Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

P enelope Adair, sitting alone at her breakfast table in the dining room of her marital home in Albemarle Street, crunched and munched a slice of toast slathered with marmalade and debated what her next—indeed, first—step in re-establishing her life should be.

"My life as I wish it to be." She reached for her teacup. "That's what I need to focus on. I need to find the right balance again." Supporting the teacup with both hands, she tipped her head. "Well, the right balance for as we are now."

Since the birth of her second child, Phillip—Pip—a brother for Oliver, now a rambunctious three-year-old toddler, she'd spent more time at home than she ever had. During the recent Season, she'd attended a smattering of balls and family events, but—much to the relief of her husband, Barnaby—had taken her re-emergence into society slowly.

The truth was she'd used the lack of social expectation Pip's birth had afforded her as an opportunity to re-evaluate the true importance of each aspect of her normally very busy life. Spending time with Oliver and Pip would always take precedence—she saw guiding them into their futures as her life's principal duty—and given her and Barnaby's families and their social and political prominence, there would always be demands from those spheres, yet still…she needed more.

Admittedly, she remained on the board of the Foundling House, along with her sisters and several cousins and connections, but that work, too, she took in her stride. Dealing with business required little effort from her naturally organized mind.

She needed intellectual challenge. Indeed, she couldn't remember when she had not, and given her background and experience, navigating the social and political arenas was rarely difficult enough to tax her brain, and although working on deciphering ancient manuscripts was a challenge of sorts, it was hardly exciting.

"Hmm." She narrowed her eyes. Where might she find her next exciting challenge? She really needed to get out and about and use those mental muscles that childbearing and the immediate aftermath had left underexercised.

Footsteps approached, and Barnaby strolled in. He'd been out for a morning walk with Oliver.

Barnaby came up behind her chair, closed his hands about her shoulders and, when she obligingly lifted her face, bent his head and dropped a light kiss on her lips. She smiled at him as he straightened, and he smiled back. "The children are happily ensconced in the nursery. Oliver spotted a baby bird, and I had to explain that he couldn't catch it and bring it home to care for."

"Ah." She arched her brows. "Perhaps it's time to actually get a puppy rather than just discussing it."

Barnaby's smile didn't dim as he ambled around the table. "Very likely. If you like, I can ask Papa if any of his bitches will soon have pups."

She nodded. "Oliver would like that. He loves visiting your father's kennels."

She watched as Barnaby drew out his chair and sat. To her eyes, he was still the most handsome man in the ton, with his golden curls and intelligent blue eyes. While Pip had inherited her dark hair, she was waiting to see if he might have inherited Barnaby's cerulean-blue eyes. A devastating combination, if it proved to be so.

Mostyn, their majordomo, bustled in with the coffeepot. He deftly filled Barnaby's cup, then paused to hunt in a pocket.

He drew out a missive. "This was slipped under the door at first light, sir."

Penelope perked up. In her experience, missives slipped under doors at dawn usually heralded something unexpected.

Possibly exciting.

Certainly interesting.

She waited with what patience she could muster as Barnaby accepted the ivory packet, frowned at the inscription, then turned it over and broke the seal. She watched as he scanned the first lines, then he glanced at her.

"It was addressed to me, but is actually to both of us."

"From?"

"Sanderson, of all people."

"David?" Penelope blinked. David Sanderson was the family's physician. It was he who had delivered Pip; she'd seen David only a week ago for her last check-up after the birth.

Barnaby nodded as he quickly read the note. "He writes that one of his patients, Lord Meriwell of Alderly, died at Meriwell Hall in Thames Ditton, Surrey, yesterday evening. As it happened, for a different reason, David had placed a nurse—Miss Veronica Haskell—in the household, and it was she who wrote to summon him. Apparently, Miss Haskell believes Lord Meriwell was poisoned with cyanide administered via his wine. David accepts her observations and conclusions, which means his lordship was murdered."

"Good gracious!" Penelope didn't have to feign being intrigued.

"David notes that he examined his lordship in London only a few weeks ago, and although the man was eighty years old, he was in fine shape, and David fully expected he would live to see ninety. He—David—goes on to say that by the time we read this, he'll be on his way to Thames Ditton. He's given directions and ends with a plea to the effect that he would greatly appreciate our presence there and our opinions on the situation if we are able to attend."

