Bart have come to grief at the hands of someone in the Lamb and Flag? As Dalby had suggested, it did seem to be a long shot.

Jason’s mood didn’t improve after he’d walked through the door. It seemed both his siblings were unhappy, although only one was unhappy with him, at least.

“You were to escort me to the art gallery today, Jas.” Lizzie glared at him as they drank a glass of wine before dinner. “But you had left when I came down to breakfast and have been gone all day.”

He’d become so caught up with finding Bart’s killer that he’d clean forgotten today was the day he’d promised to go to the exhibition. Unlike him to break a promise. He grimaced. It made him realize how involved he’d become with this investigation. “Lord, I’m sorry, Lizzie. Will tomorrow do?”

“I suppose it will, but the Baron did appear downcast by your indifference.”

“It wasn’t indifference. I’ve been caught up in something that demands my attention. A family in need, Lizzie.”

“The Kinseys, I know.”

Jason gave a bark of laughter. “How do you know?”

“I heard you giving directions to a hackney driver from my window, yesterday. So, unless it’s one of the Kinsey girls you wish to see, I gather it was business.”

He shook his head with a grin. “I’ll apologize to the baron. Though I don’t think my attendance would matter too much.”

“Oh, but it does. He often speaks of you.”

Jason raised his eyebrows. “Does he?”

“Yes, he’s always asking about you.”

“Asking what exactly?”

“Nothing in particular. You had told him you’d been to Italy, and he wished to know more about that. But I don’t know much about your trip, something to do with the government, wasn’t it? I was enjoying being married. Greywood was home on leave. I told the baron that you distinguished yourself under Wellington during the war.”

“How very dull for the poor fellow.” It occurred to him that Bianchi might be about to offer for Lizzie’s hand. The prospect didn’t please him as much as he’d hoped. “Does the exhibition go well?”

A faint line creased her brow. “I need to speak to you about that.”

The door opened, and Charlie stalked into the drawing room.

“After dinner,” Lizzie added.

Jason looked uneasily at her. “Very well.” He turned to eye his brother, who was scowling. “Good evening, Charlie.”

“I can’t see much that’s good about it.” Charlie took a glass of wine from Henry. “I only have a few weeks left before I must return to Oxford.”

“I thought you’d come to terms with going back.” Jason nodded his thanks to Fiske, who’d just decanted a fresh bottle of claret.

“I suppose I have, but I hoped to secure Amelia’s affections before I left.”

Jason took a good mouthful of wine, savoring the taste of black cherry, licorice, and spice before hearing the worst. “Not going well?”

“A fellow with a face like a trout escorted Amelia to the theater. And when I questioned her about it, she insisted that she’s free to go out with whomever she pleases.”

“But, Charlie, Miss Groton is quite correct,” Lizzie said gently. “You have no claim on her.”

“That’s because she keeps me at arm’s length.” A deep breath pushed out his chest. “Can’t understand it. Girls have shown a partiality for me in the past.”

“I’m sure they still do,” Lizzie said with a sympathetic smile. “But it’s possible this other man has more to offer. After all, you’ll be at university for another year, and after that, you’re to make your grand tour. You can’t expect Miss Groton to wait so long for you.”

Charlie shook his head. “I’ve decided not to take the tour.”

“What? Have you thought it through, Charlie?” Jason was worried that his brother’s infatuation might cause him to make hasty decisions. “I had the best time of my life touring the Continent with a group of lads.”

A spark appeared in Charlie’s green eyes. “Wasn’t it a total bore, Jas?”

“Au contraire! Wine, women, and song.” Jason grinned. “Beg pardon, Lizzie.”

“That is not what the tour is meant to be about, Charlie. It is designed to turn you into a cultured gentleman.” Lizzie frowned at Jason and firmed her lips, but Jason didn’t miss the laughter in her eyes before she lowered her head over her wine glass.

After dinner, when Charlie had gone to meet a friend for a game of billiards, Jason and Lizzie settled in the library. He poured a glass of Madeira for her and port for himself. “What worries you so, Lizzie? Does it concern the baron?”

“Someone has accused him of selling a forged artwork.”

