Chapter 1

Cold rain soaking her boots, splashing her stockings, and leaking from the brim of her ruined hat and onto her face was the least of Saffron Everleigh's worries.

No, it was the lingering nausea of the crossing, clinging to her like a zealous strand of Galium aparine, combined with the exhaustion of traveling for over twenty hours, that made her miserable and desperate for the quiet comfort of her flat.

Thanks to the freezing downpour making the November night dreary, there were no cabs available as Saffron emerged on wobbly legs from the train station. She'd resorted to the bus, which had been a poor choice, given her uncertain stomach and London bus drivers' general propensity for driving like hellhounds were at their heels. Rather than risking vomiting all over the passengers of the cramped bus, she'd alighted three blocks before her stop and had to complete the walk with neither an umbrella nor an adequate raincoat.

Given the late hour, her quiet Chelsea street was dark, save for one flat. The warm lights emanating from the top floor of her building drew her like a bee to bee balm, promising a hot cuppa, a bath, and home.

She trudged up the stairs, her numb fingers fumbling with the pins of her hat. At the top, she eagerly pounded on the door. It swung open, and the anticipatory smile on Saffron's lips died.

Standing at the door to her flat was a stranger. He was youngish, tall, gangly, and wore wire-rimmed glasses and a look of haughty indifference. "Yes?"

Saffron blinked, checked the number on the plate next to the door, then looked back at the stranger. He had glossy blond hair in a washed-out shade of flax and very pale skin, which made the redness around his mouth and neck more apparent. His tie was loosened, she saw as she followed the color to his neck and then to his haphazardly buttoned waistcoat. At a loss, she asked, "Er—who are you?"

He lifted a brow. "Pardon me. Who are you?"

"Who's at the door, darling?" asked a voice from within the flat.

Saffron made to look around the man, but he moved with her to block her view. She glared at him and called down the hall, "Elizabeth?"

The man bristled, propping his hands on his hips and doing his best to loom over her. "Now, see here—"

Behind him, Elizabeth Hale popped around the corner at the end of the hall. "Why, hullo! You're back! Don't just stand there. Colin darling, move aside so she can come in!" She disappeared around the corner.

The haughty man—Colin, apparently—grudgingly retreated to the parlor without a word. Saffron stepped inside and negotiated removing her woefully soaked coat just inside the door. She could hear Colin saying something and Elizabeth's husky alto replying.

Just as Saffron discarded the floppy wet felt that used to be her hat, Elizabeth came down the hall in her stocking feet, arms open in welcome. Saffron took her in, sighing in exasperation to see that Elizabeth's clothing was as hastily donned as her date's.

"You look a right mess, Saff," Elizabeth said, embracing her in a warm cloud of Tabac Blond. "Did you swim the Channel?"

"Ha ha," Saffron replied flatly, allowing herself to sink into her friend's embrace. Elizabeth had returned from their trip to France two weeks ago, but it felt like a lifetime.

"You are freezing!" Elizabeth squealed. "Which would you like first, tea or a bath? Or tea in the bath?"

That brought a little laugh to Saffron's lips. "Tea first. You're entertaining, anyway."

Elizabeth winked at her. "Colin was just leaving."

As if summoned by his name, the man in question appeared from the parlor, his suit jacket on and his tie tightened to his throat. "Was I?"

"Yes, darling," Elizabeth said, not looking at him. "My flatmate has just returned from what must have been the world's worst crossing, and she needs tending." She shot him a coy look. "You've been tended to plenty. Scurry along, I'll see you tomorrow."

Colin's fair face heated, and he gave Elizabeth a hard look that only set her giggling. He squeezed by her and Saffron to reach for his hat and coat from the pegs on the wall. He gave Saffron an uncertain look. "My apologies for the confusion earlier. You are doubtless Miss Everleigh."

"I am. And you must be Colin Smith, from Elizabeth's office."

"I am one of Lord Tremaine's private secretaries, yes," he said, placing his hat atop his head.

"Of course," Saffron murmured as Elizabeth stepped forward and placed a gentle kiss on his lips.

"Ta, now," Elizabeth told him and shuffled him out the door. "Good night, Colin."

When the sounds of his footsteps had faded from the stairwell, Elizabeth flipped the lock on the door and wafted down the hall with an air of secretive satisfaction. Saffron made to follow her, but Elizabeth demanded she change from her wet clothing.

Five minutes later, Saffron was wrapped in her warmest and ugliest dressing gown of faded blue flannel, and the kettle was singing. Elizabeth busied herself with the ritual of tea.