Barnaby met Penelope's eyes. "Are we able?"

His wife's expression was all the answer he needed. Her dark-chocolate eyes gleamed, and her expression all but glowed. "We are not just able," she declared, "but this is precisely what I need! A nice mystery to get back into the swing of investigations."

Setting down her teacup, she smiled into his eyes. "I truly have missed the mental stimulation. As much as I love our two imps, dealing with them doesn't exercise that part of my brain."

Barnaby grinned. "You don't have to explain that, not to me." He glanced at the letter. "If ever murder could be considered opportune…"

"Exactly! And Pip is now old enough to be left with his nursemaid for a few days, and Oliver is an old hand at us going off, which will help Pip understand that us being elsewhere for a few days is normal."

The doorbell pealed, and they paused to listen as Mostyn crossed the hall and opened the door.

The rumble of a familiar voice reached them.

Barnaby caught Penelope's eyes as they widened in delighted comprehension, and he arched an amused brow.

Two seconds later, Inspector Basil Stokes walked in. He greeted them, waited while Mostyn efficiently set another place, then Stokes sat and accepted a cup of coffee with a grateful sigh.

Plainly agog, they waited as he sipped and swallowed, then he grunted and said, "I was summoned to the Yard at first light. A new case, an aristocrat murdered by poison, down in Surrey, with the added complication that the murder happened at a house party being attended by an MP and his family. Before heading down there, I've been instructed to inquire whether the pair of you are available to accompany me officially, as consultants to Scotland Yard, to assist in the investigation."

Penelope beamed at him. "We're definitely available."

Barnaby frowned. "I didn't think the boundaries of the Metropolitan Police district stretched that far."

Stokes reached for the platter of eggs and bacon. "Not into Surrey per se, but by some quirk of long-ago fate, our boundaries encompass Thames Ditton. Possibly because it's just barely over the county border and also directly across the river from Hampton Court." Stokes sat up and lifted his cutlery. "I don't know exactly why, but it is under our direct jurisdiction."

Barnaby waved Sanderson's letter. "We'd just heard about the murder." At Stokes's astonished look, he explained, "David Sanderson"—Stokes knew who Sanderson was—"was Lord Meriwell's physician. He's already on his way down there and wrote to ask for our help."

Chewing, Stokes nodded, then swallowed and said, "Wise man. He also informed the commissioner. Did Sanderson mention that, presumably in addition to others, the household is presently hosting Mr. George Busselton, MP for Surrey, plus his wife and children?"

"No, he didn't." Penelope pushed her glasses farther up the bridge of her nose. "But doubtless that was part of his motivation for requesting our presence."

"As I said," Stokes mumbled, "wise man. I can confirm that the presence of Busselton and his family contributed significantly to the commissioner's motivation. He wants this handled quickly and discreetly. Hence, I was dispatched to ask for your aid." Pausing, he looked from Barnaby to Penelope. "So are you in?"

Penelope's smile was full of determined intent. She tossed down her napkin and rose, waving at the men to continue their breakfasts. "Give me half an hour. I'll be ready to leave by then."

Barnaby smiled. "I'll follow you up to say goodbye to the scamps."

Stokes reached for the toast rack. "I'll wait here. Just call when you're ready."

David Sanderson drew his curricle to a halt in the gravel forecourt before Meriwell Hall.

He'd visited several times before and barely spared a glance for the Palladian fa?ade. He climbed down, hearing the gravel crunch beneath his boots, and handed the reins to the stable lad who came running to take them. David paused only to lift his black bag from the curricle's seat before striding for the front steps.

A figure clad in the neat blue of a nurse's uniform came hurrying out to meet him.

As Veronica Haskell paused on the top step, David scanned her features and saw only steady determination and a mirroring of his own relief. The nature of that relief he pushed to the farthest reaches of his mind. He'd tried to tell himself that the unnerving, distracting terror he'd felt on learning that Veronica—whom he'd arranged to send to Meriwell Hall to observe the behavior of Lord Meriwell's problematical granddaughter—was in a household that harbored a murderer was purely due to the implied responsibility of being the reason she was there.

Nonsense, of course, but he—and he suspected she, too—didn't have time, just at that moment, to dwell on such emotional complications.