“Really? One in his collection? I wasn’t aware he intended to sell any of them.”

She traced a drop of condensation down her glass. “Neither was I, but it turns out that he does buy and sell paintings.”

“Which piece of work is it?”

“Come tomorrow and ask him. I believe it’s a drawing by Albrecht Dürer. The man is to bring it to the gallery.”

“Yes, of course. I’m no expert, but I’ll be interested to see it.”

Bianchi was entitled to buy and sell his paintings if he wished. What bothered Jason was the fact that the baron had misled him. He’d said it was his love of sharing his art collection with the world that had brought him to London. Might he be involved in fraud? Tomorrow he would take a closer look at the baron’s dealings.

 

***

Helen and Diana had spent several delightful hours shopping at Thomas’s Fashionable Warehouse at the West End corner of Chancery Row, near Temple-Bar, buying ribbons and hosiery, shawls, and fans. At Marchant & Co, in New Bond Street, with their wonderful display of leghorn hats, straw chips, and all manner of bonnets, Diana tried on a dark straw with a huge ostrich feather that dipped over her face. She posed before the mirror. “This is the latest thing. What do you think?”

Helen considered it far too old for her. “Too fussy. Simpler styles suit you best. I do like that gray-blue silk with the camellias around the brim for myself.”

Diana removed the hat and handed it to the saleswoman. “You’re right, Helen. Thank you, Miss Brown. “I’ll try that wide-brimmed straw.”

As the saleswoman went to fetch both hats, Diana turned from the mirror. “I believe Lord Peyton visited us again yesterday while I was in the music room with Master Benne.”

“Yes. Peyton is still searching for a reason for Bart’s death.”

Diana’s blue eyes clouded. “But why?”

Helen took a deep breath. “Peyton hasn’t discounted the possibility that Bart might have been deliberately poisoned.” As the investigation dragged on, she’d come to realize it was inevitable Diana would find out and, despite her mother’s warning, believed her sister had a right to know.

Diana gasped. “It wasn’t an accident?”

“Lord Peyton is unsure what occurred. But he will find out, have no fear.”

“But if Bart was deliberately poisoned, then the poisoner might still be amongst us.” She put a fist to her mouth. “Oh, how dreadful!”

Helen placed a hand on Diana’s shoulder. “The tonic might have been tampered with before Bart brought it home. We can’t be sure what the herbalist put in it.”

Diana sagged in the seat. “Yes, that seems far more likely. I can’t imagine anyone in Kinsey House would do such a thing.”

“I have every confidence in Peyton discovering the answer.”

Helen watched the saleswoman arrange the straw embellished with blue silk flowers and ribbons around the crown on Diana’s head. “My, that hat does suit you!”

“Yes, I do like it.” Diana turned her head from side to side.

Helen eased out a breath. As Diana’s ball grew closer, she did not want her sister caught up in the possibility of murder. But Diana was perceptive and intelligent. It would be hard to keep things from her.

Diana adjusted the hat. “What do you think of Lord Peyton? You’ve seen quite a lot of him of late.”

Diana’s casual inquiry didn’t fool Helen. No doubt her sister planned to dazzle the earl at the ball. “He seems a decent man.”

“Yes, that was my impression. Mama says he’s accepted the invitation, along with his sister and younger brother. I hope to dance with Peyton. Dancing with a man must tell you so much about him, don’t you think?”

“I imagine so.” Helen allowed herself a brief vision of the handsome earl, his arms around her guiding her over the ballroom floor as Miss Brown placed the gray-blue silk with the camellias on her head. “No, I don’t care for this. It’s a little drab,” Helen said.

“And much too old for you,” Diana observed.

“Dancing must be a little like making love.” Diana leaned forward to closely examine the stitching that held the blue flowers in place. “Mama said that after she danced with Papa she made up her mind to marry him.”

Miss Brown hovered with an emerald green poke bonnet in her hands, and her mouth dropped open.

“Hush.” Helen recalled her own horrible experiences at the hands of nasty gossips. “You would not want anyone to think you fast, Diana, before you’ve even stepped out into Society.” She glanced at Miss Brown, obviously bursting to relate the tale to the owner of the establishment. “I know we feel we can be quite comfortable here and can rely on the discretion of Madam Marchant and her staff. Is that not so, Miss Brown?”