"Well, Saff," Elizabeth said, settling the tray bearing teapot, sugar and cream, and cups and saucers on the little kitchen table, "I have all sorts of very interesting things to tell you, but you go first. How was the botanical conference? Did you go on to Belgium after all? Tell me everything."

The warmth of the kitchen, the familiar scent of steeping Earl Grey, and the kindness in her friend's eyes pried away the little that remained of Saffron's stiff upper lip. Her shoulders slumped.

"It was awful, Eliza," she rasped out. "All of it. I don't know what I'm going to do."

Alexander Ashton paced his office. Or attempted to.

Though the space was clear of the accumulation of flotsam that academia encouraged, his legs were long, and there were only so many strides his office could allow before he was forced to turn sharply on the heel of his polished oxfords. His office had become a kind of sanctuary this last week after his brother Adrian had stopped trying to be a pleasant houseguest and retreated back into old habits that left the sitting room and kitchen a mess and him sleeping past noon most days. But even the quiet order of his office couldn't lower Alexander's blood pressure when so much weighed on his mind.

On his fifth circuit of the room, he checked his wristwatch. It was ten past nine in the morning, well past the time he could expect to receive an answer to his question.

He left his office and strode down the hall of the North Wing. Thick clouds beyond the windows left the white-walled corridor gray. Below, the Quad was full of students and staff hustling to reach their lecture halls and offices. Few people lingered in the frosty morning air. The voices of those who'd already sought the warmth of the North Wing echoed through the tiled halls and scuffed wood-paneled staircase.

Alexander climbed the circular stair and saw his quarry at the door at the end of the hall.

"Mr. Ferrand," he called, lengthening his stride to catch him.

Considering the number of times the secretary had seen Alexander this week, the older man should not have looked so surprised as he paused in unlocking the door and turned to face him. But Mr. Ferrand was polite to a fault, even friendly, and so he greeted Alexander with silver eyebrows lifted and a bright smile. "Good morning, Mr. Ashton. How do you do this very English morning?"

His French accent was thick and his tone warm. Alexander managed a smile back, and Ferrand's grew into a knowing grin that might have chafed had it been on the face of a less affable man. "Ah, but I know what you are after. I believe if I just open these messages here"—he waved a hand bearing a handful of papers and envelopes—"I will have your answer."

Alexander followed Ferrand inside. The neat office matched the Frenchman's own appearance: tidy and polished. In all the years Ferrand had bounced from department to department at the University College London, Alexander had only ever known him to have his shining silver hair cut to suit a younger man and his stylish clothing tailored to perfection.

Ferrand did not move to sit behind his desk, which sat in the same place before the window that the last person to have occupied the position of secretary to the head of Botany had arranged it. He flipped through the messages and his face lit up. "Ah, but this must be it."

Alexander didn't reply. He knew he already seemed like an overeager boy, asking daily for an updated itinerary, but he was getting desperate. Nothing he'd done to mitigate his brother's situation had borne fruit, and every day that passed wore on both their nerves.

Ferrand sliced the message open with a letter opener and scanned it, his brows dipping momentarily into a frown. "Wednesday," he said at last.

"As in the day before yesterday?"

"Je le crois." Ferrand let the message fall onto the table and shrugged. "Miss Everleigh left France Wednesday. I suppose her plans changed. But that is good news, no?"

It was good news. Alexander had panicked when he'd learned Saffron had changed her plans to stay in France for an additional week following the conference she'd been attending. Learning that she was already back in London should have been a good thing. But it seemed nothing would alleviate the dread that had coalesced in his belly when Adrian showed up at his door.

"Indeed," Alexander said. "Thank you, Mr. Ferrand."

"This means our little daily chats are at an end, I think," Ferrand said, rounding his desk and sitting down with a sigh. "I did enjoy them. Anyone who manages to blink during a conversation is a welcome change from"—he tilted his head toward the double doors to his left—"the old lézard."

That was an apt description of Dr. Aster, the head of Botany, for whom Ferrand had worked for several weeks. "I will make a point to say hello more often. Thank you again, Mr. Ferrand. And if you wouldn't mind—"

"I will say nothing to Miss Everleigh," Ferrand assured him with a wink.

Alexander nodded gratefully and took his leave. As glad as he was that Saffron had returned ahead of schedule, it meant that the time had come for him to ask her to do exactly what he'd warned her away from doing a dozen times.

He returned to his office for his coat before catching a bus to Chelsea. It was time to ask Saffron Everleigh to meddle in a police investigation.