Nevertheless, as he climbed the steps, the first words out of his mouth were "Veronica. How are you?"

Her hands, clasped before her waist, gripped a fraction tighter. "I'm…as well as can be expected, given the situation."

"Indeed." He halted beside her and studied her face, drinking in her features.

She colored faintly and lowered her voice. "Thank God you're here. I was worried you wouldn't be able to get away."

"I came as quickly as I could. Luckily, none of my ladies are nearing their time. They and London can do without me for as long as this takes. Abercrombie will step in if there's any emergency."

"That's…a relief." She glanced at the open front door and shook her head. "Even now, I can barely believe it." Returning her gaze to his face, she met his eyes. "But I am very sure that it was cyanide that did for Lord Meriwell."

David nodded. "First things first. Take me to the body."

Veronica waved toward the door. "They've put the corpse in the basement, in the laundry. It's the coolest spot and, apparently, has been used for laying out before."

Side by side, they headed for the house.

"How have her ladyship and Sophie taken it?"

"So far, better than I'd hoped. Sophie hasn't enacted any hysterical scenes yet, and her ladyship is, I think, so stunned and shocked that she's barely taken in how irrevocable this change is."

"That's to be expected." He slowed and shot Veronica a sharp glance. "You mentioned the Busseltons, whom I've never met. Who else is here?"

"The nephews, all three of them—Stephen, Arthur, and Peter. And Lord Iffey, of course."

He frowned. "Lord Iffey?"

Seeing his puzzlement, Veronica halted and elaborated, "Wallace, Lord Iffey, a very old friend of his lordship. From school days, I believe. He's a bachelor and is often here, keeping the elder Meriwells company."

"Right, and what of the Busseltons. How many of them?"

"Mr. George Busselton, his wife, Hermione, their daughter, Persimone, and her younger brother, Peregrine."

"Any idea why the local MP is visiting with his family in tow?"

"Stephen Meriwell hopes to marry Persimone Busselton. His lordship approved—highly—of the match, and I believe the idea behind this visit was to impress the Busseltons with Stephen's background and his family." Veronica paused, then added, "Apropos of that, Arthur and Peter were told they were expected to attend and warned to be on their best behavior."

"I see."

They walked on, crossing the threshold into the cool shadows of the front hall.

Veronica tipped her head closer and whispered, "You're about to meet Mr. Busselton."

David's vision adjusted, and he saw two men plainly waiting to intercept them. Or more accurately, given the focus of their gazes, to intercept him.

He knew perfectly well what they were seeing—not some quack but a gentleman who exuded that indefinable aura of inhabiting a higher social stratum than either of them—and was wryly amused at the sudden uncertainty that assailed the pair.

The unexpectedness of his background was often useful.

The butler knew him from his previous visits and came forward to take his hat and overcoat. David surrendered both, then nodded coolly to the men. "Gentlemen."

The younger man—of similar age to David, in his early thirties, well-dressed, hair neat, clothes expensive but not ostentatious, with pleasant features that David recognized as indicative of the Meriwell family—shifted and held out his hand. "Stephen Meriwell."

David grasped the offered hand. "David Sanderson."

Meriwell gestured to the other, older man. "This is Mr. George Busselton, MP for the local area."

Busselton was in his fifties, with a decided paunch he tried to hide behind a tartan waistcoat. With thinning brown hair, brown eyes beneath shaggy brows, and a neatly trimmed beard, he looked the archetype of a staunch, well-to-do parliamentarian; David had met many of such ilk.

He returned Busselton's nod, and they shook hands.

Before either man could attempt to take charge, David stated, "In a situation such as this, my first task must be to examine the body and that without delay. If you'll excuse me."

It wasn't a question. David turned to Veronica and the butler, but Busselton rushed into speech. "I say, but you will tell us your conclusions, won't you?"

David glanced his way and inclined his head. "Once I have conclusions, I will inform the family."

Veronica looked down to hide her smile. He would tell the family, by which he meant Lady Meriwell. The instant she had her features under control, she raised her head and waved toward the rear of the hall. "This way, Doctor."

With another graceful inclination of his head, David fell in beside her, and they made for the kitchen and the door to the basement stairs.

