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He lay on a cot in a stained undershirt, a sheet pulled up to his waist. Despite the years since she had last seen him, she knew him immediately—he looked like Da, but for the silver hair. “Uncle Seamus.” Her knees gave out before she could lower herself gracefully to the floor, but she made it to him and gripped his hand.

No blood, praise be to the Lord.

But plenty of shouting now, from the outer room, and a flurry in her uncle’s room as well. It all blurred together. A cacophony, when all she wanted was a whisper from her uncle’s lips. Figures darting around her periphery, when all she wanted to see was the lifting of his eyes. “Uncle Seamus. Uncle, it’s me. It’s DeeDee. Are you all right? Speak to me, I beg you.” She said it over and over again.

Finally he blinked.

And then hands closed over her shoulders and pulled her away. She tried to shrug them off, to slap away the arms that turned her. Her struggle stopped cold when she caught sight of the Scotland Yard uniform on the man who held her.

His eyes were icy and hard. “Are you the one who found him?”

How had the police arrived so soon? Or
was
it soon? How long had she been on her knees, gripping her uncle’s hand, ignoring the buzz around her? “I . . . I came to see my uncle is all. The maid said the major was out. I . . . He’s sick. Uncle Seamus is sick.”

The officer’s hands gripped her tighter. “Were you the one to find the major?”

She wanted home. She wanted Hiram to put an arm around her. She wanted Lord Whitby to stalk up behind her and command this man to let her go. She wanted . . . she wanted to wake up and find this nothing but a nightmare to make her thrash about on her bed the way the baroness always did.

“Miss!”

“Yes.” Her eyes slid shut, and her knees felt weak again. “Yes, I found him.”

“You forced the lock?”

“What?” Her eyes opened again, though they refused to focus on him. “No, sir. It was unlocked. I turned the knob, is all. I . . . I wanted to see my uncle. The major was out, she said, and I heard him groan.”

His hands left her shoulders, and for a second she knew relief. Then he gripped her by the elbow instead and propelled her forward, out, into the buzz and cacophony. When he aimed her for the exit, she dug in her heels. “No! My uncle!”

“We’ll see to him. You need to come with me to the station.”

She nearly fell on the way down the stairs, earning her a curse from the officer—detective? He all but shoved her into the police carriage waiting outside, though then he left her in there alone for half of forever.

The other half was saved for the agonizing ride through the city.

Though when he hauled her into Scotland Yard as if she were a criminal, she began to wish the ride had lasted longer. He sat her down on a hard chair and positioned himself behind a desk. “Your name?”

“Deirdre O’Malley.” Oh, how her mum would be appalled to see her here now. She twisted her fingers around each other.

“Your uncle is the batman of Major Rushworth?” The
detective—there was a little board on his desk that labeled him as Detective Cole—scribbled something onto a page.

“Aye. Seamus O’Malley.”

“You’re unmarried?” He glanced at her with those beady eyes again.

“Aye. I’m in domestic service.”

“To whom?”

Oh, heaven help me.
Would they call Lord Whitby in? But then, the major was a relation of the baroness. They would be calling on them with the news at any rate. She sucked in a breath. “Lord Whitby and his daughter, the Baroness of Berkeley.”

Cole added that to his notes. “The Baroness of . . . wait.” Here he paused and looked up at her with, if it were possible, even less warmth. “Baroness Beauty?”

“So she’s been dubbed.” She leaned forward. “Please, sir. Will they take my uncle to the hospital, do you think? Which one?”

“Liller.” The detective flagged another fellow walking by in identical dress. “Ring up Lord Whitby. At . . . ?” He lifted a brow at Deirdre.

Her stomach knotted. She stuttered out Lady Ramsey’s direction.

Once the second chap bustled off, Cole shot question after question at her. Did she know Major Rushworth? Had she met him before? When was the first time? How well did she know him? What did she think of him? How long since she had seen her uncle? Did she honestly expect him to believe that his lordship had granted her two afternoons off to visit an ill relative?

“He is a kind and fair employer, sir, who understands the importance of family.
Yes
, he let me off again after I was turned away yesterday! If you don’t believe me—”

“Then ask me yourself.”

Deirdre spun on her hard wooden chair, never so grateful to see his lordship. And the baroness had come, too, and now
came to her chair and rested her hands on Deirdre’s shoulders. A show of support. A touch of comfort.

Tears stung the backs of her eyes.

The detective rose, but slowly. “Lord Whitby, I presume?”

His lordship didn’t stretch out a hand to shake. Rather, he folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes. “I would like to know why you’re interrogating my employee for visiting her uncle. Unless familial concern has been made illegal in my absence from Town, and no one thought to inform me of it.”

Cole’s lips pulled up in a hint of smile that dared to look mocking. “Your employee was at the scene of a murder, my lord.
First
at the scene, which more often than not denotes some involvement beyond happenstance.”

The baroness’s hands went lax on her shoulders. “Murder?”

The detective’s eyes flicked to Lady Berkeley and swept her up and down. Judging, though Deirdre couldn’t tell what verdict he came to. “Major Henry Rushworth was slain in his hotel room this afternoon.”

“No!”

“It can’t be.” Lord Whitby stepped closer to them. He kept his gaze on the policeman. “We just saw him this morning.”

“Did you now.” The detective sank back into his chair, that cynical little smile back in place. “Then have a seat, my lord. I have a few questions for you as well.”

Her father had lied to Scotland Yard—and Brook fully approved. He’d told them everything . . . except the small detail of the Fire Eyes. She stepped out into the sunshine and nearly stumbled back inside when a man with a pencil and pad sprang forward, another with a camera close behind.

Lovely.

She tucked a hand into her father’s arm and let emotion
wash over her face. A ballerina on a stage. A princess before an angry mob.

