chair, her eyes red and swollen. Mr. Dalton had his back to her as he looked out the window.
“Where is Mr. Hargreaves?” Mrs. Dalton asked, her voice strained to the point of breaking.
“I’m afraid he’s away,” I said. “But I can help you.”
“I don’t think so,” Mrs. Dalton said. “How would you begin to know what to do?”
“First tell me what’s happened,” I said. “Then I’ll be able to tell you if I do know what to do. And I promise if I don’t, I’ll tell you that, too.”
“She did save Robert Brandon,” Mr. Dalton said. “I’m not inclined to dismiss her.”
Part of the reason—perhaps the only reason—Robert allowed me to corrupt Ivy was the role I played in freeing him from an erroneous murder charge. He’d been accused of shooting his mentor, a man hated by nearly everyone in the empire. While he’d languished in Newgate, refusing to let his wife visit him, I’d traveled to Vienna in pursuit of clues I thought would lead me to the true killer. The crime proved at once more simple and more complicated than it looked, but in the end, my work led to his exoneration and release from prison.
Mr. Dalton’s wife flung her hands into the air. “Who am I to argue? And what would be the point? You’d only do what you want, anyway.”
Mr. Dalton did not respond to her outburst. “As you know, we’ve been keeping a close eye on Cordelia. We were vigilant before, but even more so once we knew about these letters she’d kept hidden from us. We’ve read every piece of mail that’s come for her, and have monitored all her visitors.”
“Not that she’s received many callers,” her mother said. “It wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Of course,” I said. Heaven forbid the girl receive the comfort of too many friends after having suffered such a brutal loss. “Did she leave the house today?”
“No,” her father said. “We’ve forced her to stay on the property. It seemed the safest course of action.”
“No doubt it was,” I said. “When did you notice she was missing?”
“She came down to breakfast—”
Mrs. Dalton interrupted her husband. “She was in better spirits than she’d been in so long.”
“Had anything happened that might have explained the change in mood?” I asked.
“Her outlook improved after your husband captured those vagrants in the park. She said it gave her hope she’d see justice for her fiancé,” Mr. Dalton said.
“Was there anything else?”
“Not of which I’m aware,” he said. “Am I missing anything?” He turned to his wife.
“No,” she said. “There’s nothing else.”
“Did you see her after breakfast?” I asked.
“She retired to her room for the better part of an hour, and then returned downstairs,” Mrs. Dalton said. “We were both answering correspondence in my sitting room.”
“Do you know to whom she was writing?”
“I’m afraid not,” she said.
“Have the letters gone out?” I asked.
“Yes. I had several items that needed urgent sending. One of the footmen saw to it.”
“I’ll need to talk to him,” I said. “What did she do after she finished her notes?”
“I’m afraid I’m not entirely sure,” her mother said. “I should have been keeping better track.”
“Were any of the servants watching her?” I asked.
“No,” Mr. Dalton said. “We have someone outside her door all night, but I didn’t think she’d be in such danger in the middle of the day.”
“It’s possible that she left of her own volition,” I said. “And entirely reasonable for you to have been more concerned at night.” This worried father didn’t need cause to take more blame on himself.
“I saw her on the stairs around one o’clock,” he said. “She had a book and a parasol. I assumed she was going into the garden to read. It’s walled, though, so I didn’t think it would prove problematic.”
“One of the gardeners saw her soon thereafter,” Mrs. Dalton said. “My husband’s assumption was correct. She was sitting under a tree, reading.”
“And after that?” I asked.
“I’m afraid we know nothing further.” Mr. Dalton’s voice choked. “Perhaps Mr. Hargreaves was right. We should have taken her abroad.”
“There’s no point considering what might have happened,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “It’s entirely possible the same thing would have occurred somewhere else. All that matters now is trying to find her. Have Scotland Yard been here and left already?”
“No,” Mr. Dalton said. “We have not contacted them.”
“You must—at once,” I said.
“I’m afraid we can’t.” He handed me a sheet of paper. “This was underneath Cordelia’s book.”
“But you did try to contact my husband,” I said.
“Mr. Hargreaves is not technically police,” he said. “I’ve not disobeyed this villain.”
This was correct, but I was more interested in the fact that the letter-writer had not mentioned us specifically—not due to an overblown sense of ego, but because he must have learned of our interference with his cronies in the park.
“Scotland Yard are already watching the house,” I said.
“I shall send them away at once.”
“We need their help, Mr. Dalton, and their resources,” I said.
“I can’t risk any more harm coming to Cordelia.”
“What if I were to go to them and seek advice? Quietly. You wouldn’t be involved.”
“I forbid it.” He was becoming angry, and I did not want to alienate him.
“I will of course respect your wishes,” I said. “Let us put our heads together and see what else we can learn here. Could you please show me where Cordelia was sitting in the garden?”
“Yes,” Mr. Dalton said. “And I shall fetch the gardener as well.”
“Thank you. Would you object to my sending a note to Park Lane? I would like Colin to join us as soon as he returns.”
“I would appreciate that, Lady Emily. Forgive me if I’m—”
I stepped closer to him and touched his arm. “There’s nothing to forgive. You’ve been through too much already today. I promise you I shall do everything I can to help you.”
I followed him, my hand firm on his wife’s arm to keep her steady, into the garden. On any other day, it would have been a blissfully idyllic setting. The flower beds overflowed with fragrant blooms and tall trees created pockets of shade from the bright sun. The sounds of the street couldn’t penetrate the thick walls—all I could hear were the cheerful songs of birds. We followed the neat gravel path until we reached a gleaming white wrought- iron chair. Next to it stood a small, round matching table on which rested the book Cordelia had been reading,
My surprise at the title must have registered on my face. I’d not read it, and silently scolded myself for the oversight, but had heard much talk about the story of three ladies and their marriages. While that might sound tame and appropriate, it was anything but. Sarah Grand used her writing to attack the double standards in society, particularly those regarding men’s romantic relationships before marriage.
“We have never tried to control what she reads,” Mrs. Dalton said. “And Mr. Dillman was a very forward- thinking man, you know. He encouraged her.”
I liked the deceased man better and better, and wanted more than ever to see his murderer punished. “May I?” I asked, motioning to the book. She nodded. I picked it up and leafed through the pages. No note, no envelope, no scribblings in the margins or on the end papers.
My heart broke a little at the rest of what was on the table. A half-empty glass of lemonade, once cold, water that had condensed pooled around its base, and a plate covered with the crumbs of what must have been lovely biscuits. One could almost imagine Cordelia would reappear at any moment, that she’d gone for a wander and fallen asleep in a shady corner where no one had thought to look.
