“Youngest brother of the Duke of Kilmorgan, brother-in-law to the lady who owns this house.”

His tone was brutal and sarcastic, but the look in his eyes was . . . odd. “Yes, I do know who he is, Inspector.” “You met him in London, I believe?”

“Why is that your business? I met him in London, and I met his brother and his sister-in-law here in Paris. I don’t believe any of this is against the law.”

“Today you spoke to Lord Ian here in this house.” Her heart beat faster. “You’ve been watching me?” She thought of the drapes pulled back from the windows of this very room, and herself perched on lan’s knee, kissing him madly.

Fellows leaned forward, his expression unreadable. “I’ve not come here to accuse you of anything, Mrs. Ackerley.  My visit is in the nature of a warning.”

“Against what? Speaking to my friend’s brother-in-law in her home?”

“Mixing in the wrong company could prove your downfall, young woman. You mark my words.”

Beth shifted in annoyance. “Please be plain, Mr. Fellows. The hour grows late, and I would like to retire.”

“No need to get haughty. I have your best interests at heart. Tell me, have you read of a murder in a boardinghouse near St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, about a week ago?” Beth frowned and shook her head. “I was busy traveling about a week ago. I must have missed the story.”

“She was not an important woman, so the English newspapers wouldn’t have made much of it, and the French ones nothing at all.” He rubbed his finger and thumb over his mustache. “You speak French fluently, do you not?” “It seems you know much about me.” His manner and arrogance, in Isabella’s own drawing room, irritated her. “My father was French, so yes, I speak the language rather well. It is one reason I decided to visit Paris, if you must know.” Fellows pulled a small notebook from his pocket and turned over the pages with a quiet rustle. “Your father called himself Gervais Villiers, Viscount Theriault.” He glanced at her. “Funny thing, the Surete have no record of such a person ever living in France.”

Beth’s pulse sped. “He left Paris a long time ago. Something to do with the revolution in ‘forty-eight, I believe.” “Nothing to do with it, madam. Gervais Villiers never existed.  Gervais Foumier, on the other hand, was wanted for petty theft, fraud, and running confidence games. He fled to England and was never heard of again.” Fellows flipped another page. “I believe both you and I know what happened to him, Mrs. Ackerley.”

Beth said nothing. She couldn’t deny the truth of her father, but she had no desire to break into hysterics about it in front of Mr. Fellows.

“What has all this to do with Lord Ian Mackenzie?” “I’m coming to that.” Fellows consulted the notebook again. “I have here that your mother was once arrested for prostitution. Can that be right?”

Beth flushed. “She was desperate, Inspector. My father had just died, and we were starving. Thank heavens she was very bad at it, and the first approach she made was to a detective constable in plainclothes.”

“Indeed, it seems the magistrate was so moved by her pleas for mercy that he let her go. She promised to be a good girl and never do it again.”

“And she never did. Will you please not discuss my mother, Inspector? Let her rest in peace. She was doing the best she could in difficult circumstances.” “No, Mrs. Villiers wasn’t lucky like you,” Fellows said.  “You have been uncommonly lucky. You married a respectable gentleman who took care of you. Then you became a companion to a wealthy old lady, so ingratiating yourself with her that she left you her entire fortune. Now you’re the guest of English aristocrats in Paris. Quite a rise from the workhouse, isn’t it?”

“Not that my life is any of your business,” Beth said stiffly.

“But why is it of such interest to a detective inspector?”

“It isn’t, not in itself. But murder is.”

Every limb in her body stiffened, like an animal that knew it was being stalked.

“I haven’t done any murders, Mr. Fellows,” she said, trying to smile. “If you are suggesting I helped Mrs. Barrington to her grave, I did not. She was old and ill, I was very fond of her, and I had no idea she meant to leave everything to me.” “I know. I checked.”

“Well, isn’t that a mercy? I confess, Inspector, I can’t imagine what you are trying to tell me.”

“I bring up your mother and father because I want to speak frankly with you about topics that might cause a lady to swoon. I am establishing that you are a woman of the world and not likely to faint at what I have to say.” Beth fixed him with an icy stare. “Rest assured, I am not prone to swooning. I might have the footmen throw you out, yes, but swoon, no.”

Fellows held up his hand. “Please bear with me, madam.  The woman killed at St. Paul’s, Covent Garden, was called Lily Martin.”

Beth looked at him blankly. “I don’t know anyone called Lily Martin.”

“Five years ago, she worked in a brothel in High Holborn.”

He waited expectantly, but Beth shook her head again.

“Are you asking whether my mother knew her?” “Not at all. Do you recall that there was a murder of a courtesan at this High Holborn house five years ago?” “Was there?”

