There’d been a time not so long ago when she’d been determined never to become any man’s wife, determined to dedicate her life to challenging the brutal social injustices that characterized their society. A chance encounter with a certain handsome, dangerous viscount had altered her attitudes toward marriage. But her passionate dedication to her cause had never wavered.
For the past year she had made the study of London’s poor her special project. Now, a summer spent traveling between Devlin’s manor down in Hampshire and several of Jarvis’s estates had stimulated an interest in the effects of the enclosure movement on England’s poor. She was focused on scribbling a series of questions to investigate when she became aware of Devlin walking toward her, the morning sun glazing his fine-boned face with a rich golden light.
“That didn’t take long,” she said as he drew nearer.
He shook his head. “It’s only just begun, I’m afraid.”
She felt the earlier surge of carefree joy seeping out of the day. “So the young Squire was right? It was murder?”
“Yes.”
“Dear God.”
He bent to pick up their son, the somber lines of his face relaxing into a smile as Simon squealed with delight. For a moment, he held the child close. Then he looked over at her. “You’re working?”
It was one of the things she loved about him, that he respected the work she did. That he respected her—her mind, her talents, her opinions. “Just jotting down ideas.” She closed her notebook. “Why?”
“I need your help.”
Emma Chance had occupied a corner chamber overlooking both the village green and the high street. Low ceilinged, with walls papered in a cheery floral pattern, it was furnished with a heavy, old-fashioned oak-framed bed hung with blue linen; a single chair; a washstand and nightstool behind a carved screen; and a clothespress so ancient it looked as if it might be original to the inn. At the foot of the bed rested a new-looking trunk and a pair of tapestry slippers; a lightweight hooded cloak and a sprigged dressing gown hung from hooks near the door.
Although he knew it was something that had to be done, Sebastian still found himself hesitating at the chamber door. The sense of intruding on a private space was strong, and he couldn’t help thinking that just yesterday, Emma Chance had left this room expecting to return to it in a few minutes or at most a few hours. She could never have imagined strangers coming here after her death to inspect her most private possessions, to analyze everything in a desperate search for clues as to exactly who she was and who could have wanted to kill her. And he found himself grateful that Hero had been able to leave Simon with his nurse, Claire, and come here with them. McBroom was right; her presence did, somehow, make what they were doing feel like less of a violation . . . although he acknowledged that could simply be a sop to his own conscience.
“How long was she planning to stay?” Hero asked the glowering innkeeper as she went to throw open the doors of the clothespress.
Rather than come into the room, Mr. McBroom stayed in the hall, his hands tucked up under his armpits. “Said she wanted the room for a week—maybe a bit more.”
“She wasn’t traveling with much,” said Hero, studying the two spare dresses in the clothespress: a sturdy gray carriage dress trimmed with black piping, and a simple black morning gown. The drawers below held two nightdresses, a pair of soft leather shoes, clean undergarments, and several pairs of black stockings.
“And?” asked Sebastian. This was the other reason he was glad to have Hero with them: As a woman, she could evaluate Emma Chance’s possessions in a way he never could.
“The carriage dress is nicely made and looks quite new—as if it’s only been worn once or twice. The other things are also nice, but with the exception of the black stockings they’re not new. The morning gown is an older muslin dress she probably dyed black when her husband died. How long did you say she’d been widowed?”
“Six months,” said Rawlins. He’d positioned himself just inside the door, his hands thrust into the pockets of his coat and his shoulders hunched. He was obviously feeling as awkward and out of place as Sebastian.
“How sad,” said Hero. She moved to study the array of objects spread across the top of the bedside table and washstand: a small embroidered silk sewing kit that opened to reveal dainty scissors, a thimble, thread, and buttons; a simple wood-and-silk fan painted with blowsy pink roses; a silver hairbrush and comb; a toothbrush and tooth powder; a half-empty bottle of rose water; a bar of rose-scented soap. . . .
“She obviously liked roses,” said Hero, studying the rose-encircled initials on the back of the hairbrush: EC. “This is new too.”
“So is the trunk,” said Sebastian. He watched his wife walk to the center of the room, then frown and turn in a slow circle. “What is it?”
“You said you found a spencer, a hat, and gloves lying beside her. What about her reticule?”
Sebastian looked at Archie Rawlins.
Both men shook their heads.
“So where is it?” said Hero.