“Not yet,” Hester said guardedly. “I would rather know more first, so that they believe me. Do you know why he would be in the Farringdon Road area? Did he go there often?”

  “I have no idea.” Livia blinked away sudden tears. “Papa went out many evenings, at least two or three every week. I am sure that sometimes he went to his club, but usually it would be to do with business. He was . . . I mean, we were . . .” She gulped as realization overwhelmed her again. She forced her voice to remain almost level. “We are on the brink of a great success. He worked so very hard; it hurts us all that he will not be here to see it.”

  “The new line opening in Derbyshire?” Hester asked.

  Livia’s eyes widened. “You know about that?”

  Hester realized she had shown too much knowledge. “I must have heard someone speak of it,” she explained. “After all, expansion of travel and new and better rail lines are of interest to everyone.” The maid returned with tea, and Livia thanked and dismissed her, choosing to pour it herself.

  “It is very exciting,” she agreed, passing Hester her cup. For a moment her face betrayed very mixed emotions—there was exhilaration, the sense of being on the verge of change that was wonderful, and also a regret for the loss of the familiar.

  Hester was uncertain if it could have any bearing at all upon Baltimore’s death, or what Monk needed to know, but she was curious to learn more. “Will it mean changes for you? This house seems charming. It would be hard to imagine anything better.” She picked up her cup and sipped the hot, fragrant liquid.

  Livia smiled. It softened her face and made her look the young, slightly shy girl that she must have been only a month before. “I am glad you like it. I have always been happy here. But my brother assures me that when we move it will be even better.”

  “You are to move?” Hester said with surprise.

  “We will keep this for the London season,” Livia explained with a slight gesture of her hand. “But we are to have a large estate in the country for our home. The only thing that will cloud it at all is that my father will not be here. He wanted to build all this for us. It is so unfair that he should not be able to have the rewards of his life’s labor, all the risks and the skill that went into it.” She picked up her tea also, but did not drink.

  “He must have been a remarkable man,” Hester prompted, feeling that her hypocrisy must show in her face. She despised Baltimore.

  “He was,” Livia agreed, accepting the praise eagerly, as if somehow her father could still be warmed by it.

  Hester wondered how well Livia had known him. Was her change in tone due to the fact that she was not remembering him so much as saying what she wished were true?

  “He must have been very clever,” Hester said aloud. “And very forceful. A weak man would never have been able to command others in the manner that must be necessary in order to build a railway. Any sign of indecision, or wavering from a principle, and he would have failed. One has to admire such . . . spirit.”

  “Yes, he was very strong,” Livia agreed, her voice tense with emotion. “When Papa was around one always knew one would be safe. He was always quite certain. I suppose it is a quality men have . . . at least the best men, those who are leaders.”

  “I think the leaders are the ones who do not allow us to see their uncertainties,” Hester replied. “After all, if someone does not feel confidence in where they are going, how can they expect others willingly to follow them?”

  Livia thought for a moment. “You are quite right,” she said with sudden understanding. “How perceptive you are. Yes, Papa was always . . . I think brave is the word. I know now that there were some more difficult times, when I was a child. We have waited many years for this great success that is coming now.” A smile flickered across her face. “It is not just the new railway line, you know, it is a new invention to do with rolling stock—that means carriages and wagons and so on. I apologize if I tell you what you already know.”

  “Not at all,” Hester assured her. “I know only what anyone may read about, or overhear. What kind of an invention?”

  “I am afraid I am not certain. Papa said little of it at home. He and my brother, Jarvis, did not discuss business matters at the table. He always said it was not suitable to speak of in front of ladies.” There was a shadow of uncertainty in her eyes, not quite as strong as doubt. “He believed family and business should be kept separate.” Her voice dropped again. “It was something he cared about very much . . . keeping the home a place of peace and graciousness, where things such as money and the struggles of trade should not intrude. We spoke of the values that matter: beauty and intelligence, the exploration of the world, realms of the mind.”

  “It sounds excellent,” Hester said, trying to sound as if she meant it sincerely. She did not want to hurt Livia’s feelings, but she knew that the inclusion of the ugly, and some attempt at the understanding of pain, was necessary for the kind of truth that makes the greatest beauty possible. But this was not the time or place to say so. “You must have been very happy,” she added.

  “Yes,” Livia agreed. “We were.” She hesitated, sipping her tea.

  “Mrs. Monk . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you think it is likely that the police will ever find out who killed my father? Please be honest . . . I do not want a comfortable lie because you think it would be easier for me.”

  “It is possible,” Hester said carefully. “I don’t know about likely. It may depend whether there was a personal reason, or if it was simply mischance, that he passed along the wrong street at the wrong moment. Do you know if he went intending to keep an appointment with anyone?” It was the question to which she most wanted an answer, and yet she was aware that the solution to Baltimore’s death might mean social ruin to his family, particularly to Livia, who was young and as yet unmarried.

  Livia looked startled, then, on the brink of speech, she stopped and considered, setting her cup down again. “I don’t know. Certainly he did not tell us, but then he never discussed business with Mama or me. My brother might know. I could ask him. Do you think it would make a difference?”

