A likeness of Nancy, her head held at just that angle that could be submissive, mischievous, or coquettish, depending on her mood and her company. She looked peculiarly classless, almost mysterious, her thoughts hidden behind an enigmatic half-smile.
It brought a lump to Grizelda’s throat. This was how he had seen her. Still familiar to Griz, but secretive, a young woman with a life beyond the household she had served.
“That is an extraordinary likeness,” she said, her voice hollow.
He picked up the notebook and slid it into his pocket. “Thank you. I cannot help thinking, you know, that your family will not approve, either of your quest for justice for Nancy or your alliance with me.”
“They won’t notice,” she said, stuffing the paper with his address into the hidden pocket of her gown.
He looked somewhat startled, but if he meant to comment, she gave him no chance.
“Good,” she said briskly. “So, I will speak to the servants, and you will investigate among your radical friends, and then we may meet—tomorrow, perhaps?—and share what we’ve learned.”
He inclined his head, which she took for agreement.
Chapter Four
Dragan found himself in the unusual position of being manipulated, and yet, too intrigued to object. Besides, had he not already offered this service to Inspector Harris? Who had treated it with the contempt it no doubt deserved.
It was not just the tragic murder of Nancy Barrow that puzzled him now either, but the small, aristocratic girl in the spectacles, whose smile was unexpectedly dazzling.
As he followed her back into the entrance hall, a man leapt down the stairs three at a time and skidded to a halt when he caught sight of Lady Grizelda.
He was, perhaps, about Dragan’s age—twenty-four—and sporting a rather fine mustache and an excellently cut coat worn carelessly open to reveal the colorful waistcoat beneath. His expression was amiable but distracted, his features similar enough to Grizelda’s to betray a relationship, although his hair was lighter, almost blond.
“All well, Griz?” he said cheerfully. “Because if so, I thought I might go away for a few days, just to slow Her Grace’s matchmaking train—” He broke off as he caught sight of Dragan, who refused on principle to hover in the shadows of doorways.
Dragan meant merely to bow distantly to them both and depart, but the newcomer greeted him with careless civility.
“Sorry, didn’t realize we had guests!” he said, advancing and holding out his hand.
“Mr. Tizsa,” Lady Grizelda said in tones of resignation as they shook hands. “My brother Lord Forsythe Niven. But Forsythe, I don’t think you should go away just now. The police will come about Nancy and—”
“Yes, but they won’t want to talk to me,” Lord Forsythe intervened.
“They may want to talk to all of us,” his sister said, lowering her voice. “One of His Grace’s daggers was found at the scene.”
Lord Forsythe dropped Dragan’s hand, staring at his sister. “So were you, Griz.”
“And I,” Dragan said, feeling her family had better be aware of the worst.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Lord Forsythe said, gazing from one to the other. “This is more of a tangle than I thought.”
“So you see why you had better not run off very far?” Grizelda said anxiously.
“His Grace,” Lord Forsythe said heavily, “will not be pleased.”
“Look on the bright side,” Grizelda said wryly, “your marriage prospects will plummet.”
Lord Forsythe grinned. “Oh well, I daresay Horace will be able to hush it all up, anyhow. Got to dash, but a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tizsa!”
Lady Grizelda seemed to see nothing odd in this behavior, as her brother had appeared to see nothing unusual in Dragan’s presence, for she merely walked on to the center of the hall while the door banged shut behind Lord Forsythe. One of the liveried footmen shot out from the back of the house and took up position beside the front door.
Lady Grizelda turned and extended her hand. “Goodbye, Mr. Tizsa.”
He took her hand politely. Ungloved, it was soft and birdlike, unexpectedly frail. He bowed over it and released her. “Goodbye.”
She gave a small, uncertain smile as he strode past her to the door. The servant appeared perfectly wooden as he let him out, but Dragan was sure he had an opinion about ill-dressed, ill-shaven foreigners.
***
Letting himself into Cordell’s house with his key, Dragan fully expected the wrath of his kind hosts to descend upon him at some point. He was not prepared for the explosion of three people out of the kitchen door at the end of the hall or