She led David to the spartan room in the basement, stone floored and stone walled, with the deep laundry troughs to one side and the racks for hanging washing suspended overhead. Long windows set high in the walls along one side allowed morning light to slant inside, dispelling the gloom and, at this hour, rendering the space incongruously bright. One of the high deal tables usually used for folding linens played host to the silent form of the late master of the house, decently covered with a plain white sheet.

David set his bag on the counter beside the door, then crossed directly to the shrouded body. He folded back the sheet, revealing the harsh, patrician features of Lord Meriwell, set in uncompromising lines even in death.

Veronica watched as David's gaze sharpened. He spent several minutes examining the face, paying particular attention to the mouth and eyes, patently visually cataloguing all he saw, then he moved the sheet aside and checked his lordship's hands and fingers.

Still studying the fingernails, he said, "Tell me what you saw and smelled."

Veronica explained that she hadn't been able to get a decent look at his lordship's face until he was stretched out on his bed. "At that time, his lips were still distinctly bluish, and when I leaned close, I could smell the scent of bitter almonds."

"Did anyone else notice the smell?"

"I asked the butler, Jensen, and his lordship's valet, and one of the footmen to sniff and then tell me what they smelled. They all said almonds—bitter almonds."

David smiled and glanced at her. "That was quick thinking. The scent's long gone, of course, but I can see the signs well enough." He looked at the still figure on the table. "He was definitely poisoned, and everything points to it being with cyanide."

She felt as if a weight poised to press down on her shoulders released and slid away.

David turned to the stoppered decanter left on the counter. "Is this the wine that was served?"

"Yes. Jensen retrieved the decanter from the dining room and kept it in his pantry. He must have brought it down here for you to examine."

David nodded and did just that, unstoppering the decanter and taking a good sniff, then he swirled the wine, sniffed again, then held the decanter up to the windows and the morning light. After studying the liquid, he said, "I can't detect any sign that the wine itself was poisoned." He lowered the decanter and turned to his bag. "I'll take a sample for later analysis if needed. But otherwise, I believe it would be safest to discard this."

"Indeed. I can't imagine anyone wanting to drink it." Veronica waited until David had poured a small amount into a vial. Leaving him stoppering the vial, she carried the decanter to the trough and poured the contents out. She used water from a jug to rinse the last of the wine from the decanter and sluice all traces down the drain.

She carried the decanter back to the counter and left it for Jensen to fetch later.

David looked up from repacking his bag and fixed his gaze on her. "In your note, you mentioned that the glass his lordship drank from went missing from the table."

She nodded and recounted how she and Jensen had returned to fetch the glass. "But it wasn't there. Everything else was exactly as Jensen and I remembered leaving it, but his lordship's glass had vanished."

David observed, "I can't think of any more definite confirmation. The poison—most likely concentrated prussic acid—must have been in the glass." He paused, then added, "Prussic acid is not something anyone would knowingly take, and I certainly can't imagine Lord Meriwell doing such a thing, much less at that time and place."

"No, indeed." She pressed her palms together. "It's definitely not suicide."

David nodded. "This was murder."

He hoisted his bag and looked at her. "I need to speak with Lady Meriwell."

"I'll take you to her. She'll be in her sitting room upstairs." Veronica caught David's eye. "We can go up via the servants' stair."

His lips curved in a wry smile. "Thank you. That might be best. My patience is already a trifle thin."

Veronica led David directly to Lady Meriwell's private sitting room on the first floor.

It was, Veronica would be the first to admit, a huge relief to have a man of David's unquestioned authority calmly taking the reins. She had every confidence he knew exactly how matters should proceed.

After tapping on the sitting room door and hearing a faint "Come," she opened the door and led the way inside.

Her ladyship was sitting in her favorite armchair beside one of the large windows that looked out over the rose garden. Clementina, Lady Meriwell, still looked rather lost, but judging by the way her gaze strengthened as it locked on Veronica and David, the older woman had started to come to grips with the situation. The wrinkled, liver-spotted hand that was closed over the head of her cane tightened as if she was steeling herself for the conversation to come.