A baroness sitting across from a detective who quite obviously had a bone to pick with the gentry. He had all but salivated at the prospect of linking her and her father to a murder. Never mind that Papa had gone to the House of Lords again today directly after Major Rushworth left them—saying he needed time to think where no real concerns would distract him. Never mind that Brook had been surrounded from ten o’clock onward by no fewer than a dozen young ladies and gentlemen. Those facts wouldn’t have, Detective Cole had all but said, stopped them from hiring someone.

The reporter licked his pencil. “My lady! What are you doing at Scotland Yard? Is it true someone tried to attack you this morning after you were out riding?”

They had finally heard about that, had they? If months late . . . and a bit confused. She forced a sad, small smile to her lips when she would have preferred to storm by.

Where the press was, there was safety.

Please, Lord,
help me. Help me not to crumble. Keep us safe.
“No, I was not the victim of the crime today. My cousin, whom I met for the first time this morning, was murdered in his hotel room a few hours ago.” She blinked several times and touched a fingertip to the corner of her eye, though no tears had gathered. They may have, had the anger not been so strong.

Another person dead. And for what? Diamonds?

Papa slipped his arm around her. Deirdre remained hidden behind them.

The reporter scratched furiously at his pad. “Your cousin?”

“My mother’s cousin. Major Henry Rushworth.” She looked over her shoulder at Scotland Yard and heaved a sigh she hoped was worthy of the stage. “I dare not say more. I don’t want to hinder the detective’s investigation. Justice
must
be done.”

She had her doubts that it would be.

The camera flashed. Brook leaned into her father’s side before it could flash again. A unified front, sorrow in the slope of their shoulders. Were it a dance, she would have pointed her toe, arched her back, brought her arms into a low circle to complete the picture.

“Were you brought in for . . . for questioning?” The reporter’s eyes were wide.

Brook breathed a little laugh and tucked a stray curl under her hat. “No, no. We came in on our own the moment they called us. We must do anything we can to aid in the capture of my cousin’s killer. We wanted to make sure the police had all the information we did, scant as it is.”

Not that they had even known about the murder when they were told to come collect Deirdre . . . but her maid didn’t need the attention of the press.

“Rushworth.” The reporter tapped that line in his notes and looked up at her with raised brows. “He must be related to Lord Rushworth and Lady Catherine.”

“Their uncle.” She turned her face up toward her father. “We should pay them a visit, Papa. They will surely be even more distressed than we are.”

“We will, my dear.” His eyes applauded her. Then he nodded at the reporter. “If you’ll excuse us.”

They didn’t await an answer, just continued down the stairs with a measured step. Deirdre, Brook noted when she looked up, had slipped around them while they were distracting the reporters and waited at the car. She looked awful. Her face was pale, her eyes haunted, and she clasped her hands so tightly her knuckles were white.

“I have to see my uncle,” was her greeting when they joined her.

Brook reached for her hands. “Of course you do.”

“We’ll take you.” Papa opened the door and ushered them both inside, shielding them from the camera until the door had shut.

Brook settled beside Deirdre and kept ahold of her hands, which were cold and trembling. “We can go in with you too, if you want company. I wouldn’t want to be alone so soon after seeing what you did.”

Deirdre’s chin shook too. “Thank you. I would appreciate that.” She sniffed and lowered her head. “I wish Hiram were here.”

Brook squeezed her hands. She had seen them together a few times, knew they were close. “I’m sure he would want to be too.”

Papa cranked the engine to life and slid into the driver’s seat. Within the minute, they were pulling onto the busy streets, headed for a part of the city she had yet to see.

No one seemed inclined to talk, so Brook let her gaze drift to the window. Let the truth drift into her heart. She wanted Justin. With no front, no walls between them. She wanted to be able to rush into his arms, to kiss his cheeks, to cry on his shoulder if the tears chose to come. To tell him what the major had said that morning, what the Fire Eyes were . . . how everyone connected with them seemed to end up dead before their time.

She wanted to forget the anger, forget the questions, and just be Brook and Justin again.

Her fingers found the faux pearls and twisted them together. The irony of the long habit hit her anew, and she let her fingers fall. She needed the things gone—but Papa was right. They had to tread carefully. Too many people had already died, and if the Rushworths were responsible, they had to bring them to justice, not give them what they wanted.

For her mother. For the major.

Eventually her father pulled up in front of a large, dreary-
looking building stained with soot and time. Brook reined in her thoughts and gave Deirdre’s hand an encouraging squeeze. They all exited in silence, traversed the walk without a word, and only spoke once inside to learn which ward Seamus O’Malley had been taken to.

The hospital was utilitarian, the starkness unrelieved by color. Their shoes clicked loud against the tile floors. Brook and her father flanked Deirdre, and the maid darted a look her way.

“I’m so sorry for bringing this upon you.”

“It isn’t your doing.” Brook’s voice came out a whisper in the white corridor.

Deirdre shook her head. “It’s because of me you were called down there. Because of me the reporters saw you leaving.”

Papa sent encouragement from his gaze without the need to smile. “Circumstances that were outside your control. The only thing you did, O’Malley, was try to care for your uncle. There is no blame to be found in that.”

“The detective—”

“Will keep an open, unbiased mind about it all or will find himself out of favor with his superiors.” Her father’s face went hard. “I have never much cared for those who use their influence amiss—but there is no guilt for this in my house, and if Cole tries to find any, I
will
use whatever force I must to see justice done. And if my influence alone doesn’t suffice, we’ve two dukes in our corner.”

“At least one of whom would be eager for an excuse to let loose his temper.” Brook’s lips tugged up. Justin, with his Duke of Stafford glower, would be furious indeed when he learned how Cole had interrogated her. Even with all between them, she knew that.