  “It might.” How honest should she be? Her whole reason for being there was dishonest to Livia. She was thinking of Monk and his need to know about fraud, and Fanny and Alice and all the other young women like them—in fact, all the women of the whole Coldbath area who were still living on the streets but were unable to earn anything because of the constant police presence. She was not trying to find the murderer of Nolan Baltimore because it would ease the grief of his family, or even in the impersonal cause of justice.

  “I know what people presume,” Livia said quietly, her cheeks very pink. “I simply cannot believe it is true. I won’t.”

  No one could easily believe it of her own father. Hester would not have believed it of hers. It was not rational. The brain said that one’s father was human like any other man, but all the heart and the will denied the very idea that he would lower himself to indulge carnal appetites with a woman paid from the streets. It awoke something inside oneself as to the origin of one’s own existence, the nature of one’s physical creation, and something unbearable about one’s mother as well. It was a betrayal beyond acceptance.

  “No,” Hester said, not really as a reply, simply an understanding. “Of course not. Perhaps your brother may know if he intended to meet someone, or if not, at least what his destination might have been.”

  “I have already tried,” Livia said with both embarrassment and anger. “He simply told me not to worry myself, that the police would find the answer, and not to listen to anyone.”

  “That might be good advice,” Hester conceded. “At least the part about not listening to what people say.”

  There was a knock on the door, and almost before Livia had finished answering, it opened. A dark, lithe man in his thirties came in, hesitating when he saw Hester, but only momentarily. He had an air of confidence about him which was arrogant, even abrasive, and yet had a certain attraction. Perhaps it was the feeling of energy in him which appealed, almost like a fire, at once dangerous and alive. He moved with grace, and he wore his clothes as if elegance were natural to him. He reminded Hester fleetingly of Monk as he would have been in his early thirties. Then the impression was gone. This man lacked a depth of emotion. His fire was of the head, not the heart.

  Livia looked over at him, and her face lit instantly. It was not something she did consciously, but it was impossible to mistake her pleasure.

  “Michael! I was not expecting you.” She turned to Hester. “I should like you to meet Mr. Michael Dalgarno, my brother’s partner. Michael, this is Mrs. Monk, who has been kind enough to call upon me in connection with a charity in which I am interested.” She barely blushed at her lie. She was perfectly used to the accommodation of social exchange.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Monk.” Dalgarno bowed very slightly. “I am delighted to meet you, and I apologize for intruding upon your tea. I had not realized Miss Baltimore had company, or I should not have been so forward.” He turned to look at Livia and smiled; it was deliberate and devastatingly charming. There was a candor to it that was as intimate as a touch.

  The color swept up Livia’s face, and neither Hester nor Dalgarno himself could have doubted her feelings for him.

  He placed his hand on the back of Livia’s chair, gently, as if it were her shoulder. It was oddly possessive. Perhaps so soon after her father’s death, and in such circumstances, the statement of anything further would be inappropriate, but the gesture was unmistakable.

  Hester had a fleeting thought that as the daughter of a wealthy man, about to become vastly wealthier through the sale of the components, Livia Baltimore was a young woman who might expect a great number of suitors, many of them driven by the least noble of motives. She must have known Dalgarno for some time. Was it a genuine love, begun as friendship long before the promise of wealth, or was it a classic piece of opportunism by an ambitious young man? She would never know, nor did she need to, but she hoped profoundly that it was the former.

  Now she had learned all that she was likely to, she did not want to remain longer and risk saying something that would give away the lie to Livia’s explanation for her presence. The only charity with which she was connected was the house in Coldbath Square, and she did not think that Mr. Dalgarno would find it easy to believe that Livia was interested in that.

  She rose to her feet. “Thank you, Miss Baltimore,” she said with a smile. “You have been most gracious, and I shall call upon you again if you wish, or not trouble you further if you feel we have—”

  “Oh, no!” Livia interrupted hastily, rising as well, her black skirts rustling stiffly. “I should very much like us to speak again, if . . . if you would be so kind?”

  “Of course,” Hester agreed. “Thank you again for your graciousness.” She turned to him. “I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Dalgarno.” He moved to open the door for her. She went out and was conducted to the entrance by a footman. She passed a tall, fair-haired young man coming in. He was remarkable for his vigor and his large ears. He took no notice of her, but strode toward Dalgarno and started to speak before he reached him. Unfortunately, Hester was obliged to go out into the street before she could overhear anything.

  * * *

  The following evening Hester and Margaret kept their appointment to meet in Margaret’s sister’s home and learn what more they could about Nolan Baltimore.

  Accordingly, Hester dressed carefully in her most sober jacket and skirt, the one which she would have worn were she seeking a position of nursing in a private house. Margaret wore a becoming gown of a dark wine shade and a highly fashionable cut. They took a hansom together and arrived in Weymouth Street, south of Regent’s Park, just after six. It was a very imposing house, and even as they crossed the footpath and mounted the steps up to the front door, Hester felt a subtle change come over Margaret. She moved less briskly, her shoulders were not quite so square, and she pulled the brass knob of the bell almost tentatively.

