Before anyone could ask her what was wrong, she asked, “Did you notice the footman?”
Byron frowned. “Which one?”
“The one helping us with our rooms. I recognized him. I’m almost positive that he’s Charles Montague.”
Byron’s frown deepened. “I’m afraid I’m a bit fuzzy on that name.”
Walker spoke up. “Wasn’t he the one you met with in Reading?”
“Yes. Monty.”
“The thief.” Byron’s eyes sparkled.
“Reading?” Castel said. “This wasn’t that business with the sheep, was it?”
“You heard about that?” Byron asked.
Castel shrugged. “I keep in touch with Wensley. How else am I to know anything about your work?”
“But don’t you see,” Mira said, “if he’s here, then he must be involved with the thefts.”
“We don’t know that for certain.” Byron tapped his finger onhis chin. “And we don’t know for certain if it is Monty.”
“He referred to you as Mr. Constantine, even though I didn’t mention you at all, and he has a scar on his cheek.”
“From the parrot,” Byron said, clicking his tongue. “Does he know that you recognized him?”
“I don’t think so. I tried to be discreet.”
“In some aspects, certainly,” Castel said, tone dry.
“That was quick thinking on your part,” Byron said, ignoring his brother and opening the door again. “You’d best get back before anyone notices. We can question him tomorrow.”
February 9, 1889: Early Morning
Wynmar Park sat at the top ofa hill with a gradual incline on the east side and a steep drop on the west. The Rose Room, where Mira, Liza, and Maureen had been put up, had a view of the fields beyond the drop. The snow had let up during the night, leaving a pristine blanket of white all the way to a line of trees at the far end of the property. Mira sat in the window seat and looked out over the quiet, winter morning. The other women were still asleep.
She traced the edge of each window pane, the cold seeping into her fingertips. Dark horses with red-clad riders moved across the snow towards the woods. Dogs ran beside them. It seemed Mr. Risewell had his hunting party after all. She had heard some movement in the house—that was what had woken her.
She knew she probably ought to be thinking over the case. If Byron had gone on the hunt, when would they confront Monty and what questions would they ask? Had the Risewells brought their footman with them to the dinner party at the Royal Crescent? Was he the accomplice who unlocked the window in Mrs. Sherard’s room?
No matter how much she tried to focus on the case, herthoughts kept returning to Byron and his family.
On her first meeting with Castel Sherard, she found him cold, disagreeable, and calculating. He certainly placed a greater importance on status, hierarchy, and propriety than even her uncle did. But he seemed to truly care about his brother, despite the age difference between them and despite Castel’s clear disdain for Byron’s career choice. When they had spoken at Sutherland’s party all those months ago, she could tell he held real guilt over Byron’s memory loss. He felt as if it were his fault for bringing the case to him. At this point, it seemed as if they were on friendlier terms.
If Castel was cold on their first meeting, his sister, Mary, was frigid and openly hostile. Mira closed her eyes, letting her head fall against the window frame, as the memory of their first meeting, less than a week ago, flooded her mind again. Why had she been so careless? She wasn’t sure how she would ever overcome that embarrassing first impression.
It shouldn’t matter. Byron loved her. He was willing to give it all up, and she loved him for it. But she didn’t want to force him to choose.
And then, there was Byron’s mother. Mira didn’t know what to think of Mrs. Sherard. She held the same tenets as her two eldest children when it came to status and family standing. And yet, Mira felt as if something had shifted when they spoke in the garden about Byron’s name. Some warmth had shone through for a moment before that icy exterior slid into place.
Why would a mother hide her warmth from her own children?
Or had Mira imagined the warmth, hoping for some maternal connection that wasn’t there at all?
A knock sounded at the door, rousing Liza and Maureen from their slumber. Mira opened the door. This time it was Theresia Risewell, laden with more clothes.
“My apologies,” she said. “I didn’t realize you weren’t all up.”
