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Papa nodded toward the door they’d been instructed to take. Inside were a row of cots filled with blanket-covered figures.
A few sat up with book or newspaper in hand, others seemed to be sleeping.

Brook touched a hand to Deirdre’s back to indicate she should lead the way.

Deirdre peered at each figure they passed, until finally she sucked in a breath and came to a halt. “Uncle.”

The man on the bed was pale as the moon with deep circles under his eyes, his skin wrinkled and cracked. His eyes fluttered open, though they stared up without recognition. “Who . . . ?”

His voice sounded faint, scratched. Deirdre reached for a cup of water and lifted his head to help him sip. “It’s Deirdre, Uncle Seamus. I’m here in London with Lord Whitby and heard you were here as well.”

“DeeDee.” His eyes focused upon Deirdre’s face. “All grown.”

“Aye. ’Tis been too long.” She settled a hand on his forehead. “You’re hot as blazes. How do you feel?”

His eyes went cloudy again, and his face screwed up. “The major. Is he . . . ?”

Brook reached for her father’s hand. Deirdre swallowed audibly. “Dead.”

Seamus turned his face away. “I was too weak to help. All I . . . all I could do was lie there. Pretend to be dead myself.”

“You’re ill. Better to pretend to death than meet it in fact.” Deirdre dashed at her eyes and sniffed. “Have the police been to talk to you?”

The man shook his head. “I heard . . . when they were taking me . . . something about being too far gone to have seen anything.” He turned his face back to Deirdre, then beyond her. Recognition sparked when he spotted Papa. “But I did, milord. I saw him.”

Papa eased forward. “Saw who, O’Malley?”

“Don’t know. Young fellow. Spry—climbed . . . out window. Wore a hat. Long coat. Couldn’t . . . couldn’t see face, but . . .”

“Easy, uncle.” Deirdre trailed her fingers over his face. “Don’t tax yourself, now.”

He reached up, though it looked like it took all his strength, and caught Deirdre’s hand. “He took . . . papers. Solicitor.”

Brook’s breath tangled in her throat, and she looked up at her father. The major had said he was having papers drawn up—and who but Lord Rushworth and Lady Catherine would have a reason to take them? Who else would stand to inherit anything that was his in light of his death?

The flare of Papa’s nostrils said he was thinking the same. “You heard his voice, then. Was he educated? Had he any accent?”

“I . . . Educated. He was educated.” Seamus closed his eyes for a long moment, then dragged in a deep breath. “Major seemed . . . to struggle to place him.”

Brook’s brows pulled down. He wouldn’t have struggled to place Rush—he looked just like his father’s portraits. But any number of other people could have been vaguely familiar, she supposed.

Her father nodded and gave the man a tight smile. “That’s very helpful, O’Malley. We’ll find his solicitor and get a copy of whatever was stolen. Justice will be done. You rest now.” He patted Deirdre’s shoulder. “Stay with him as long as you like. But if darkness falls before you leave, don’t try to take the tube—hire a hack. Here’s enough for the fare.”

Deirdre opened her mouth, obviously set on refusing the money Papa held out, but Brook shook her head. “Take it, O’Malley.” There’d been tragedy enough for one day. They didn’t need the too-lovely maid finding more in the tube tunnels.

She obeyed, slowly, and sank down onto the edge of her uncle’s cot. “I don’t deserve your kindness, my lord.”

“Nonsense.” He turned, ushering Brook along with him.
“Family is the most important thing, always. You focus on yours right now. We’ll give him some peace so he can rest.”

Brook cast one last look over her shoulder at the shriveled man, the broken, beautiful girl. Both with a pall of death over them.

The whole world, it seemed, had one to match.

Twenty-Five

T
he weight pressed upon Deirdre’s shoulders until she thought she wouldn’t be able to trudge her way down the hospital corridor. Last night when she finally left her uncle’s side, it had been bad enough. Today, with the sun shining bright through the windows and catching on the baroness’s hair, it was worse.

