one another. Their relationship, like many, was a mystery to him.
He blamed his lack of understanding on a deficiency in his education. He'd been taught a broad range of subjects, but his lack of interaction with other people meant he felt like he was always observing through a window, unable to hear the conversation on the other side.
Charlie had been good at understanding people. Years of living with gangs on the street had honed senses Lincoln doubted he even possessed. She could quickly identify subtle changes in the mood of others and the meaning behind facial expressions and tone of voice. She knew how to express her feelings, and how to coax the best out of people. And sometimes the worst.
"Lincoln? Are you listening to me?'
He snapped his gaze back to Julia. "Buchanan is your stepson," he said. "Why would you be jealous of his latest paramour?" It wasn't the cleverest thing he'd said all day, and the stiffening of her spine cued him into her opinion of it.
She sniffed. "Paramour is not quite the appropriate word, in this case. I prefer to use whore."
"She was also O'Neill's lover," he told her.
"Ah. That explains your questions. And here I thought it was to goad me."
"I don't goad."
Her lips flattened. "I'm sure the dancer is merely a passing infatuation for Andrew, but please, ask him yourself. I'm sure he would love to answer your questions."
Unlikely.
"Do you know how long the circus is in London?" she asked.
"Until February, I believe."
"That long?" She turned her back to him and held her hands out to the fire. A few deep breaths later, she turned once again and plastered a smile on her face. "I'm holding a Christmas ball soon. I'd like you to come."
"I'm too busy."
"I haven't told you which night. Besides, everyone will be there."
She'd said something similar when she wanted him to attend another ball three months prior. In that instance, she'd used the carrot of the Prince or Wales's presence. Lincoln had gone only to see the man who'd fathered him. It was the first time he had been in the same room as the prince, and it would hopefully be the last. He wanted nothing more to do with him.
Julia approached and took his hands in hers. "I'll send you an invitation. Now, what does a woman need to do to get an invitation to dinner at Lichfield?"
"I rarely dine at an appropriate hour for company."
"You're home now. We could pass the time in here or…elsewhere until the gong."
"I have work to do."
She pouted. "Don't be difficult, Lincoln." She stroked his jaw, and once again he had to catch her hand.
"Good day, Julia." He tugged the bell pull beside the door. Doyle must have been hovering nearby, because he appeared mere seconds later. "See Lady Harcourt out," Lincoln said.
Julia swept past him. He didn't need anyone to interpret her facial expression for him this time. The set of her jaw and diamond-hard stare gave him enough clues. That and her silence.
Patrick O'Neill must have been a valued member of Barnum and Bailey's troupe to get his own private room in Mrs. Mather's lodging house. Other bedrooms housed two, three or four lodgers, sometimes sharing the same bed. Lincoln had peered into each room to ascertain the layout of the house before returning to O'Neill's to begin his search.
Although he hadn't been inside the house the day before, he had been close enough to overhear the detective inspector speaking with Mrs. Mather, and he had seen their faces as they both gazed up at the third window from the right on the second story. It had been easy to use window ledges and shutter corners to scale the wall, but he would have found another way in if the relevant window had been closed. Fortunately it was open, most likely to let fresh air into a room where the scent of death still lingered beneath the equally pungent smell of carbolic soap.
The room itself was little wider than the bed. A small table had been wedged between the bed and wall, a candle burned almost to a stub on the surface. There were no lamps or other lighting. Not that Lincoln would use them if they were available. The moonlight filtering through the window was enough. That and instinct.
The mattress had been removed, along with the linen, but dark patches of what he supposed were bloodstains could still be seen splattered over the floral wallpaper behind the bed.
Lincoln worked quickly, first