“Oh, indeed it is,” Miss Brown said with a bob.

Helen smiled. “I believe we’ll take that lovely straw. And I do like that emerald green velvet. It will match my new pelisse perfectly. How very clever of you to bring it.”

Helen nodded her approval as Miss Brown arranged the bonnet over her hair. Diana’s interest in Peyton had not waned. Her sister was so vibrant and full of life. What man could resist her?

When they reached home laden with packages, the hatboxes piled up in Jeremy’s arms, Mama greeted them in the hall. She waved a letter. “Your father is delayed once again,” she said in a vexed tone. “Business has kept him in Liverpool. Some shipment has gone missing. But a consignment from Egypt arrived this morning. Mr. Thorburn is dealing with it in the library.”

“But Papa will be here in time for my ball?” Diana cried.

“As if your papa would miss that!” Mama wrapped an arm around Diana’s waist and led her into the morning room. She sat with her on the sofa while Jeremy brought in their shopping. “Show me what you’ve bought.”

Helen slipped away intent on going to the library while Mama and Diana examined their purchases and discussed fashion. Plato ambushed her in the corridor, and she swept him up. Mr. Thorburn, his face flushed, was on his hands and knees on the library floor as she entered, pulling straw out of several big boxes. Intriguing artifacts and other pieces unfathomable to her unpracticed eye lay on the carpet around him.

He looked up and blinked behind his glasses. “Oh, Lady Helen. Such things your father has sent home! They fair take my breath away!”

“Can I be of help, Mr. Thorburn?” As fascinated as he, Helen put the cat down. She yearned to travel to Eastern climes with her father and discover such things for herself. But Papa would never consider taking her. Not since the ball. She was bitterly aware that he viewed her as too nervous for such a venture. Even though it was no longer true. She had regained her strength and could tackle anything that came her way and could only hope that, in time, she could change his mind.

“I should be most grateful if you could help me to group them for cataloging,” Mr. Thorburn said. “Just a preliminary list at this stage, you understand.” 

“I shall be pleased to.” Helen sat behind the desk. As she selected pen and paper, she noticed a letter from Alexandro Volta at the top of the pile awaiting her father’s perusal. “Is Mr. Volta a friend of my father’s?”

Mr. Thorburn’s head whipped up, his features tight. He rose and came to the desk. “I don’t believe so. I meant to put that letter away.”

She watched as he took the letter and slipped it inside a leather-bound portfolio.

His shoulders relaxed, and he smiled as he returned to kneel beside the wooden crate. “Now, shall we begin?”

He began to pull out straw, murmuring with delight over the objects he found within the crate. He carefully placed a granite statue of a proudly erect cat on the floor beside him. “Bastet, protectress of cats. The Ancient Egyptians had great respect for the animals,” he murmured. “Killing a cat was punishable by death.”

“That should be an English law, too.”

He looked up and grinned. “Cats protected the grain from mice and rats. If a cat died, the family would mourn it by shaving their eyebrows.”

“I’m sure you would agree, wouldn’t you, Plato?” she asked the cat, who was flicking a piece of straw about with its paws.

She turned her attention back to Thorburn, hunched over the box. Why didn’t he wish her to see Volta’s letter? Might he be hiding something? Or did he think that she, as a woman, should not involve herself too deeply in her father’s work? She dabbed the pen in the inkwell and began to list the items when the secretary named them. But her pulse still raced. Perhaps the secrets she and Peyton sought resided in that portfolio. As soon as the secretary left the library, she would return.

When Thorburn left the house, Helen continued her examination of the portfolio. She was so intent on its contents she didn’t hear the door open, only sensed that someone had stepped into the room.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Helen. I thought the library was empty. One of the maids has lost her workbox. I’m sure she’d forget her head if it wasn’t attached to her neck.”

“I haven’t seen it here, Mrs. Chance, but please look around.”

The housekeeper’s gaze swept around the room. “No, not here.”

When the door closed again, Helen returned to the fascinating contents of the portfolio.