Veronica was unsurprised to see Wallace, Lord Iffey, seated in a second armchair drawn close beside her ladyship's. His lordship had rarely been absent from her ladyship's side since Lord Meriwell's death. He was holding Lady Meriwell's other hand and gently patting it. A large bear of a man, with white hair and a hefty frame garbed in the clothes of a generation past, Iffey barely spared Veronica and David a glance before his attention returned to Lady Meriwell.

Veronica halted a little to one side, allowing David to step past her.

He went forward and took the hand her ladyship removed from Iffey's grasp and waveringly extended, lightly gripping her fingers as he bowed. "I am so very sorry, Clementina. This was not a death any of us would have wished for Angus."

Her ladyship's chins quivered. "No, indeed." Her fingers tightened on David's. "Was it a heart attack, as the others are saying?"

David looked into her ladyship's mild blue eyes, which were imploring him to say he knew not what. "Sadly, no. His lordship was poisoned, apparently via his wine glass."

"Oh my!" Lady Meriwell's voice quavered, and withdrawing her hand, she shrank back into the chair.

"There, there, my dear." Lord Iffey—David assumed it was he—clumsily patted her arm. "We thought it must be something like that. Never knew old Angus to take such a turn before."

Iffey looked up at David from beneath beetling eyebrows. "Wallace, Lord Iffey, sir. I don't believe we've met."

David half bowed. "David Sanderson, of Harley Street."

"Goodness, where are my manners?" Her ladyship fluttered and roused herself to sit upright and gestured at Iffey. "Wallace here is a dear and very old friend, David. An old school chum of Angus's and a very valued friend of the family as a whole."

David inclined his head in acknowledgment, noting how close and comfortable with each other Iffey and her ladyship appeared. "It will be helpful to have the support of someone like his lordship through the coming days." Grateful that her ladyship had refocused, gently, he went on, "Given the situation, meaning that Lord Meriwell's death was not a natural one, then the authorities have to be informed."

Her ladyship's soft gaze steadied on his face, then her chin firmed. "Tell me, David, without any roundaboutation. Was Angus murdered?"

To that, there was only one answer. "Yes," he said. "He was."

The shock on Lady Meriwell's face was echoed in Iffey's more florid countenance.

"Here! I say!" he blustered. "Are you sure it wasn't some sort of accident?"

Calmly, David stated, "I'm quite certain."

A frown overtook Lady Meriwell's features. "Are you saying that someone put poison into the wine?" She met David's eyes. "But you said ‘glass.' Did someone put poison in Angus's wine glass?"

He inclined his head. "So it appears."

"Well!" Iffey blew out a noisy breath. "Bless me."

David waited, but both her ladyship and his lordship appeared stunned and rather stupefied. After a moment more, in an even tone, he went on, "As this is inarguably murder, I'm required to notify Scotland Yard and have done so. I understand that they have jurisdiction in this area, and given the household's standing, I'm sure they'll send down one of their best investigators with all speed. Until that person arrives, everyone who was present at the Hall yesterday evening must remain."

At that, her ladyship sucked in a breath and directed a look of near panic at Iffey. "Oh, heavens! Not only do we have a murder to contend with but…" She looked helplessly at David. "What about the Busseltons? What will they think?" Her eyes widened even further. "What will everyone think?"

Her wail jerked Iffey from his abstraction. "Now, now, Clemmie—that's hardly something you need worry about." He recommenced patting her arm. "It'll be all right, trust me. Scotland Yard will send down their finest, and it will all be taken care of. You'll see."

To David's relief, the anodyne reassurances had the desired effect. Her ladyship calmed sufficiently to direct a pleading look at him.

Interpreting it with ease, he half bowed. "I will, of course, remain for the next several days in case you or Miss Meriwell require my attention."

Her ladyship appeared relieved, then she looked past him at Veronica. "You will stay, too, dear, won't you? I know how much you've influenced Sophie, and all for the good. I dread to think of how she might behave were you not here to give her direction."

Veronica nodded. "I'll stay until the household is past this difficult patch."

Her ladyship put a hand to her chest. "That's such a relief. Thank you both."

David stepped closer and took her ladyship's wrist between his fingers. Her pulse was a touch fluttery, but strong enough. Releasing her hand, he said, "I'll come and check on you later, and if necessary, I can give you a sleeping draft for tonight."

