“Perhaps not,” I acknowledged. “But it is odd for the man to then decide to pursue me. You yourself found the idea incredible.”
He made a tsk sound. “Not because you aren’t attractive,” he said in exasperation. “I only meant that you aren’t the kind of companion he usually consorts with.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” I replied blandly, as I tried and failed to ignore the flutter in my chest. “Which leaves another explanation altogether for his attentions.”
“Such as?” Mr. Dorian prompted.
“I think he means to uncover what I know. Either about Charles Pearson or Oliver, or even both.”
He gave me a sympathetic look. “I know how important it is to you to find out what Oliver was doing, but—”
“No,” I said stubbornly. “This must all be connected somehow. There are simply too many coincidences for it not to be.”
But Mr. Dorian didn’t look the least bit convinced. “Then what do you propose we do?”
“I want to speak to your brother. I want to know if he’s looked into the baron at all and, if so, what he has learned.”
The silence that followed was, in a word, deafening, but I held Mr. Dorian’s gaze until finally he looked away. I watched a muscle in his jaw tighten. “Fine. But don’t be shocked if he dismisses this little theory of yours outright.”
I was unable to hold back my smile. “I welcome his criticism.”
He shot me an unamused look as he pulled back the window and gave the coachman an address near St. Paul’s Cathedral.
We spent the journey going over everything we knew about the case so far, while I did my best to make the baron fit.
“You can’t pin him as the killer just because he lied to you,” Mr. Dorian pointed out.
“I know that. But it’s awfully convenient, isn’t it? He knew Oliver. We know he attended the private auction with Charles—”
“Wesuspect,” he corrected me.
“Yes,” I amended. “We suspect. And he has an interest in Grecian artifacts.”
“Just like dozens of other wealthy men in this city.”
I let out a short sigh and stared out the window as that very city passed by. “All right. So I can’t explain it all at the moment. But I—”
“I will concede that it is possible he may have some connection to your husband’s … activities,” he began, taking care not to name them. “But as for murdering Charles Pearson, you need a motive. And besides, I’m sure the baron has an alibi. There were dozens of people in his house the night of the murder.”
“He could have slipped away and come back without anyone noticing. Or perhaps he had an accomplice.” I recalledhis large, scary butler, who had been staring daggers at Charles that night.
Mr. Dorian gave a reluctant nod. “I suppose. But Miles will need a hell of a lot more than that for a conviction.”
He was entirely right, but I couldn’t shake the growing certainty I felt. “I’m sure we can find whatever we will need for that,” I said, with a confident nod.
The coach stopped in front of a nondescript brick row house on a quiet road. Mr. Dorian glanced out the window with a wary look.
“If you don’t want to go,” I began, but he turned to me sharply.
“Nonsense,” he said as he pushed open the door. “Let’s get this over with.”
Mr. Dorian handed me down, and together we approached the house. The wary look had now been replaced with a disapproving frown, which I personally didn’t think would be very helpful, but I decided to keep that observation to myself.
When we reached the front door, Mr. Dorian knocked loudly three times, and we waited. “He might not even be here,” he said, clearly agitated before knocking once more.
“I know,” I replied in a gentle tone.
But just as he raised his fist yet again, there was a shuffling sound from the other side of the door. I could feel Mr. Dorian stiffen beside me as we heard the rattle of a lock being released.
