“Come along, Maigdlin,” she said as she hurried to the street. “We’ll go and have some tea.”

“My name’s Mary, my lady,” the maid said, panting behind her. “Housekeeper should have told you.”

Eleanor set a brisk pace west along the Strand. “No, it isn’t, Maigdlin Harper. I know your mother.”

“But Mrs. Mayhew says I should go by Mary. So the English can pronounce it.”

“Absolute nonsense. Your name is your name, and I’m not English. I’ll speak to Mrs. Mayhew.”

The maid’s disapproving look softened. “Yes, my lady.”

“Now, let us find some tea and sandwiches. And heaps of seedcake. His Grace will pay for it all, and I intend to enjoy myself.”

The house in High Holborn looked the same as it had the night Angelina Palmer had died, the night Hart had walked out of it forever.

The house was to let, but none had taken it this Season, perhaps because it lay too far from fashionable quarters for the rent Hart was asking. Or maybe he’d set it so high because he truly did not want anyone here. The house should sit empty until its ghosts died.

Hart told his coachman to return for him in an hour. The town coach rumbled away, and Hart opened the front door with his key.

Silence met him. And emptiness. The downstairs rooms had been cleared of furniture, save for a stray piece or two. Dust hung in the air, the cold heavy.

He’d not wanted to come here. But Eleanor’s assertion that a clue to the photographs might be found in the house made sense. Hart did not trust anyone in his employ enough to confide in them about the photographs, and he certainly didn’t want Eleanor there, so he’d come himself.

As he climbed the staircase he’d lightly run up as a younger man, he fancied he heard whispers of laughter, the trickle of whiskey, deep voices of his male friends, the high-pitched chatter of ladies.

The house had at first been a nest for Angelina Palmer, when Hart had been proud to be only twenty and yet to have caught such a ladybird. The house had then become his refuge. Here, Hart had been master, his brutal father far from it. The old duke hadn’t even known of the existence of the place.

The house had also become a point of contact during Hart’s rising political career. Hart had hosted gatherings here in which alliances had been formed and plans made, which resulted in Hart now being at the head of his coalition party. Here, Hart had celebrated his first election to Commons at the tender age of twenty-two, he unwilling to wait until he inherited his seat in the Lords to start telling Parliament what to do.

Here, also, Angelina Palmer had lived to please Hart. When Hart’s friends had gone, and he and Mrs. Palmer were alone, Hart had explored the darker side of his needs. He’d been unafraid to experiment, and Angelina had been unafraid to let him.

Angelina at first had assumed that Hart, still at university, would be too young and inexperienced to prevent her from straying with whatever gentleman she wished. But when Hart discovered her transgressions, Angelina for the first time had seen Hart change from laughing, devilish rogue to the hard, controlling man he would become. Hart had looked her in the eye and said, “You are with me, and no other, whether I see you every night or once a year. If you cannot obey that simple stricture, then you will go, and I will advertise the vacancy of your position.”

He remembered Angelina’s reaction—irritation, then surprise, then shock when she realized he meant it. She’d humbled herself, begged his forgiveness, and Hart had taken his time about granting it. Angelina might be the older of the pair, but Hart held the power. Angelina was never to forget that.

Later, when Angelina had sensed that Hart was growing bored and restless, she’d brought in other ladies to keep him entertained. Anything, Hart realized now, to prevent him from leaving her.

Hart reached the first floor of the house, fingers skimming the banisters. The day Angelina had ruined his betrothal to Eleanor, Hart had quit the house and never lived there again. He’d sold it to Angelina—through his man of business—telling her to do whatever she liked with the place.

Angelina had turned it into an exclusive bawdy house that accepted only the best clientele, and had done very well out of it. Hart had returned for the first time five years later, right after Sarah’s death, seeking refuge from his grief.

Hart walked down the hall toward the bedroom where one of Angelina’s girls had died, his footsteps reluctant. Behind that door, he’d found Ian asleep and smeared with the young woman’s blood. He remembered his dry-mouthed terror, his fear that Ian had committed murder. Hart had done everything in his power to protect Ian from the police, but he’d let his deep-seated fear blind him for years as to what really had happened in that bedroom.

He shouldn’t have come here. The house held too many memories.

Hart opened the door to the bedroom, and stopped.

Ian Mackenzie stood in the middle of the carpet, gazing up at the ceiling, which was painted with nymphs and cavorting gods. A mirror hung on the ceiling, right over the place the bed used to be.

Ian stared up into the mirror, studying his own reflection. He must have heard Hart come in, because he said, “I hate this room.”

“Then why the devil are you standing in it?” Hart asked.

Ian didn’t answer directly, but then, Ian never did. “She hurt my Beth.”

Hart walked into the room and dared put his hand on his brother’s shoulder. He remembered finding Angelina with Beth, Beth barely alive. Angelina, dying, had told Hart what she’d done, and that she’d done it all for Hart. The declaration still left a bitter taste in his mouth.