could not take her eyes off the girl. “She is so young,” she said.
“In years,” Lord Morgan agreed.
“Should…should someone fetch her parents?” The tears she’d been fighting welled in Dianthe’s eyes as she thought of how deeply they would mourn. She looked down, not wanting Lord Morgan to witness her weakness.
“I do not believe she has parents,” he said.
“You knew her?”
“We had met,” he commented in an even tone.
“Then who is her guardian?”
“She was without a guardian. A woman of…independent means.”
Dianthe felt a blush steal up her cheeks as she met his eyes. Independent means. She suspected she knew what that meant. “Even so, Lord Morgan, someone must care for her. Someone must have brought her here. They should be told.”
Mr. Thayer interceded with an angry glance at Lord Morgan. “You ought not to be carrying on such a conversation with Miss Lovejoy. ’Tisn’t fit for innocent ears.”
“She’s shown more sense than the rest of you,” Lord Morgan said, his appraising gaze sweeping the crowd. “Someone see if you can find Miss Brookes’s escort.” He turned to Dianthe and asked, “Did you come here with Mr. Thayer?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Then leave with him. You will not want to be here for the rest of this, and it will be better if you are not too available. Where is your aunt?”
“She and Mr. Hawthorne have gone to Italy on their wedding trip. They will not be home for another month, I think.”
“Where will you be if the police need to speak with you?”
“The Thayers’.”
“Then I’d advise you to remain quietly with the Thayers until your aunt returns. Do you think that is possible for you, Miss Lovejoy?”
Was he insinuating that she was a rowdy chit who had difficulty behaving? She stood and lifted her chin in the air as she swept her skirts away from him, then went to stand beside the Thayers. Harriett and Hortense each took one of her arms and led her away from the scene. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw Lord Morgan watching her, a speculative gleam in his eyes. Could he actually suspect her of murder?
The seedy Whitefriars tavern in a back street was the sort of place few people would even notice. Geoffrey could have bought the whole damn tavern for the sum he’d paid in rent over the last four years. Ah, but it was good to have a safe den in unexpected areas if one needed to go to ground quickly. Or needed to meet with people one would rather not be seen with.
He climbed the back stairs, drew his dagger from his boot, unlocked the door and stepped into the room, ready for whatever was waiting. In this part of town, break-ins were commonplace. But all was well tonight. He slipped the dagger back in his boot, took kindling from a basket, lit the fire and then the oil lantern on the table. A whiskey bottle and two glasses completed his preparations. Nothing fancy here.
Sir Henry Richardson’s knock was right on time. The man was nothing if not prompt. Geoff let him in and locked the door behind him.
“What’s so damn urgent to pull me from Polly’s bed?”
Geoff shook his head. Sir Harry, as the man was widely known, was a true ladies’ man. Tall and lanky, with bright blue eyes and dark hair, he never lacked for female attention, though he was wise enough to confine his amorous attentions to the demimonde. It would never do to have the angry father or brother of some innocent debutante looking for him.
Harry sat and Geoff poured him a stiff glass of whiskey. “Nell Brookes is dead.”
Harry choked midswallow. “Nell? Son of a… What the hell happened?”
“Murdered.”
“Not you?”
Geoff sighed. “I confess the thought entered my mind more than once, but no. If she had made some connection to Mustafa el-Daibul, well, she could have been the best lead we’ve had since the bastard entrenched himself in Tangier years ago. Nell knew women were missing, but I warned her to keep out of it. The stubborn minx did not tell me she was determined to see if she could get to the bottom of it. She knew I’d stop her.”
“A great pity. Nell was an excellent toss in the sheets. Knew all the tricks of the trade,” Sir Harry mused, and lifted his glass in a silent toast. When he’d finished the contents, he slammed it down on the table. “So we’re set back a bit. What’s next?”
“I’m still trying to sort that out,” Geoff told him. “There are…complications.”
“And what might those be?”
Geoff envisioned Miss Dianthe Lovejoy, bent over Nell’s body, holding the knife and smeared with blood. Dr. Worley had said the killer would be covered in blood, and Geoff had watched the gates until damn near dawn. No one had exited with any trace of blood on his or her clothing—except Miss Lovejoy. Surely, despite mounting evidence to the contrary, she had nothing to do with Nell’s death. What could her motive possibly be?
Geoff’s other thought—less likely but more troubling—was that Miss Lovejoy and not Nell Brookes had been the killer’s target. She looked enough like the courtesan to have confused a hired killer, and their gowns were startlingly similar. If that were the case, Miss Lovejoy would need a warning.
“Geoff?” Harry asked.
“Just thinking,” he said, pouring them both another glass of whiskey.
He went back to the table and sat. Lowering his voice, he said, “A young woman who is associated with friends of mine was found bending over Nell’s body. The doctor thought she might have been searching Nell.”
Harry smiled. “But you don’t think so, do you?”
Geoff shrugged. What, really, did he know about Miss Lovejoy, except that she detested him—and not entirely without reason? He had nearly gotten her cousin killed three months ago. “I cannot imagine why she would,” he said truthfully. “She looks to be the same age as Nell, but years more innocent. I would think a young woman of her sheltered upbringing would be too shocked to find a dead body to think of searching it. But after she left with the Thayers, we found a note in Nell’s reticule. It had notations detailing Miss Lovejoy’s address at the Thayers’, and that she would be at Vauxhall Gardens tonight. This gives rise to the question of whether Nell was seeking her out for some other purpose.”
“Could the Lovejoy chit actually have been Nell’s killer?” Harry ventured.
“Again, why?”
Harry shrugged.
“Even more curious, Miss Lovejoy could be Nell’s twin.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “There’s a coincidence! And a rather intriguing possibility. Could Miss Lovejoy and Nell be siblings?”
“Unlikely. Miss Lovejoy has an older sister and a
