“I could not, sir.” The man drew himself up to his full height. “I do not give out personal information about my tenants.”

“You are to be commended,” Bewcastle said. “Some men in your position might try to make some extra money on the side by taking bribes in exchange for information.”

The landlord’s eyes slid uneasily toward Freyja and away again.

“When did you last see Branwell Law?” Bewcastle asked.

The man licked his lips. “Last night, sir,” he said, “after that servant come ‘ere. And this morning.”

“What?” Judith cried. “You said nothing about this to me this morning.”

“ ‘e come after you left, miss,” the man said.

“But you could have told me he was here last night ,” she said. “I told you he was my brother. I told you there was a family emergency.”

Bewcastle held up his hand in a slight staying gesture, and Rannulf drew Judith’s hand through his arm and settled his hand over hers. She was trembling—with rage, at a guess.

“The gentleman who called alone this morning,” Bewcastle said. “Describe him, if you will.”

“Blond hair, blue eyes,” the landlord said. His eyes had become shifty, Rannulf noted. “Short. With a limp.”

“Ah,” Wulf said. “Yes, quite so.”

It had not been Effingham, then, Rannulf thought with some disappointment. But surely he would be here soon. He was in London—he had already called at Bedwyn House.

“That is all I can tell you, sir,” the landlord said, making to close the door. Bewcastle set his cane against it.

“I suppose,” he said, “you did not admit this blond-haired, blue-eyed, short gentleman with a limp to Mr.

Law’s rooms?”

The man recoiled in shock. “Let ‘im in, sir?” he said. “When Mr. Law was from ’ome? Not me. No, indeed not.”

“I wonder,” Bewcastle said, “how much he paid you.”

The man’s eyes widened. “I do not take—”

“Ah, but you do,” Bewcastle said gently. “I will not pay you one penny. I do not deal in bribes. But I will warn you that if a felony has been committed in Branwell Law’s rooms this morning and if you took money from the felon to let him into those rooms, you are an accessory to a crime and will doubtless pay the price in one of London’s notorious jails.”

The landlord gaped at him, his eyes as round as saucers, his color suddenly pasty. “A felon?” he said.

“A felony? ‘e was a friend of Mr. Law’s. I seen ’im ‘ere before with Mr. Law.

‘e just needed to go in for a minute to get something ’e forgot last time ‘e was ’ere.“

“Then it was magnanimous of you to allow him in,” Bewcastle said while Judith’s hand tightened about Rannulf’s arm. “Unescorted, I presume? This dark-haired man?”

The landlord licked his lips and turned shifty-eyed again.

“I daresay,” Bewcastle said, “he paid you very well indeed to describe him as you did if questioned, to allow him in unescorted, and to claim that Mr. Law was here both last night and this morning?”

“Not very much,” the man mumbled after a lengthy pause.

“Then the more fool you,” Bewcastle said, sounding bored.

“You villain!” Rannulf dropped Judith’s arm and stepped forward. “I should throttle you within an inch of your life. What did he take from the rooms? Or, more important, what did he leave there?”

The landlord took one terrified step back and held up both hands.

“I din’t know ‘e were up to no good,” he said. “I swear I din’t.”

“Save the pathetic pleas for a judge,” Rannulf said. “Take us to Law’s rooms immediately.”

“I believe it might be preferable,” Wulf said, still sounding damnably unruffled, “to proceed more calmly, Rannulf. I am sure this good man has a tolerably comfortable room in which we can wait. I believe too that from this moment on he will be scrupulous in telling the exact truth to whoever asks it of him. It might save him his neck or at least years of his liberty.”

“Wait?” Rannulf’s eyebrows snapped together in a frown. Wait ? When Effingham was out there somewhere and so was Branwell Law? When Judith’s good name and liberty were still in peril? When there was probably planted evidence in Law’s rooms?

“If I am not much mistaken,” Bewcastle said, “this house will be receiving yet another visit soon.” He looked at the landlord again. “I believe you also agreed to show no recognition when the same dark-haired gentleman returns with a Bow Street Runner?”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed and looked from Bewcastle to Rannulf.

“Show us to a room within earshot of the door,” Bewcastle said.

It was a small, dingy room with dark, faded furniture. The four of them were ushered inside and left alone there, the door ajar.

