own little boy. So why didn’t she understand that he wanted his mummy and daddy back?
“Jesus, Meg,” Jack said. He clunked down something heavy, like a tankard. “What’re you doing talking to the brat? You trying to make this harder than it is?”
“We’ll be in a right mess if he stops eating and makes himself sick, won’t we?” Meg’s voice sounded harder than it had when she’d been talking to Colin.
“It’s only been a day,” Jack said. “Plenty of kids go two or three without a meal.”
“Not his sort. He won’t be used to it.”
“All right, have it your own way. But you’re making it that much harder for yourself if—”
“If what?” Meg said. Something in her tone made Colin’s stomach take a dip.
“Well, hell, we still don’t know how this is going to end, do we?” Jack said.
There was a long silence. A shivery sort of silence. Colin grabbed the coverlet and clutched it round him.
“No,” Meg said at last. “But then that’s always true, isn’t it? Don’t worry, Jack, I haven’t gone soft. If it comes to it, I’ll do what needs doing. Let’s eat.”
The sand-scoured steps and polished front door glowed in the lamplight, no different from the countless other front steps and doors in the row of brick town houses with white-framed sash windows and neat area railings that lined Bedford Place.
“It looks as if Helen Trevennen got the respectability she craved,” Charles said, turning up the collar of his greatcoat.
“Not the sort of place one would think the summit of her ambitions,” Melanie said. “But perhaps by the time she came here she was looking for a haven.”
Charles glanced at his wife, wondering if there were undertones to the statement. Beneath the green satin brim of the fresh hat she’d put on when they returned to Berkeley Square, her face was unreadable. Difficult to believe it was only Wednesday night. Their trip to Brighton had taken less than twenty-four hours. Three more days remained until Carevalo’s deadline, though that time seemed scant enough, even with Helen Trevennen’s house before them.
Edgar moved to stand beside them on the pavement. Charles glanced up and down the street. It was empty, dark save for the yellow blurs of lamplight in the soot-sticky air and quiet save for the distant rumble of wheels and clop of hooves. They’d left their hackney three streets over and walked the rest of the way.
Charles’s gaze drifted toward Russell Square, where Addison was waiting. He and Blanca had returned from their visit to Lieutenant Jennings’s widow shortly before Charles, Melanie, and Edgar reached Berkeley Square. Mrs. Jennings had apparently been all too willing to vent her frustrations with her late husband. She had known a great deal more about him than Jennings realized, including his affair with Helen Trevennen of the Drury Lane. She admitted to talking about Miss Trevennen to a man calling himself Iago Lorano, who had called on her a fortnight before. But any secrets Jennings had shared with his mistress in his last letter, he had seemingly not confided to his wife.
Edgar stared at the house. “What if she’s out for the evening?”
Charles started up the steps. He’d left his walking stick in Berkeley Square, though the stiff soreness in his leg told him this had perhaps been more wishful thinking than wisdom. “We’ll find out where she’s gone.”
“What if she refuses to see us?”
He rang the bell. “She won’t.”
A manservant with a stiff shirt collar and an air of self-importance opened the door.
“We’re here to see Mrs. Constable,” Charles told him.
The manservant’s eyes widened. “But—”
“We apologize for the late hour. If you take her my card, I think she will agree to see us.”
The manservant glanced at the card, blinked in recognition, then cleared his throat. “If you’ll wait in the hall a moment,” he said in a voice several degrees warmer, “I’ll inquire if Mrs. Constable is at home.”
His footsteps faded up the polished stairs. Charles glanced about, seeking clues in the surroundings. The table against the wall was mahogany, and a handsome Turkey carpet covered the floorboards. The vase of dried flowers on the table had the sparkle of crystal, and the silver salver for cards did not appear to be plated. He met Melanie’s gaze in silent acknowledgment. Either Mr. Constable’s legal practice was doing very well or the former Helen Trevennen still had an outside source of income.
