Beth found herself with her head on Mrs. Palmer’s plaid broadcloth lap, staring up at the older woman’s face. Mackenzie plaid, Beth realized, blue and green with white and red thread.

“I’m sorry,” Beth whispered. “You must love him so much.”

“I’ve made no secret of that.”

“It must have been hard for you to watch him marry, to start shutting you out of his life.”

Not the most diplomatic thing to say, Beth thought, but she’d lost control of her words.

“I knew he’d have to marry,” Mrs. Palmer said calmly.  “I’m thirteen years older than he is and hardly one of his class. He needed to marry some peer’s daughter to host balls and fetes and charm his colleagues. He’d never become prime minister of England tied to a woman like me.” “But plenty of lofty gentlemen have mistresses. Mrs. Barrington liked to rail about it.”

“Who the hell is Mrs. Barrington?” Beth was too weary to answer, and Mrs. Palmer rambled on. “No one would mind so much Hart having a mistress, no. But it’s more than that.”

“Because he was your lord and master?” She remembered Ian’s words, and curiosity drifted through her pain. “What exactly did he do?”

“If you know nothing of that life, you would not understand.” “I suppose not.” Her attention drifted again. “I don’t believe Hart killed her,” Beth said, alarmed at how faint her voice had grown. “He would have waited until Ian was elsewhere.  But someone else might have panicked and shoved a knife into Sally.”

“Someone like me,” Mrs. Palmer said. “Perhaps I killed her.”

To protect Hart. Beth’s eyes drifted closed. She tried to imagine the scene, Ian peering through the half-open door, Hart looming over Sally with a knife in his hand, Lily Martin in the hall outside. Something was wrong with that. If only Beth could stay awake long enough to decide w h a t . . .  Mrs. Palmer stood up abruptly , as though she heard something, but no one came into the chapel. Beth’s head bumped the hard bench, and she closed her teeth around a groan.  “You’ll be fine here,” Mrs. Palmer said. “Someone will find you.”

“No,” Beth whispered in genuine fear. She reached for the woman’s hand. “Don’t let me die here alone.” If Beth could make Mrs. Palmer stay long enough for Ian to figure out where they were and bring the inspector along, Ian could be cleared and safe from Inspector Fellows forever.  Mrs. Palmer looked around the chapel, shivering as though a cool breeze touched her. “Why should 1 stay to be caught?”

“Because you didn’t mean to. You thought Lily would betray Hart, and you were scared.”

Mrs. Palmer bit her lip. “You’re right. I went to her to find out what she knew, and she started raving that the money Ian was giving her wasn’t enough anymore. The scissors were right in her basket. I picked them up . . . .”

She stared at her hand, flexing it in wonder.

“Hart will help you,” Beth said.

“No, he won’t. I ruined everything. Lily’s death put Inspector Fellows back on the scent. Hart will never forgive me.”

Beth grasped the edge of the pew, trying to stay conscious.  Sleep beckoned her, sweet sleep where there was no pain. “Did you really kill Sally?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I’ll go to the gallows for Hart, and he’ll understand how much I love him.”

“Lily and Sally were lovers,” Beth whispered. Her mind reached for something, but lights flickered on the edges of her vision.

Mrs. Palmer snorted. “Lily had a photograph of Sally in her sitting room, can you believe it? Sally had thrown her over all those years ago. I took it away with me. I didn’t want to give the police any hints, but they made the connection anyway.”

“Sally and Lily,” Beth whispered. She closed her eyes, and the scene played again in her head. Lily staring into the room while Hart was with Sally, watching Hart leave her.  Perhaps thinking that Hart had already given Sally money.  Lily furious because Sally had given her the push, and she wouldn’t have Sally or the money. A knife lying on the table next to the bed and Lily snatching it up. Ian watching from the parlor as Hart stormed out of the house, Ian seeing Lily in the hall, a witness, he thought, to a crime committed by his brother.

“I have to get away.” Mrs. Palmer shoved her hands into the pockets of Beth’s gown, snatching the drawstring bag that held Beth’s coins. She grabbed Beth’s hand and started working the silver ring with the diamond chip from her little finger. “I’ll take this, too. I can flog it when I get to the Continent. And the earrings.”

“No.” Beth tried to close her fist, but her hand was ice cold and so weak. “My first husband gave it to me.” “A small price to pay for me not killing you.” Mrs. Palmer snatched the earrings out of Beth’s ears, the tiny pain sharp. Isabella had given Beth the earrings in Paris when Beth had admired them. Keep them, darling, she’d said, careless and generous. They suit you better than they do me.

