“What is wrong?”

For a moment she did not think that he would respond. But eventually he turned his head to look at her.

“Pierce was not much older than Anthony and Dominic,” he said without inflection.

Quite suddenly she understood.

“And not much older than Sweet Ned either.” She reached across the small space and took his big hands in hers. Tobias, you cannot save them all. You do what you can and that is all that you can do.

“It is enough. It must be enough. If you do not accept that truth, you will succumb to a sense of despair that will make it impossible for you to save anyone.”

His fingers clamped fiercely around hers. The storms in his eyes threatened to sweep her down into the depths. He did not speak, but after a while he pulled her into his arms.

They held each other until the hackney came to a halt at her front door.

Tobias got out, handed her down, and walked with her up the steps. She opened her reticule and found her key.

“There is something else,” he said, watching her fit the key into the lock.

She looked up quickly. “What is it?”

“This affair is not yet finished.”

“But Pierce is dead by his own hand. What else is there to discover?”

“The identity of the Memento-Mori Man.”

“But, Tobias, you said yourself, it is likely that he is no longer alive and, if he is, he will be quite elderly. Why do you feel you must find him?”

“I want to know who was responsible for turning two young boys into professional murderers.”

Thirty

Lavinia saw the lamp in the shop window the following afternoon. It was a lovely piece designed to imitate an antiquity in the Roman style. The delicately carved relief depicted the story of Alexander cutting the Gordian knot.

It was perfect.

Without a moment’s hesitation, she entered the shop.

“Wedgwood,” the shopkeeper informed her. “Lovely, is it not? Just the thing for a gentleman’s study.”

She held the lamp in the palm of her hand for a moment, enjoying the feel of it and imagining what it would look like sitting on Tobias’s desk.

“Yes, it will do nicely,” she said.

A few minutes later she was back outside on the street, the lamp safely swathed in several layers of protective paper tied up with a string. She put the package into the basket she carried on her arm, nestling it among the ripe peaches she had purchased on a whim from a fruit seller on the corner. If nothing else, the fruit would make a pleasant change of pace from currants.

She paused in the shop doorway to raise her parasol. At the end of the street Aspasia Gray, dressed in a stunning walking gown and fine kid half boots, alighted from a dashing little carriage. She walked toward the door of a dressmaker’s shop.

Lavinia watched her disappear through the doorway. On impulse, she decided to take a different route back to Claremont Lane.

This was probably not the most brilliant notion that she’d had in her brief career as a private-inquiry agent, she thought a short time later when she found herself in the park across the street from Aspasia’s town house. But now that the notion had come to her, she found she could not put it aside. Her intuition was in full bloom, filling her with a sense of great urgency. It was not only Tobias who was obsessed with the sense that this case had not yet ended, she realized. She had awakened with a similar certainty this morning.

There was only one other person in the small park. An elderly man dozed on a wrought-iron bench, his gloved hands folded on the head of the walking stick propped between his knees. He opened his eyes when she went past and regarded her with politely veiled masculine appreciation. She suspected that he had been something of a charmer in his younger days.

“There is nothing lovelier than a red headed woman in a park on a summer afternoon,” he said in a low, raspy voice. “Good day to you, madam.”

She paused and smiled. “Good day to you, sir. I did not mean to awaken you from your nap.”

He moved one hand in a surprisingly graceful gesture. “I have no objection to being awakened. My dreams are those of an old man, and therefore not of great import.”

“Rubbish. Everyone’s dreams are important.” Impulsively, she reached into her basket, selected a peach, and held it out to him. “Would you like one of these? I could not resist them. They looked so plump and juicy.”

“How kind of you.” He took the peach from her gloved fingers and regarded it with a small, private smile. “I will enjoy this very much.”

“You’re welcome. And do not ever tell yourself that your dreams are not important.”

“Even if they are the dreams of my younger days and came to naught?”

She contemplated that for a moment. “It is surely a wonderful thing when one’s dreams are realized. But in truth, that does not happen very often, does it?”

