her joy. He had died on his first journey up the Amazon.
“Aye, I know,” Frank admitted, taking his daughter’s hand and squeezing it. “I spoke in heat. I know you want him punished. We all do.”
“I just don’t know what proof can be found, after all this time,” Megan pointed out.
“There was something more,” Deirdre spoke up. “Dennis was—I think he was searching for something.”
Megan stared at her sister. “Searching for what?”
“I’m not sure. But it was very precious to him. He cannot rest until he has it back.”
“He said that?” Again Megan felt a chill creep up her back. She did not believe that the dead came back to speak with the living. Still…
“He said something about having to find them—or it. I’m not sure,” Deirdre explained. “But I could feel how desperate he was, how much it meant to him.”
“The man killed Dennis for some reason,” their father pointed out, his voice tinged with excitement. “We never knew the why of it, but there must have been one. It would make sense, don’t you think, that it was over some object, something Dennis had that he wanted?”
“And he killed Dennis to get it?” Megan asked. “But what would Dennis have had that the man couldn’t have bought? He is wealthy.”
“Something they found on their trip,” Frank answered. “Something Dennis found.”
“In the jungle?” Megan quirked an eyebrow in disbelief, but even as she said it, her mind went to the history of South America. “Wait. Of course. What did the Spanish find there? Gold. Emeralds. Dennis could have stumbled on an old mine—or wherever it is you get jewels.”
“Of course.” Frank’s eyes gleamed with fervor. “It’s something like that. And if I can find whatever it is that he found and that murderer stole, it could prove that he killed Dennis. I have to go to England.”
Megan stood up. Her father’s excitement had ignited her own. For ten years she had lived with the sorrow of her brother’s death, as well as the bitter knowledge that his murderer had gotten away. Part of her passion as a journalist had come from her thwarted desire for justice for her brother. She had known she could not help him, but she could help others whose lives had been shattered or whose rights as human beings had been trampled. Among her peers, she was known as a crusader, and she was at her best in ferreting out a story of corruption or injustice.
She could not entirely believe that her sister had seen their brother. But her father’s words made sense. The man who had killed Dennis must have had a motive…and greed had always been a prime motive for murder.
“You’re right,” she said. “But I should be the one to go.” She began to pace, her words tumbling out excitedly. “I don’t know why I never thought of this before. I could investigate Dennis’s death, just like I do a story. I mean, that’s what I do every day—look into things, talk to people, check facts, hunt down witnesses. I should have done this long ago. Maybe I can figure out what really happened. Even after all these years, there must be something I can find. Even if it’s something that wouldn’t stand up in a court of law, at least we’d have the satisfaction of knowing.”
“But, Megan, it’s dangerous,” her sister protested. “I mean, the man has murdered already. If you show up there asking questions…”
“I’m not going to just walk up to him and say, ‘Why did you kill my brother?’” Megan retorted. “He won’t know who I am. I’ll think of some other reason to talk to him. Don’t worry, I’m good at that.”
“She’s right,” their father said, and his daughters turned to him in astonishment. He shrugged. “I’m a man of reason. Megan has experience in this sort of matter. But,” he added with a stern look at Megan, “if you think I’m going to let you run off and track down a murderer alone, then you haven’t the brains I credit you with. I’m going, too.”
“But, Da—”
He shook his head. “I mean it, Megan. We’re all going. We’ll track down Theo Moreland and make him pay for killing your brother.”
1
Theo Moreland, Lord Raine, rested his hands on the railing and gazed down at the grand ballroom below, a look of discontent upon his handsome face. His green eyes, fringed by smoky lashes so long and thick they would have looked feminine on any face less ruggedly masculine, moved lazily across the floor below, crowded with dancers.
He wondered, not for the first time this evening, what he was doing here.
He was not the sort for elegant parties. He liked much more to be out-of-doors, preferably in some exotic locale, doing something more intriguing…and possibly dangerous.
Of course, Lady Rutherford’s ball was dangerous in its own way—ambitious mothers and their daughters circling like sharks—but it was the kind of danger that he assiduously avoided. He wasn’t sure why he had come here this evening. He had simply been bored and restless, as he had been many times lately, so much so that at last he had flipped through his stack of invitations, usually ignored, and settled on Lady Rutherford’s party.
Once he got here, he had regretted the impulse. Besieged by flirtatious women of all ages, he had finally retreated upstairs to the card room. That, too, had paled, and he’d wound up here, gazing down moodily at the wide expanse of floor below.
“Lord Raine, what a surprise,” a sultry voice behind him said.
Suppressing a groan, Theo turned. “Lady Scarle.”
The woman before him was one of the beauties of London and had been for years. Her coloring was vivid, with jet black hair and deep blue eyes, and a strawberries-and-cream complexion. If the color in her cheeks was not entirely natural or a stray white hair or two had to be plucked out whenever they appeared, well, only her personal maid knew about it, and she was paid well to keep secrets. Most men, truth be known, found it difficult to lift their eyes above Lady Scarle’s magnificent white bosom, which was, as was customary, spilling out lushly over the low neckline of her purple evening gown.
“Now, now,” she said, smiling archly and laying a hand on Theo’s arm. “I think that we know each other well enough for you to call me Helena.”
Theo shifted uncomfortably and gave her a vague smile. He had never been good at dealing with rapacious females, and he found women like Lady Scarle even more unnerving than giggling young debutantes.
When he had left London on his last expedition, Lady Helena Scarle had been married to doddering old Lord Scarle, and while she had flirted with Theo, she had been interested in nothing more than a light affair, which he had avoided with little problem.
But when he’d returned a few months ago, he found that Lord Scarle had died, leaving the lady a widow. And the widow was interested in finding a new husband—as long as it meant moving up the social or economic scale. Unfortunately for Theo, he fit both requirements.
Lady Scarle had been on the hunt for him ever since.
“I was very disappointed not to see you at Lady Huntington’s musicale last night,” Lady Helena went on silkily.
“Mmm.