Mrs. Palmer stood up. She looked old in this light, a Woman who’d kept herself young with paint and perseverance.  Now she looked tired, weary, a woman who’d tried too hard for too long.

“I love Hart Mackenzie,” she said, her voice fierce. “I have always loved him. I will make certain that little woman loving whore Sally won’t ruin him even after all these years. I made sure Lily wouldn’t.”

“Stay and explain to them,” Beth gasped out.

In sudden rage, Mrs. Palmer hauled Beth up by the hair.

Beth cried out, her side like fire.

“You had no right to go digging everything up, bringing the inspector to my house. You’re as much to blame as I am.” Spittle flecked her lips.

Beth couldn’t fight anymore. Her whole body wanted simply to stop. She’d die here in Thomas’s little church, not ten yards from the churchyard where Thomas lay.  She thought she heard the lectern door squeak, and she saw Thomas standing by it in the white cassock she’d darned so often. His dark hair was gray at the temples, his kind eyes so blue.

Be brave, my Beth, she thought he said. It’s almost over.

“Ian.”

Mrs. Palmer scanned the chapel, her fingers still gripping Beth’s hair. “Who are you talking to?”

Shouting interrupted her, deep male voices, one of them Ian’s. Mrs. Palmer screamed, hauling Beth in front of her like a shield. Beth groaned in agony.

Ian, his face white, eyes wild, barreled into Mrs. Palmer. He was shouting something, but Beth couldn’t hear him, couldn’t understand his words. Mrs. Palmer stumbled, shrieking, and Ian caught Beth as she fell.

He was beside her, warm, solid, and real. Beth tried to reach for him, but her arms wouldn’t work. He lifted her and cradled her against him on the pew. His golden eyes were wide as he looked straight into hers.

“Ian.” Beth smiled and touched his face. She was the one who couldn’t hold the gaze, as her eyes drifted sideways.  In her peripheral vision, she saw Hart rush in, followed by Cameron and Inspector Fellows. Mrs. Palmer stood tall against the wall.

“I’ll not hang for that slut,” she said in a loud, clear voice. Her knife gleamed in her hands, and she plunged it straight between her breasts.

Beth heard Hart’s cry, saw Mrs. Palmer’s knees give and her body slide down the wall. Hart caught her in his arms.  Mrs. Palmer looked up at Hart. “I love you.”

“Don’t speak,” Hart said, his voice incredibly gentle.

“I’ll get a doctor.”

She shook her head, her smile weak. “It’s all dark now. I can’t see your face.” She groped blindly for him. “Hart, hold me.”

“I’m here.” Hart gathered her against him, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I’m here, love. I won’t leave you.” Ian didn’t even look at them. He had his eyes closed now, rocking Beth. Beth tried to say, “I knew you’d find me,” but darkness closed on her, and her lips would no longer move.  She slid into unconsciousness just as Mrs. Palmer’s last breath rattled through her throat.

Ian used Hart’s opulent carriage to take Beth home to the ducal mansion on Grosvenor Square. Hart’s house was always staffed, always at the “ready for any business the duke might want to conduct in town. Ian carried Beth inside, and the well-trained servants scrambled to obey his frantic commands.

Ian carried Beth to the bedchamber set aside for his use.  A doctor came to clean Beth’s wound and sew it closed, but Beth wouldn’t wake up.

Cameron had stayed with Hart and Inspector Fellows at the church while Fellows fetched who he needed to fetch and tried to make sense of what happened. Ian didn’t care what had happened. It was over, Mrs. Palmer was dead, and Beth had nearly died herself trying to put everything right.  Fellows could do as he liked.

Beth lay in a stupor, feverish and sweating. No matter how much Ian bathed the cut in her side, it swelled and reddened, and fever set in.

Ian stayed by her all night. He heard the others return, Cameron’s gruff voice and Hart’s quiet replies, the deferential voices of the servants. He pressed a cool cloth to Beth’s forehead, wishing he could bring the fever down by force of will.

He heard the door open behind him and Hart’s heavy tread, but Ian wouldn’t look up.

“How is she?” his brother asked in a low voice.

“Dying.”

Hart came around the bed and looked down at Beth, unmoving on the sheets. His face was white, strained.  Beth was so hot. She groaned with it, tossing her head from side to side. She whimpered when her wound touched the bed, as if trying to find release from haunting pain.  Ian glared at Hart. “You and your fucking women. You made them your tame animals, and now they’ve killed Beth.”

Hart flinched. “Damnation, Ian.”