“There was indeed. The details are not pretty. A young woman called Sally Tate, one of the ladies of the house, was found dead in her bed one morning, stabbed through the heart, then her warm blood deliberately smeared on the wallpaper and the bedstead.”

Beth’s throat tightened. “How dreadful.”

Fellows sat forward, on the very edge of the chair now.

“I know—I know—that Lord Ian Mackenzie did that murder.” Beth felt the floor dropping from under her feet. She tried to drag in a breath, but her lungs wouldn’t work, and the room began to ripple.

“Now, Mrs. Ackerley, you promised me you wouldn’t swoon.”

She found Fellows at her side, his hand on her elbow.

Beth gasped for breath.

“It’s absurd.” Her voice grated. “If Lord Ian had done a murder, the newspapers would have been full of it. Mrs. Barrington wouldn’t have missed that.”

Fellows shook his head. “He was never accused, never arrested. No one was allowed to breathe a word to the journalists.” He returned to his chair, his face betraying impatience and frustration. “But I know he did it. He was there that night. By morning, Lord Ian had disappeared, nowhere to be found. Turns out he’d left for Scotland, out of my reach.” Beth grasped at the straw. “Then perhaps he was gone beforehand.”

“His servants tried to tell me he’d returned home before two in the morning, gone to bed, and left for Scotland by an early train. They were lying. I know it in my bones, though his brother the duke did his best to block me from finding what Ian really did do. I wanted to arrest Ian, but I had no evidence to please my guv, and the Mackenzies are high-and-mighty lords. Their late mother was a personal friend of the queen. The duke has weight with the Home Office, and he made my superiors put me off it. Ian’s name was never mentioned—not in the newspapers, not in the halls of Scotland Yard. In other words, he got clean away with it.” Lights spun at the edges of Beth’s vision as she stood up and walked away from Fellows. She thought of Ian, his quick, flickering gaze, his intense golden eyes, his hard kiss, the pressure of his hands.

It occurred to her that this was the second time in a few weeks that a man had warned her away from another gentleman.  But when Ian had told her about Mather, she’d easily believed him, whereas she wanted to deny all that Inspector Fellows said about Ian.

“You have to be wrong,” she said. “Ian would never do such a thing.”

“You say this when you’ve known him only a week? I’ve watched the Mackenzie family for years. I know what they’re capable of.”

“I’ve seen my share of violent men in my life, Inspector, and Ian Mackenzie is not one of them.”

Beth had grown up among men who solved their problems with their fists, her own father included. Her father could be perfectly charming when sober, but once he had gin inside him he became a monster.

Fellows looked unconvinced. “The girl, Lily, who died in Covent Garden worked in that High Holborn house five years ago. She disappeared after the murder, and I couldn’t find her no matter what. Turns out she’d moved into this Covent Garden boardinghouse, and a protector was paying her handsomely to live alone and keep quiet. Housekeeper says a gentleman used to visit her in the night from rime to time, well after dark. She never saw him. But there was an eyewitness who saw a man visit the house the night Lily got scissors stuck into her chest, and that man was Lord Ian Mackenzie.”

The floor wavered again under Beth’s feet, but she held her head high. “Your speculation isn’t proof. What if the witness had faulty eyesight?”

“Come, come, Mrs. Ackerley. You will admit that Lord Ian is most distinctive.”

Beth couldn’t deny that. She also knew that policemen could lead people into believing they’d seen what said policeman wanted them to have seen.

“I can’t think why you’ve come here tonight to tell me this story,” she said icily.

“Two reasons. One is to give you warning that you’ve befriended a murderer. The second is to ask you to watch Lord Ian and pass to me any information you think is relevant. He did both of these girls, and I intend to prove it.” Beth stared at him. “You wish me to spy on the brother-in-law of the woman who has befriended me? On a family that so far has shown me nothing but kindness?” “I am asking you to help me catch a cold-blooded killer.” “I am not employed by Scotland Yard or the French police, Inspector. Have someone else do your dirty work.” Fellows shook his head in mock sadness. “I am sorry for this attitude, Mrs. Ackerley. If you refuse to help me, I will have you as an accessory when I nick Lord Ian.” “I have a solicitor, Mr. Fellows. Perhaps you should consult him. I will even give you his address in London.” Fellows smiled. “I like that you don’t take kindly to bullying.  But consider this—I am certain you won’t want your new highborn friends tumbling to the fact that you’re a fraud. The daughter of a confidence trickster and a prostitute, worming your way into the bosom of the aristocracy.  Dear, dear.” He clicked his tongue.