"Thank you, David." Then her brow crinkled, and she glanced at Iffey. "But the guests…"

"Are hale and hearty enough to take care of themselves for the nonce," Iffey declared. "You should rest quietly until you feel strong enough to go downstairs."

David agreed. He caught his lordship's eye. "If you feel up to it later, a turn in the garden to get some air would do you good."

Iffey nodded in instant accord. "We'll see how it goes, heh, m'dear?"

Veronica added, "The household will cope—you have everything so well organized, there's no reason to fret on that score."

Her ladyship seemed to accept their assurances and relaxed a trifle. "At least Stephen is here. He'll see that the right steps are taken and that everything is done as it ought to be, especially with regard to the Busseltons."

Iffey patted her hand. "Just so. We can leave it to Stephen, and if he needs our assistance, we'll still be here, old thing. The Busseltons seem reasonable people. I'm sure they'll understand. This is hardly your fault, m'dear."

Her ladyship appeared more settled.

David hesitated, then ventured, "It might help speed up the process, ma'am, if the household has your permission to do whatever is necessary to assist the police with their inquiries into Lord Meriwell's murder."

Lady Meriwell blinked at him. "Yes, of course." Her chin firmed, and meeting his gaze directly, she added, "Angus and I might not, of late, have been as close as we once were, but he was my husband for over fifty years, and I definitely want his murderer hung."

There was unexpected steel behind those words. David acknowledged it with an abbreviated bow.

Iffey patted her ladyship's hand. "Quite right, old thing. I'm sure the detectives from Scotland Yard will oblige."

On that note, David and Veronica took their leave and quit the sitting room.

Once in the corridor and heading toward the stairs, David glanced back at the sitting room door, then looked at Veronica. "Am I right in supposing there's some…more personal connection between her ladyship and Iffey?"

Veronica's lips twisted in a wry smile. She met his eyes and admitted, "Within the household, it's no secret. The pair have had a long-standing affair, one going back more than a decade to the time when Robert Meriwell was alive."

Robert Meriwell, Lord and Lady Meriwell's only child, had died in Africa about twelve years ago. David raised his brows. "That long?" When Veronica nodded, he asked, "Did Lord Meriwell know?"

"As to that"—Veronica faced forward—"I gather no one has ever been sure. The general consensus, including the opinion of Gorton, his lordship's valet, is that his lordship was and remained oblivious." She paused, then added, "Lord Meriwell was decidedly self-centered—self-focused—and truly, I suspect that he never noticed what was going on under his very nose. His wife and his best friend posed no real threat to him, so they didn't feature in his thoughts."

"Hmm." David wasn't sure what to make of that.

They descended the stairs side by side to find Jensen, Stephen Meriwell, and George Busselton waiting to speak with them.

"I take it," Busselton commenced the instant David stepped onto the hall tiles, "that you will be issuing the death certificate forthwith, and my family and I are free to leave."

David tried not to take pleasure in or at least not acknowledge the pleasure he felt in saying, "I'm afraid not. There's reason to believe that his lordship was poisoned. Scotland Yard have already been notified, and I expect that an investigator is on his way. Until such time as the Yard's representatives have examined the scene and subsequently grant each of us permission to depart, it's necessary for us all to remain."

He put sufficient emphasis on the "all" for them to understand that he included himself in that number.

Busselton looked perturbed. He frowned, then huffed, but after a moment—doubtless after considering how such an action might appear—he decided not to argue.

From Busselton's expression, David surmised that he had already had doubts as to the naturalness of Lord Meriwell's demise.

For his part, Stephen Meriwell was frowning, but it seemed more in a considering way as if working out what such a situation would mean for his guests and the household in general.

Like any good butler, Jensen was standing by the wall, attempting self-effacement.

David turned to him and said, "I understand that his lordship's wine glass from last evening has gone missing. As it seems likely the poison was administered via that glass, I suspect that whoever Scotland Yard sends to investigate will order a search of the house and grounds to locate it. Might I suggest there's no reason to wait for the order. Her ladyship has confirmed that she expects the staff to do everything they can to assist the police with their inquiries, so making a start on that search seems wise."

Jensen bowed. "Indeed, sir. I'll see to it straightaway."

"Doctor?"

David turned and, with the others, looked up to see a maid leaning over the gallery balustrade.

