One of the servants? She couldn’t imagine which one. Aside from George’s valet who was gone with him to London most of the time, the other servants were people she’d come to know, come to rely upon. Her only friends really. And she saw no reason why any of them would want George dead. He was their provider. Their employer. She’d never heard any of them speak ill of him.

She scrubbed her hands over her face. Mr. Abernathy had assured her he’d be investigating every possibility in great detail. She could only hope he found something … anything.

The door to the library opened just then, snapping Kate from her reverie. Mrs. Hartsmeade walked in in her usual brisk, efficient manner. “Oh, your grace. I didn’t know you were here. My apologies, I’ll come back another time.”

Themis leaped up and ambled over to get a pet from the housekeeper who clearly adored her.

“No, Mrs. Hartsmeade, please stay,” Kate called, eager for any small bit of company to distract her from her thoughts.

“I was just going to get a book I sometimes consult for removing stains from linens,” the housekeeper explained, patting Themis on the head.

Kate nodded. “Please don’t let me stop you.”

Mrs. Hartsmeade made her way to one of the bookshelves on the far wall, pulled a tome from the stack, and turned around. She made her way over to the settee where Kate sat. “Is there anything I can get you, your grace?”

Themis curled up on the rug near Kate’s feet again.

“No, no, I’m quite all right,” Kate replied.

Mrs. Hartsmeade smiled and turned to leave when Kate stopped her. “Wait. There is one thing…”

Mrs. Hartsmeade stopped and turned back around. “Your grace?”

Kate cleared her throat. “Won’t you … wouldn’t you … that is to say. I’d like it if you’d sit and talk to me for a bit, Mrs. Hartsmeade.”

Mrs. Hartsmeade’s blue-gray eyes went wide. “Your grace?”

Kate bit her lip. Oh, she was making a royal cake of herself in front of James’s perfectly ordered servants, wasn’t she? “It’s just that … well, I’m lonely, Mrs. Hartsmeade. And my housekeeper at Markingham Abbey, she used to sit and talk with me sometimes.”

Mrs. Hartsmeade gave her a kindly smile. “I understand … but … I hardly think it’s appropriate if I—”

“It’s not,” Kate admitted, shaking her head. “But I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

Mrs. Hartsmeade smiled conspiratorially at that and looked around. “Since you put it that way, how can I resist?”

“Excellent!” Kate cleared a spot on the settee next to her and Mrs. Hartsmeade hesitantly settled in, the book propped upon her lap.

“What would you like to speak about?” Mrs. Hartsmeade asked.

“Let’s see.” Kate tapped her chin with her fingertip. “How long have you been in Lord Medford’s employ?” She pushed her paper and quill aside on the table in front of her and pulled up one foot to tuck it beneath her.

“Since he was a boy,” Mrs. Hartsmeade replied. “In fact, I was the maid to his father, the former viscount.”

Kate blinked. “You knew James’s father?”

The housekeeper nodded. “Yes. For many years.”

Kate leaned closer. “What was he like?”

Mrs. Hartsmeade shook her head emphatically. “Oh no. I couldn’t possibly gossip about his lordship, your grace. No. No. No.”

Kate gave her an innocent look. “I’m not asking you to gossip, Mrs. Hartsmeade. Just describe him.”

The housekeeper appeared to be a bit mollified. “Well, he was tall, dark. Looked a great deal like the current Lord Medford though not quite as handsome.”

Kate nodded. “Go on. What was he like?”

A frown covered Mrs. Hartsmeade’s face. She glanced over her shoulder. “I do hate to speak ill of the family, your grace, but the current viscount, he’s a sight better man than his father ever was.”

“Really?” Kate leaned closer still. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to know every detail. James had already mentioned that he and his father had been at odds. But was there more to it than that? Perhaps he should be the one to write a pamphlet.

Mrs. Hartsmeade nodded. “Yes, the former viscount, he was very hard on our Lord Medford. Always insisting he get perfect marks in school, maintain a perfect reputation. Wouldn’t allow him to bring shame or scandal on him. Obsessed with scandal that man was.” The housekeeper clucked her tongue.

“So that’s why James is so … particular?” Kate said slowly, tapping her finger against her jaw.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hartsmeade said, nodding. “Every morning, the former viscount would inspect the work Lord James did for his tutors. If he found so much as a spot of ink, the slightest smudge, the boy would be forced to start completely over again before he had his breakfast.”

Kate reached down and patted Themis on the head. “He sounds positively dreadful.”

“Oh, he was. And I do hate to speak ill of the dead, but … Well, Lord Medford’s always been so hard on himself. Harder on himself than even his father was. If the old viscount was an exacting master, Lord James is twice as exacting … on himself.”