Perhaps, had her ladyship merely granted her more time off, it wouldn’t have weighed so heavily. But she had driven her. Cheerfully so, even though Lady Ramsey had apparently insisted Lady Berkeley go out to a dinner party with them last night, and it had left her exhausted today.

Perhaps, had her uncle been as bad as yesterday, she could have shoved guilt aside and focused solely on him. But he was, praise God, much improved—and had looked at her with Da’s eyes, with wise eyes, as if knowing exactly how she had treated this family that would do so much for her.

She darted a glance at the young woman beside her. There were ladies aplenty in the hospital, most of them part of some aid group or another, out to do their good deeds for nameless faces. They came in flocks, in wide-brimmed hats overflowing with lace and silk flowers, in their best morning suits and dresses.

Lady Berkeley had come in her simplest, her hat modest—her worth coming through all the louder.

A nurse passed them, and Deirdre drew in a breath and tried to smile. “Did you have a nice time last night, my lady? Was His Grace there? Or Lord Worthing, perhaps?”

Her ladyship sighed. “The duke was, surprisingly. And his cousin with Miss Rosten, which meant that
my
cousin spent the night flirting outrageously with some poor chap who’s likely half blind with love now.”

Deirdre smiled. “It is hard to feel sorry for her when she goes about revenge with so much energy.”

Her ladyship chuckled. “It is, at that.”

“And His Grace? Did you speak with him?” Though her ladyship hadn’t said a word about it, she’d watched the disappointment grow each day he hadn’t come. She knew that whatever they had argued about this time, the baroness regretted it.

Now all emotion drained from her countenance, the mask left in its place perfect but empty. “I did. Long enough to request he come by this morning at nine. Which, of course, he didn’t.”

They opened the massive front door and stepped out into a fine mist caught halfway between fog and rain. Deirdre stopped her ladyship with a hand on her arm. “My lady . . . life can be so short. You mustn’t let misunderstandings get in the way of happiness. You charged through the city at night last year to keep things right between you—why do you now wait around for him to come to you?”

“Because I . . .” She looked away, but not before Deirdre saw the pain in her eyes. “Because everything has changed.”

A month ago—a week ago, a day ago—she wouldn’t have dared to loop her arm through the lady’s. Today, she couldn’t imagine doing otherwise. “He’s in love with you, my lady. And you with him.”

Lady Berkeley sighed. “What if it isn’t enough?”

And Deirdre knew, as she gazed on this hurting girl, that she could have been
any
hurting girl—baroness or not. She knew that if Mum realized how she’d come by the money she sent, she’d toss it into the pond. Knew that she couldn’t keep serving these good people knowing how she’d betrayed them. Knew she had to throw herself on their mercy and let come what may.

“My lady.” A step away from the car, she drew them both to a halt. But she couldn’t look into the familiar eyes or the inquisitive face. She drew in a breath that wasn’t deep enough and locked her gaze on the embroidery at her ladyship’s shoulder. “I need to confess. You’ve been so good, you and your father, especially about my uncle. But . . . but I really don’t deserve it. I’ve done something terrible.”

The shoulder sagged. “Pratt. All my post.”

Of course she’d suspected, once His Grace got home and they talked. Deirdre’s arm slipped from her ladyship’s, down to her side. “I was only a housemaid when it began, and the money he gave me . . . they needed it, my mum and family. And it seemed harmless at first—he wanted to know which suitor Lady Regan favored, before you came home. Who was to be named Whitby’s heir.”

“But
stealing
?” Her ladyship stepped away. Perhaps she’d hop in her car and leave Deirdre to find her own way home—heaven knew it would serve her right. As would finding all her things tossed to the curb when she got there. “Did that seem harmless too? Did he pay you more for that?”

Deirdre winced at the bitter tone. “I couldn’t get out. He turned to threats, if I tried. First that he would force me to his bed and then . . . then he threatened my family. Said he had a man in my village ready to burn the house to the ground.”

