The Dowager Duchess of Claiborne awoke with a start, one hand groping up to catch her nightcap before it slid over her eyes. A tall, shadowy figure moved across the floor of her artificially darkened bedchamber. She gave a faint gasp, then sat up in bed, her cheeks flushing with the heat of indignation when she recognized her only surviving nephew.

“Good heavens, Devlin. You nearly gave me an apoplectic fit. What are you doing here at this ungodly hour? And why are you glaring at me in such a fashion?”

He came to stand beside the carved footboard of her massive Tudor bedstead, his lean figure held taut. “Seventeen years ago, Sophie Hendon did not die in a boating accident. She simply left her husband and surviving children behind and sailed away. Tell me you didn’t know.”

Henrietta let out a sigh. She wished she could deny it. Instead, she said, “I knew.”

He swung abruptly away, going to jerk open one of the heavy velvet drapes at the window and letting in a stream of bright morning sunshine that made Henrietta groan. She brought up a hand to shade her eyes, and sat up straighter. “I thought at the time you deserved to be told the truth. But it wasn’t my decision to make.”

“I’m told she left with a man. Is that true?”

She stared at the rigid set of his shoulders. “Yes.”

He nodded. “As I recall, there were other men in her life. Had been for years. Why did she decide to leave with this one?”

“The others were distractions—or tools of revenge. I can only assume this one was different somehow.”

“Who was he?”

“I don’t recollect his name. He was a poet, I believe. A most romantic-looking young man.”

“A Venetian?”

“There was some Venetian connection. But the young man himself was French.”

“He was younger than she?”

“Yes.”

“You met him?”

Henrietta twitched at the high embroidered collar of her nightdress. “He was quite the darling of society that spring. Although, if I remember correctly, he left Town early.”

“Where did he go? Cornwall?”

“Evidently.”

Devlin brought up one hand to rub his eyes. Looking at him, Henrietta thought he looked older—and more exhausted—than she could remember having seen him. “Do you know where she is now?” he asked.

“Your mother? No. We were never close, and we certainly didn’t keep in contact after she left. I don’t believe even Hendon knows precisely where she went, although he sends money to her every year.”

“Why? He’s certainly not doing it out of the goodness of his heart. She obviously knows something. Something he’s willing to pay to keep quiet. What is it?”

The Duchess of Claiborne looked into her nephew’s troubled eyes, and for the first time that morning told him a blatant lie. “I honestly don’t know.”

SIR HENRY LOVEJOY WAS ANNOYED. He was making little headway in his attempt to capture the man the press had taken to calling the Butcher of St. James’s Park. He had the magistrates from Bow Street interfering in his investigation of the Carmichael murder. And now he was having to take time away from pursuing several promising leads to deal with an irate foreign embassy and a decidedly peeved Foreign Office.

Leaving Whitehall, Lovejoy hailed a hackney and went to see Viscount Devlin.

He found Devlin just preparing to mount his front steps. “I need to speak to you, my lord,” said Lovejoy, executing a small bow on the footpath.

The Viscount was looking unusually pale and distracted. He hesitated, then said crisply, “Of course,” and led the way into his library. “Please have a seat, Sir Henry. How may I help you?”

“I won’t detain you but a moment,” said Sir Henry, standing with his round hat held in both hands. “One of the wherrymen pulled a body from the Thames last night.”

The Viscount’s features sharpened with interest. “Anyone I know?”

“A foreigner,” said Lovejoy, watching the young man’s face. “From northern Italy.”

Devlin’s brows twitched together in a frown. “A thin man, with blond hair?”

“Ah. So you do know him.”

“He tried to kill me last night.”

“And so you killed him?”

“He fell into the Thames,” said the Viscount blandly. “What made you think to come to me?”

Lovejoy made a noncommittal sound far back in his throat. “He was a known associate of your previous victim. Charles Ahearn,” Sir Henry added, when Sebastian simply stared at him in puzzlement. “The gentleman you killed near Hungerford Market.”

“I didn’t kill Ahearn, remember? He fell, too,” said Devlin with a soft smile. The smile faded quickly. “You’re certain the blond man was Italian?”

“Quite.” Settling his hat back on his head, Lovejoy turned to take his leave. “He was a cousin of the King of Savoy.”