“I see.” Kate’s mind drifted off. It stood to reason that James’s insistence on perfection, his reputation as Lord Perfect, was well earned, but there was another side to him, a rebellious side, the side that owned a printing press and harbored a supposed murderess.

“What about his mother?” Kate asked.

Mrs. Hartsmeade sighed. “It’s an awfully sad tale to be sure, but his lordship never knew his mother. Died in childbirth, she did.”

“So that’s why he has no brothers or sisters,” Kate murmured.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Hartsmeade replied with a shake of her head. “I often wonder how his lordship would be different had his mother lived.” She expelled her breath and clutched at the book on her lap. “Though I expect it does no good to wonder.”

Kate wondered too. “I’m glad he’s had you, Mrs. Hartsmeade.” She reached over and squeezed the housekeeper’s wrinkled hand.

Mrs. Hartsmeade smiled at that then suddenly sat up straight, dropping the book to the floor. “Oh, your grace, please don’t tell his lordship I told you these things. He’d dismiss me immediately for being so improper.”

Kate leaned down and retrieved the book. She handed it to Mrs. Hartsmeade with a smile. “Is he such a hard master, then?”

The housekeeper took the book and settled back into her seat. “No, no. Not at all. He’s the soul of generosity with all of us. He demands the best from us, yes, but he always rewards hard work, and he rarely gets cross. He’s a wonderful employer, your grace. That’s the truth.”

“But you wouldn’t want to anger him?”

“No. Never. I’m very loyal to his lordship, your grace.”

“Don’t worry, Mrs. Hartsmeade. We never had this conversation.”

CHAPTER 20

Something crashed through her window. Kate, immediately roused from her slumber, bolted upright in bed. Her heart pounded wildly, a scream silenced on her lips. She glanced frantically around the room.

Smoke.

Fire.

Amid the shattered glass in the center of the room, a large chunk of wood was burning.

They were under attack. This time she did scream.

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, biting it fiercely. She scrambled up, tossing the sheets aside, the smoke from the burning wood already making her eyes water. She raced over to the broken window, and a bit of glass on the floor sliced open her foot. She grabbed at it, clenching her jaw. What was that noise? A glance out onto the street revealed a mob of people screaming and yelling, throwing things, and chanting.

“Murderess. Murderess. Murderess.”

Kate covered her mouth with her hand to stifle her scream. They were coming for her. They would kill her. And they were destroying James’s house. Oh God. She never should have come here.

She must escape. But first she must ensure James and the servants were safe. She turned to run. The long hem of her white nightgown caught on her bleeding foot, and she stumbled. She fell to the floor, the smoke clogging her lungs. She coughed fiercely.

The door to her room blasted open with a sharp crack. Kate’s head snapped up. James strode through the smoke and debris, his face a mask of anger. He looked like an avenger.

He should toss her to the mad crowd, Kate thought for an awful second. It would be one way to be rid of her and her disruption to his life.

“You’re bleeding?” He motioned to her foot and the bloody hem of her night rail.

“I’m fine,” she answered.

He ripped a blanket from the bed, tossed it over her, and pulled her to her feet with a gloved hand. Once she had her footing, he wrapped the blanket around her, spun her into his arms, and pulled her forcefully from the room.

“I’ve already seen to it that the servants and Themis are safe with the neighbors, the fire coaches are coming and the guard has been called. Come with me,” he commanded in a voice that brooked no debate.

Kate nodded. Eyes burning, still coughing from the smoke, she followed him from the room. He led her by the hand. They hurried down the back staircase and out a side door that adjoined a small fenced yard. James’s horse was there, already saddled. He boosted her up and swung up behind her. Fear clutched Kate’s heart in its frenzied grasp. She barely felt the freezing cold night air. All she could hear were the frantic screams of the mob, see the reflection of the orange haze of fire from the corners of her eyes. Please. Please. Let this be a dream.

A sharp yell sounded from the front of the house. Kate turned to see a smaller group of the mob that had broken apart. The men ran to the side yard, yelling, hissing, throwing things. “There they go!” they yelled, trying to catch the attention of the larger group, but the chaos was such that only a handful of the others heard. James tugged the reins and guided the horse in the opposite direction. They bolted out of the side yard, down the back alley and past the mews. Several of the mob members chased them on foot, but they were soon lost behind them as James and Kate galloped through the cold light-gray morning streets. They took two sharp turns and eventually came to a stop in the back of another fine town house. James swung down quickly and pulled Kate with him, holding her in his strong, warm embrace. He quickly ushered her inside.