“No, it does not.”

“Perhaps it is for the best. Not all dreams are good. Some are no doubt best left unfulfilled, and others are probably never meant to be given shape and substance.”

“I will not quarrel with that, my dear,” he murmured. “But allow me to tell you that, from the perspective of my years, some dreams are worth the risk required to make them real.”

“I believe you.” She hesitated. “Perhaps what really matters in the end is that we took some action to make our finest dreams come true. Even if we fail, we will have the satisfaction of knowing that it was not because we lacked for strength of will and determination.”

“Ah, a philosopher after my own heart.” He smiled. “I could not agree with you more, my dear. It would be a sad thing, indeed, to look back at the end of one’s life and know that one had lacked the resolve to take a few risks, eh?”

She found herself transfixed by his vivid blue eyes. “Something tells me, sir, that if your dreams failed, it was not because you lacked resolve.”

“And something tells me, my dear, that we are alike in that regard.” He took a small penknife out of his pocket and started to peel the peach. “I am glad that you still have many years left in which to shape your dreams. My doctor has informed me that I only have about six months. A bad heart, I’m told.”

She frowned. “Bah, pay no attention to the doctors. They are wrong more often than not, when it comes to predicting that sort of thing. None of us knows how much time is allotted to us.”

“True enough.” He took a bite of the peach, eyes narrowed with a pleasure that was almost sensual.

“There is an herbalist in Wren Street named Mrs. Morgan,” she said. “My mother always claimed that she was far more skilled than any doctor. I suggest that you seek her out and tell her about your symptoms. She may be able to prescribe a tonic that will help you.”

“Thank you for the advice. I shall follow it.” He ate another bite of peach. “Come here to enjoy the sun, did you?”

“Well, no, not exactly.” She glanced at the door of Aspasia’s town house. “I am going to call on someone who lives here in the square.”

He followed her gaze, squinting a little. “Would that be Number Seventeen you’re looking at?”

“It would.”

He returned his attention to the peach. “The lady who lives there has gone out for the afternoon. Saw her depart in her carriage a short time ago.”

“Really?” Lavinia murmured smoothly. “How unfortunate. It appears I have missed her. Well, then, I’ll just leave my card with her housekeeper.”

“Housekeeper’s not home either.” He took another loving bite of the peach. “I saw an urchin go to the door. He must have given her a message, because a short time later she took off in a great hurry.”

“Indeed.”

She had planned to talk her way into the house by persuading the housekeeper that she had important news for Aspasia and would await her return. No need to put me in the drawing room. The library or Mrs. Gray’s study will do nicely. She had hoped to have an opportunity to look around a bit when the housekeeper inevitably retreated to the kitchen to make tea. If nothing else, a visitor could always make the excuse that she needed to use the necessary.

Admittedly, the plan had been somewhat vague and she really had no idea whatsoever of what it was she hoped to discover. But she felt compelled to learn more about Aspasia Gray.

“There is no one at home.” The old man raised his bushy brows. “It would appear that you’ll have to come back another time.”

“Evidently.” She stepped back. Well, I must be off. Do not forget the herbalist in Wren Street.”

“I won’t.” He pocketed the knife. “I shall not forget our little discussion of dreams either.”

“Neither will I. Good day, sir.” She gave him another smile and walked away.

She crossed the street and went to the corner. There she paused to glance back over her shoulder. The old man had finished the peach and returned to his nap. His chin was tipped forward onto his chest.

She darted into the narrow alley that led behind the town houses and counted garden gates until she reached the one that serviced Number 17. The gate was latched from the other side, and the top of the stone wall was several inches above her head. She required something to stand on if she hoped to get over it.

She glanced around and saw an old ladder that had doubtless been left behind by a gardener. It was the work of only a moment to angle it against the stone wall of Number 17. She climbed quickly to the top. When she looked down she saw a conveniently placed bench. Hiking up her skirts, she got first one leg and then the other over the top of the wall. She lowered herself to the bench.