Under their scrutiny, she colored, but continued, "If you have a moment, Doctor, Miss Sophie is asking for you."

Beneath his breath, David murmured, "Of course she is." But he nodded to the maid, then collected Veronica with a glance. "We had better go and see what's brewing there."

With concern flaring in her eyes, Veronica agreed and started up the stairs.

David inclined his head to Busselton and Stephen. "Gentlemen."

Then he turned and followed Veronica.

They found Sophie Meriwell prostrate on her bed—rather Ophelia-like to David's mind. But the instant the door shut, Sophie signaled to the maid to help her with her pillows and wriggled up to sit so she could better speak with them. "Grandpapa died, and it was horrible. What's going on?"

David didn't need to take her pulse to know Sophie was in perfect health. No matter whatever die-away airs she affected, her cheeks bloomed, and even red-rimmed, her eyes all but sparkled.

He drew up a chair to the bed, sat, and described the situation much as he had to her grandmother.

Just the bare bones, with no speculation as to who might have done the deed.

Sophie was genuinely horrified. She was also, plainly, unsure how to react—how she should behave. Hysterics were always an option with her, but in this instance, it seemed the gravity of the crime weighed on her sufficiently to quash her disposition toward drama. Likely there was drama enough in the situation to satisfy even her.

Ultimately, she opted to follow her true emotional inclinations and allowed her puzzlement and curiosity to show; for the first time since he'd known her, she asked questions about someone other than herself.

He answered the first barrage, but he wasn't about to spend the rest of his day pandering to Sophie's inquisitiveness, so at the first opportunity, he explained that an investigator from Scotland Yard would be arriving shortly and that he—David—would look in on her later to see how she did.

Apparently, that information gave Sophie enough to think about, at least for the moment. Absentmindedly, she nodded a farewell in response to his and made no demur when he rose and, with Veronica, left the room.

On the way back to the main stairs, she glanced at him. "Are you truly staying?"

He nodded and met her eyes. "I need to see this through."

I need to stay until the murderer is caught to ensure that you remain unharmed.

They reached the stairs, and he looked down as they started their descent. Given that she could probably guess the demands of his busy Harley Street practice, to better excuse his determination to stay, he added, "The investigators will want to speak with me, and I should watch over her ladyship for at least a few days. I've also asked two friends who have helped with investigations in the past if they can come down here and assist the police. They've done that before, in other cases. I'm not sure if they'll be able to oblige, but if they do, I should be here."

There. That sounded convincing.

He added, "I'll ask Jensen to organize a room."

Veronica nodded. "Her ladyship—and Sophie—will appreciate you being here."

"Speaking of Sophie, I note that while she asked about her grandfather, she didn't inquire after her grandmother."

Veronica tipped her head. "They're not particularly close. I understand they never have been. But then, Sophie isn't truly close to anyone, really. She rather takes after her grandfather in that regard—exceedingly self-centered."

"Hmm. Despite having treated his lordship for years, I haven't observed him in company, even among his family. But returning to Sophie and the reason you're here, what's your verdict?" He caught Veronica's gaze. "Is she truly a hysteric?"

That had been the question posed by Lord Meriwell and prosecuted to the point that David had agreed to send an experienced nurse to the Hall to assess Sophie's state of mind.

Veronica huffed, the sound dismissive. "No. She's definitely not a hysteric. She uses having hysterics to further her own agenda. She assumes airs and creates dramatic scenes and acts in many ways as a hysteric would, but it's all calculated to draw and hold the attention of all those around her. To Sophie, hysteria is a tool to be used to fix attention on her, and most of the time, more than anything, she craves being the center of attention."

David nodded. "That's what I thought. I suspect her ladyship believes that, too, but his lordship had worked himself into a lather over Sophie being a true hysteric and going into the ton, where her behavior would reflect adversely on the entire family."

"In my opinion, her behavior, if unchecked, will reflect badly, but on her rather than on her family." Veronica met his gaze. "One only needs to watch her for a short time to realize that her outbursts are fabricated and intentional rather than any spontaneous eruption of ungovernable emotion."

As they stepped off the last stair, David concluded, "So after all this is over and the matter of his lordship's murder is addressed, we'll have one piece of better news to brighten the outlook for Lady Meriwell."