even be murdered to ensure his silence. Suddenly Serafina became of intense importance to him, almost an image of himself in a future to come.
“Miss Tucker, someone killed her,” he said with a catch in his voice. “I intend to find out who it was, and to see to it that they answer to the law. The fact that Mrs. Montserrat was old and had very little family is irrelevant. Whoever she was, she had the right to be cared for, to be treated with dignity, and to be allowed to live out the whole of her life.”
Miss Tucker now let the tears roll down her thin cheeks, which were almost colorless in the late winter light.
“No one here would hurt her, my lord,” she said in barely more than a whisper. “But there were others who came into the house, some to visit her, some to visit Miss Freemarsh.”
He nodded again. “Of course. Who were they?”
She pursed her lips slightly in concentration. “Well, there was Lady Burwood, who came twice, as I recall, but that was some time ago.”
“To visit whom?”
“Oh, Mrs. Montserrat, although of course she was very civil to Miss Freemarsh.”
Narraway could imagine it: Lady Burwood, whoever she was, being polite and indefinably condescending; and Nerissa hungering for recognition, and receiving none, except secondhand through her relationship to Serafina.
“Who is Lady Burwood?” he asked.
Miss Tucker smiled. “Middle-aged, married rather beneath her, but happily enough, I think. She has a sister with a title and more money, but fewer children. She found Mrs. Montserrat more interesting than most of her other friends did.”
Narraway nodded. “You are very observant as to the details that matter, Miss Tucker,” he said sincerely. “Why did she stop coming?” It was a cruel question, and he knew it, but the answer might be important.
Tucker’s face flushed with amusement. “Not what you assume, my lord. She fell and broke her leg.”
“I stand corrected,” he said wryly. “Who else?”
She mentioned two or three others, and a fourth and fifth who had come solely to visit Nerissa. None of them seemed to have the remotest connection with Austria, or past intrigues anywhere at all.
“No gentlemen?” he inquired.
She looked at him very steadily. She had kept decades of secrets, and many of them were probably of a romantic or purely lustful nature. A good lady’s maid was a mixture of servant, artist, and priest, and Tucker had been superb at her job. A maid to Serafina Montserrat would have had to be.
“Please?” he said gravely. “Someone murdered her, Miss Tucker. I shall repeat nothing that is not relevant to the case. I am good at keeping secrets; until a few months ago, I was head of Special Branch.” It was still painful to say that.
Perhaps she saw it in his face. “I see.” She nodded very slightly. “You are too young to retire.” She did not ask the question that lay between them.
“One of my own secrets came back and caught me,” he told her.
“Oh, dear.” There was sympathy and the very faintest possible humor in her eyes.
“Who visited the house, Miss Tucker?” he asked.
“Lord Tregarron came to see Mrs. Montserrat, twice I think. He did not stay very long,” she replied. “Mrs. Montserrat was not very well on either occasion. I did not hear their conversation, but I believe it was not … not amicable.”
“How do you know that, Miss Tucker? Did Mrs. Montserrat tell you?”
“Mrs. Montserrat knew the first Lord Tregarron, in Vienna, a long time ago.”
“Tregarron’s father?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know the circumstances of their acquaintance?”
“I surmise them, but I do not know for sure. Nor will I imagine them for you.”
“Did Tregarron speak with Miss Freemarsh?”
“Yes, at some length, but it was downstairs in the withdrawing room, and I have no idea what was said. I know it was some time only because Sissy the housemaid told me.”
“I see. Anyone else?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Blantyre both came, separately. Several times.”
“To see Mrs. Montserrat?”
“And Miss Freemarsh. I imagine to discuss Mrs. Montserrat’s health, and what might be done to make her happier and more comfortable. I think Mrs. Blantyre was very fond of her. She seemed to be.”
“Mr. Blantyre also?”
“He is very fond of his wife, and very concerned for her health. Apparently she is delicate, or at least he is of that opinion.”
“And you are not?” he asked quickly.
She smiled. “I think she is far stronger than he appreciates. He likes to think she is delicate. Some men are pleased to believe themselves protectors of the weak, caring for some beautiful woman like a tropical flower that needs to be defended from every chill draft.”
Narraway had never thought of such a thing, but it seemed obvious after hearing Tucker say it.
“So you believe Blantyre came in order to ensure that Adriana was not distressed by her visits to Mrs. Montserrat?”
“I think that is how he wished it to appear,” she said carefully.
He noted the difference. “I see. And Miss Freemarsh?” he asked. “Would she say the same?”
“Most certainly.” A tiny flicker of amusement touched her mouth.
“Miss Tucker, I think there is something of importance that you are deliberately not telling me.”
“Observations,” she said quickly. “Not facts, my lord. I think you do not know women very well.”
He was now realizing this for himself.
“I am learning,” he said ruefully. “A difficult question, Miss Tucker, and I ask you not from personal curiosity, but because I need to know. Does Miss Freemarsh have an admirer?”
Tucker’s face remained completely impassive. “You mean a lover, my lord?”
Narraway watched her intently, and still could not read the emotion behind the words.
“Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean.”
“Yes, she does. But I know that because I have been a lady’s maid all my life, and I know when a woman is in love: how she walks, how she smiles, the tiny alterations she will make to her appearance, even when she is forced to keep the matter secret.”
He nodded slowly. It made perfect sense. Tucker would know everything; those who had grown up with servants in the house came to look at them as furniture: familiar, useful, to be looked after with care, and treated as if they had neither eyes nor ears.
“Who is it, Miss Tucker?”
She hesitated.
“Miss Tucker, whoever it is may, knowingly or not, be behind the death of Mrs. Montserrat.”
Tucker winced.
“Please?”
“It is either Lord Tregarron or Mr. Blantyre,” she said, in little above a whisper.
Narraway was stunned. His disbelief must have shown on his face, because Tucker looked at him with a disappointment that verged on a kind of hurt. She started to speak again, then changed her mind.
“You surprise me,” he admitted. “I considered both men to be very happily married, and I gather Miss Freemarsh is … not …”
“Attractive to men,” Tucker finished for him.
“Quite,” he agreed.
Tucker smiled patiently. “I have known of perfectly respectable middle-aged men who have been uncontrollably attracted to the strangest women,” she answered. “Sometimes very rough women, laborers with their hands not even clean, and most certainly ignorant. I have no idea what it is that appeals, but it is true. With Mrs. Montserrat, men loved her courage, her passion, and her hunger for adventure. And she could make them