Edgar paced the carpet. “What do we do if she won’t come down?”
“Go up,” Charles said.
“Oh, Christ.” His brother stared at him. “You mean it, don’t you?”
“Can you think of an alternative?”
But the manservant returned with the news that Mrs. Constable would be happy to receive them. He conducted them up the stairs and opened a door onto yellow-striped wallpaper, a gleaming pianoforte, and chintz furniture. A world of secure respectability.
“Thank you, George. That will be all.” A dark-haired woman set her tambour frame on the settee beside her and got to her feet. She wore an apricot-colored evening gown, with a demure, ruffled neck and a skirt that did not cling too close. An amber cross hung from a black velvet ribbon round her throat. Beneath her curling fringe of dark hair, she was Melanie’s sketch come to life. The heart-shaped face, the wide, light eyes, the finely arched brows, the full, soft lips.
But what Melanie’s sketch had not caught, what none of those with whom they had spoken about Helen Trevennen had conveyed, was the sweetness that shone behind her eyes, in the curve of her mouth, in the tilt of her brows. Helen Trevennen, or Elinor Constable, radiated simple, artless charm. But then, if Charles had ever doubted that looks could be deceiving, his own wife had given him cause to know his folly.
“Mrs. Fraser? Mr. Fraser? Captain Fraser?” Her gaze drifted politely from one of them to the other. She smiled, a gentle smile that held no hint of the hard brilliance Charles had expected to find in Helen Trevennen. “Your names are familiar to me, of course, though I don’t believe we have ever met. Perhaps you have business with my husband? I’m afraid he isn’t in. He’s dining with a colleague in the Temple.”
Charles smiled at her, as though she was any lady in her drawing room, as though it was not past ten o’clock at night and his son’s life did not depend upon the outcome of the interview. “As it happens, our business is with you, Mrs. Constable.”
“Oh?” Her brows lifted, but she was too polite to blurt out a question. “Please sit down.” She gestured to chairs, returned to the settee, and bent down to retrieve something peeking out from beneath her worktable. A doll, Charles realized, with yellow yarn hair. “My daughter’s,” she explained with a smile. “My children like to play in the drawing room after dinner and I’m afraid we haven’t managed to teach them tidiness.”
Charles leaned forward in his chair. “I’ll come to the point, Mrs. Constable. We’re looking for a ring we believe you have in your possession. We’ll pay handsomely for it.”
The blue-gray eyes widened. The delicate brows rose in what Charles would have sworn was genuine puzzlement. “A ring?” She glanced down at her hands. On her left, she wore only a simple gold wedding band. On the second finger of her right hand was an aquamarine set in seed pearls. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Fraser. I don’t have a great deal of jewelry.”
“This is a gold ring, a heavy gold band, wrought in the shape of a lion with ruby eyes.”
Charles could detect no false note in the bewilderment in her eyes. “I have no ring like that at all, Mr. Fraser. No rubies and nothing of such an old-fashioned design.”
“We believe it was sent to you by Lieutenant William Jennings.”
This time her face tensed beneath the look of confusion. “I don’t know a Lieutenant Jennings.”
“Not anymore perhaps. But you did once, Miss Trevennen.”
The words registered on her face like a slap. The blood drained from her skin, but she held her head high. “It’s a long time since I’ve heard that name.” She smoothed her hands over her lap, pulling the sheer fabric of her dress taut. “I think you’d better tell me the whole story, Mr. Fraser.”
Charles summoned a smile from his inner reserves. “You were born Helen Trevennen in Cornwall, near Truro. You came to London about fifteen years ago. You worked as an actress at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. I should say, Mrs. Constable, that we realize this is not quite the version of events you gave to your husband when you met him. We have no wish to disabuse him of the facts. That is a matter between you and him.” His voice was steady. He did not so much as glance at his own wife. “We are only interested in the ring that you received from Lieutenant
