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Sophia was eyeing the footman carefully. Since her troubles the previous year, she always paid mind to the servants. It was a heightened awareness Lily could not fault, given how narrowly her cousin had escaped with her life. Chiding herself for being distracted by the furnishings, Lily turned her attention to the conversation unfolding before her.

The young footman was tall, with a pleasant face and a light dusting of freckles across his cheeks that matched the copper-brown of his hair.

“Have we met before?” Sophia asked, though Lily was quite sure her cousin had already determined that she had not.

“No, my lady.”

“What is your name, pray?”

“Wesley, my lady. I have worked at Ridley House for several years.” His tone was genial, unfazed by the scrutiny.

“Where is the butler, Michaels?”

“He is making arrangements in regard to our household’s change in circumstances, my lady.”

“Very well. We are here for the duchess.”

“Of course, my lady. She awaits you in the red parlor.” Wesley bowed and turned to lead the way down a shadowed corridor. Lily scurried after them, nearly trotting to keep pace with the long strides of the countess and the footman. She scarcely had time to notice the worn carpets and faded wallpaper before they came to a halt.

Wesley knocked once, then opened the door and announced their arrival before retreating. As he stepped back, Lily caught his eye and mouthed a silent apology for Sophia’s earlier interrogation. The news of the baron’s sudden death had clearly set her on edge, stirring memories of past danger.

The footman offered a small understanding smile before drawing the door closed. Lily exhaled, grateful he had not taken offence.

Michaels showed the coroner into the gloomy library, his expression stamped with mild distaste. Brendan growled beneath his breath, his irritation with the servant particularly sharp today.

He had never gotten on with the man, who until now had been the baron’s creature. The butler’s disdain for the baron’s heir was subtle, yet unmistakable. Brendan had never confronted him, but it had long been a source of aggravation during the years he had been forced to reside at Ridley House, after the baron had dispatched him to London.

Once the butler departed, Brendan turned his attention to the coroner—and his heart sank.

Mr. Arnold Grimes was of medium height, with severely cut, receding iron-gray hair and a close-cropped beard that lent him the austere appearance of a Puritan. He wore a black coat and trousers, paired with a stark white linen shirt. The overall effect was one of lifeless neutrality, made worse by the sour expression stamped upon his face.

His cold presence seemed to draw the warmth from the room, and even the runner, Briggs, shifted a few paces away with barely concealed discomfort.

Sniffing with affected gravity, the coroner addressed the duke and the earl. “Your Grace. My lord. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”

Brendan rubbed his temple. The words were correct, but the tone betrayed them, the sneering contempt was obvious. Grimes had not even bowed to the noblemen, which was a deliberate slight.

“Mr. Grimes, your reputation precedes you.” The duke gave a cool nod, his gray eyes sweeping over the man without flinching. Halmesbury, ever the tactician, was composed and unreadable. Whatever easy candor he had shown with the runner earlier had vanished, making clear to Brendan that his brother-in-law recognized a threat.

Brendan inhaled slowly, gathering his resolve, and then rose from his chair and stepped forward. It would not do to appear weak.

The coroner gave him a fleeting frown, then dismissed him without so much as a greeting.

“Briggs, let me hear the facts.”

Briggs cleared his throat and consulted his notebook. “The baron appears to have been killed sometime around midnight. The butler states he returned home for dinner and was still in his attire from the coronation when he apparently encountered someone in the study. He was clubbed over the head with a statuette of a horse, which was found bloodied beside the body. Mr. Ridley returned home just after dawn to meet with his father and discovered the body at approximately twenty minutes past six.”

The coroner turned his stony gaze on Brendan, who had to steel himself against the ice revealed there. “And where were you?”

Brendan frowned, drawing himself up and responding in as haughty a tone as he could muster. This man plainly loathed the peerage—or perhaps simply loathed everyone.

“I was out.”

“Out?” Grimes repeated, arching a brow.

“Out.” Brendan refused to elaborate. He would not cede ground to this man.

Briggs cleared his throat again. “One of the servants should be able to confirm his arrival once I make my inquiries.”