Freyja laughed softly. “Sometimes, Wulf,” she said, “I cannot help but admire you. How did you guess?”

“I believe it was at our mother’s knee,” he said, “that I learned that two and two invariably add up to four, Freyja.”

“But what if they do not on this occasion?” Judith asked. “What if there is nothing in Bran’s room? Why will you not let us look, your grace?”

“The landlord will tell the truth now,” he said. “It is best, Miss Law, if he can say with all honesty that no one has been into your brother’s rooms since Effingham left them this morning.”

“Bran was not here last night or this morning, then, was he?” she said. “Where is he?”

They were rhetorical questions. She was not looking for answers to any of them. Rannulf took both her hands in his, squeezed them tightly, and then held them flat against his chest. He did not care what Wulf or Freyja might think.

“We will find him,” he told her. “And if Wulf’s guess is correct, as I would wager it is, his name will have been cleared by the time we do. Stop worrying.”

Though, of course, the brother was probably in serious trouble even apart from all this business of stolen property. If he had been desperate enough to leave Harewood in the middle of the night because so many creditors were hounding him, he would be desperate enough to do some pretty heavy gambling to recoup his fortunes.

“Don’t worry,” he said again, raising one of her hands to his lips and holding it there for a few moments until she looked into his eyes and half smiled.

Freyja, he saw, had taken a seat and was looking at them with an unreadable expression in her eyes.

Bewcastle was standing slightly to one side of the window, looking out at the street.

“Ah,” he said, “not a moment too soon.”

Judith was terribly afraid. Afraid of what was about to happen, afraid of what would be discovered in Branwell’s rooms, afraid of what might not be discovered. She was afraid for Bran even apart from all this, afraid for her family and for herself. And she was afraid of this proud, haughty, powerful family which was fighting her battles for her.

Most of all perhaps she feared the look in Rannulf’s eyes, the firm kindness of his hands, the warm gentleness of his kiss on one of them. Did he not understand?

She could hear the landlord open the door again—they were all very still, listening. She recognized Horace’s voice and another, deeper, gruffer voice.

“I am with the Bow Street Runners,” that other voice was saying, “and investigating a large jewel theft. I must insist upon your letting us into Mr. Branwell Law’s rooms, where I expect to find evidence.”

“I s’pose it is all right, then,” the landlord said.

“I am hoping ,” Horace said, sounding both grave and pompous, “that we will find nothing, Witley, though I fear the worst. Branwell Law is my stepcousin, after all. But I do not know who else would have stolen his grandmother’s jewels but him and his sister. They both fled during that same night. I pray this will be a wild-goose chase and they have already discovered back at Harewood that some vagrant broke into the house during the ball.”

“It is unlikely, sir,” the Bow Street Runner said.

There was the sound of boots on the stairs going up and then the jingle of keys and the squeak of a door opening upstairs.

“Wulf and I will go up,” Rannulf said. “Judith, stay here with Freyja.”

Freyja snorted.

“I am coming up too,” Judith said. “This concerns me as well as Bran.”

There was an open door at the top of the first flight of stairs, presumably opening into Branwell’s rooms.

Judith could see the landlord standing just inside. He turned a worried face toward them as they stepped onto the landing. Horace was standing in the middle of the room, his back to the door, his arms crossed over his chest. The Bow Street Runner, a short, rotund, bald man, was coming out of an inner room, perhaps the bedchamber, clutching a glittering pile of what must be Grandmama’s jewelry.

“He did not even hide it very carefully,” he said with some contempt.

“And that , if I am not much mistaken,” Horace said, pointing to a chair that was just in Judith’s line of vision, “is one of Judith Law’s caps. Oh, my poor Judith, how careless of you. I was hoping you might be left out of this.”

“She more or less had to be an accomplice, though, did she not, sir?” the Runner said, setting down the jewels with a clatter on a small table and picking up the bonnet cap Judith had so detested.

She did not know what everyone else was waiting for.

“You are a liar and a villain, Horace!” she cried, striding into the room and drawing to herself the astonished attention of both men. “You planted the evidence in my room at Harewood, and you planted the evidence here. It is a wicked, dastardly form of revenge, especially against Branwell, who has done nothing to offend you.”