a tray of tea, sandwiches, and scones that were still faintly steaming. Fussing with them and waiting for Peter to leave the room gave her time to think. Dragan took something from his pocket—a notebook and a stub of pencil. He opened the book and rested it against his crossed leg. From the corner of her eye, she saw the tiny pencil move, guided by his long, busy fingers. He focused on whatever he was writing while Peter arranged things. They were both silent.
But as the door closed behind the footman and she placed a cup of tea on the table in front of him, he was still waiting for an answer, for his gaze lifted to her face and lingered, steady and expectant.
Without laying down the pencil, he accepted a ham sandwich and rapidly consumed it without breaking his gaze.
“The dagger matters,” she said, low, “because it is my father’s. He collects antique weapons. When I saw it the lantern light last night, I thought it looked like the one he bought in Rome five or so years ago. I looked at his collection this morning, and the dagger was not there. She frowned with defiance. “He may have taken it to be cleaned or lent it to someone. I have not yet asked him.”
“So, what is it you want?” he asked flatly, returning his pencil to paper. “To find the truth of Nancy’s murder, or to protect your family?”
She threw up her chin. “You would protect your family, too!”
“For all the good it did them. What do you propose to do?”
Grizelda, her mind caught on the first sentence, had to bite back personal questions. “I think we should start by sharing what we know about Nancy and about last night. How do you know her?”
The pencil stilled. He searched her eyes, an oddly disturbing experience. Then his lips curved into a faint, rueful smile. “This is the problem when we neither know nor trust each other. I am not sure how much I can safely tell you.”
“I won’t repeat it to my brother Horace if that’s what worries you.”
His brow twitched, as though she had surprised him, though he retorted quickly enough, “How can I know that?”
“I suppose you can’t,” she admitted, deflated. “You do not care that I am a duke’s daughter, or even a lady because you do not believe that confers any special virtue upon me. Being an egalitarian.”
He snatched up another sandwich, almost angrily. Half of it vanished in one bite, and he returned to the notebook.
“I lodge with a friend,” he said abruptly, without looking up. “A good man. A physician. I met Nancy in his house one afternoon, among several other guests.”
“She was his guest?” Griz said, startled, then nodded. “Ah, I see. This good doctor shares your egalitarian views. Was this a political meeting?”
“It was a discussion about improving the health of working people and giving them more say in how they are governed.”
Distractedly, Griz picked up a buttered scone and took a bite. He followed the movement with his dark, oddly beautiful eyes.
“Is that not how your revolution began?” she asked.
“Sort of. But acquit me of fomenting revolution in the country that has given me refuge. Such methods failed all over Europe in 48, and I cannot see the British adopting them at this stage. Everything discussed was within the law of your country.”
“I did not know Nancy had such political or social awareness,” Griz admitted. “In fact, she…”
“She what?” he encouraged, reaching distractedly for his teacup,
Griz frowned. “I asked her just last week, before her afternoon off, if she was still stepping out with Jack Payne—he’s the son of one of our tenant farmers in Sussex. She laughed and said Bless you, no, my lady. I have a gentleman going to marry me now. She was in a hurry to be off, and I forgot to ask her more later. She never introduced the matter again either.”
“Do you have any idea who she meant?”
Griz shook her head and sopped her tea. “No. I thought she meant she had met some clerk in London or an affluent upper-servant, but I…” She fixed him with her gaze. “Was it you?”
His lips twisted. “Lord, no. I have nothing to bring anyone in marriage.”
There was nothing coy or arch in his denial, a simple, dismissive statement that she was inclined to believe. She wasn’t quite sure why it pleased her. “Perhaps your good doctor?” she suggested.
“He’s married already. With four children, three of