“So you
come
to us!” The baroness spun to face her again, her face a combination of anger and pity. Her accent deepened, the French curling around her vowels and consonants as it did
in those first moments when she awoke from the nightmare. “Did you not pause to think that we could have helped? That we could have protected them? Protected
you
?”

Had she? No. Never. Perhaps because she couldn’t imagine they would go so far out of their way to help her—though they had just proven they would. Perhaps because she had never really believed that their good could win out over his evil. “I’m sorry, my lady. I know you have to dismiss me, at the least, perhaps even have me arrested for tampering with the mail. But I couldn’t keep lying to you.”

If he was merciful, his lordship would take action now and not wait until they got back to Whitby Park so he could make an example of her before the rest of the staff. If she were beyond lucky, he would not involve the law, in order to keep his name from the press again.

The baroness pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead, under the sloped brim of her hat.

“Well, well. Are the conspirators squabbling?”

Deirdre jolted at the voice, her gaze flying about the area until it clapped upon Detective Cole. Without allowing herself to think of the audacity of it, she stepped in front of her ladyship. “Detective. Have you come to talk to my uncle? He is awake, and he saw much of what happened yesterday.”

The man tilted his lips into a patronizing smile. “Oh, I already know what happened.”

“Good.” She lifted her chin, even if she had to clutch her hands together to keep them from shaking. “Then you know it was an educated man what stabbed him, one he didn’t know well.”

A condescending chuckle joined the smile. “That doesn’t much narrow it down, does it? Given that the major has been on the subcontinent for almost two decades. Which is why—” he took a step nearer, and Deirdre could see the hard light
gleaming in his eyes—“I find it so very odd that
you
, niece to his batman, end up working for
them
, the house of the major’s archrival.”

Her back stiffened. “My uncle recommended me there—he said it was the finest house he’d seen.”

The baroness stepped to her side. “And
you
are better versed in ancient gossip than I supposed, Detective, if you know of that old rivalry. But let me guess—my cousins told you.”

He inclined his head.

“Did they also tell you of the argument between the major and his brother—their father?”

Such darkness . . . so like that always in Pratt’s eyes. Deirdre shuddered.

The detective’s eyes narrowed. “Over the diamonds. Which are by rights theirs, but which they believe
you
have. Their theory . . . Lady Berkeley . . . is that when the major tried to reclaim them, you had him killed.”

Her ladyship drew herself up—but Deirdre’s gaze was snagged by a new figure striding their way, fury in His Grace’s every movement. She reached for the baroness’s hand and gave it a little tug to get her attention.

Lady Berkeley shifted and made a quick half curtsy. “Good morning, Duke.”

“My lady.” The duke packed a world of feeling into the greeting, though it was the detective he speared with his glare. “Detective.”

“Your Grace.” Cole’s face went harder, a shutter coming over the gleam in his eyes. “Excuse us, but I’m engaged in official business with the baroness.”

“No you’re not. You’re engaged upon harassing a young lady whom your superiors have verified had absolutely no motive for arranging the death of her cousin.” He jerked his head, a clear dismissal with an undertone of threat. “I suggest you return
to Scotland Yard and take a look at the papers sent over by the major’s solicitor.”

The detective held the duke’s gaze for a long moment, then glanced back to the baroness. The muscle in his jaw ticked.

His Grace moved nearer, looming over Cole. Deirdre hadn’t thought the detective short, but in that moment he looked it. “And I suggest you tread carefully.”

“I always do.” Cole narrowed his eyes. “What exactly is your interest in all this, Your Grace?”

The duke lifted his brows. “You’re a detective. Figure it out.”

“Oh, I will. Rest assured.”

His Grace stepped aside and made a flourishing gesture indicating the detective ought to leave. “It oughtn’t to take you too long, if you know how to do your job. And do have a lovely day.”

Cole stalked off toward a horse hitched at the far corner of the hospital. The duke watched him for a moment, then spun back to them. His face had gone hard as granite, and fury blazed brighter than ever in his eyes as he locked them on the baroness. “O’Malley, excuse us for a moment.” He took the lady’s hand and pulled her the opposite direction.