  The door was answered straightaway by a footman of towering height and excellent legs, the qualities most admired in his calling.

  “Good evening, Miss Ballinger,” he said stiffly. “Mrs. Courtney is expecting you and Mrs. Monk. If you would care to come this way.” He ushered them in, and Hester could not help glancing around the perfectly proportioned hallway with its black-and-white flagged floor leading to a magnificent staircase, and the walls hung with ancient armor, decorated swords, and flintlocks, stocks inlaid with gold wire and mother-of-pearl.

  The footman opened the withdrawing-room door, announced them, and then showed them in. Hester saw Margaret draw in a deep breath and go forward.

  Inside the room, oak-floored with paneled walls, heavy plum-colored curtains framed high windows onto formal gardens beyond. Three people were awaiting them. The woman was obviously Margaret’s sister. She was not quite as tall, and judging by her skin and slightly more ample figure, the elder by four or five years. She was handsome in a conventional way, and gave the air of being extremely satisfied with all about her. She was fashionably dressed, but discreetly so, as if she had no need to make herself ostentatious in order to be remarked.

  She came forward as soon as she saw Margaret, her face beaming with welcome. Either she was genuinely pleased to see her sister or she was a most accomplished actress.

  “My dear!” she said, giving Margaret a swift kiss on the cheek, then stepping back to regard her with great interest. “How delightful of you to have come. It has been far too long. I swear I was quite giving up hope!” She turned to Hester. “You must be Mrs. Monk, Margaret’s new friend.” This welcome was not nearly so warm—in fact, it was merely courteous. There was something guarded in her eyes. Hester realized immediately that Marielle Courtney was not at all sure that Hester’s influence upon her sister was a good one. It might have replaced some of her own, and with less desirable effects. And of course she could not place Hester socially, which set her at a disadvantage in estimating her desirability.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Courtney,” Hester replied with a polite smile. “I think so highly of Margaret that to meet any member of her family is a great pleasure to me.”

  “How kind of you,” Marielle murmured, turning to the man to her right and just behind her. “May I introduce you to my husband, Mr. Courtney?”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Monk,” he responded dutifully. He was a bland-faced man of approximately forty, already a little corpulent, but full of assurance and general willingness to receive his wife’s family, and whoever they might bring with them, civilly enough.

  The third person in the room was the one they had come to see, the man who might be able to tell them more about Nolan Baltimore. He was slender and unusual in appearance. His thick hair waved back off a high brow and was touched with gray at the temples, suggesting his age was more than his ease of carriage and elegance of dress portrayed. His features were very aquiline, his mouth full of humor. Marielle introduced him as Mr. Boyd, and laid rather more emphasis on Margaret than Hester was prepared for.

  She saw Margaret stiffen and the color rise to her cheeks, although she masked her discomfort as well as possible.

  The usual formalities of refreshment were offered and accepted. Marielle invited them to remain for dinner also, and Margaret declined without even referring to Hester, stating a previous engagement which did not exist.

  “It is very good of you to come in order to furnish us with assistance and information, Mr. Boyd,” she said a little stiffly. “I hope it has not spoiled your evening.”

  “Not at all, Miss Ballinger,” he replied, smiling very slightly, the humor going all the way to his eyes, as if he saw some joke that might be shared, but not spoken of. “Please tell me what it is you wish to know, and if I can answer you, then I will do so.”

  “I understand the restrictions,” she said hastily. “I am sure you are aware that Mr. Baltimore died tragically just over two weeks ago . . . in Leather Lane?”

  “I am.” If he felt any distaste he was too well schooled to show it.

  Hester’s regard for him increased. She glanced at Marielle and saw her intense interest. She was watching Boyd, and then Margaret, and then Boyd again, as if the outcome was of the greatest importance to her. Hester was filled with a fierce understanding of why Margaret longed to escape from her home and the pressure to marry suitably . . . as Marielle had done, and possibly whatever other sisters she had. She recalled some mention of a younger one, who was no doubt impatient for her turn.

  Was Boyd aware of this also? Did he know he was being gently but very firmly engineered into the desired place? He looked like a man supremely able to make his own decisions. No ambitious mother, or sister, would maneuver him, of that Hester was certain. But it was Margaret’s feelings that concerned her.

  “I work in a charity in that area,” Margaret went on with a candor that made Marielle wince and her husband look startled, and then unhappy.

  “Really, Margaret . . .” he said with disapproval. “Gaining a little money for those who are unfortunate is one thing, but you should not become involved in any personal way, my dear . . .”

  Margaret ignored him, keeping her attention on Boyd. “Mrs. Monk was a nurse in the Crimea,” she went on relentlessly. “She offers medical assistance to women who cannot afford to pay a doctor. I am privileged to give what additional help I can, as well as to raise money for the rent of the rooms and for medicines.”

  “Admirable,” Boyd said, seemingly with sincerity. “I don’t see what I can contribute, beyond an offering of money, which I am happy to do. What has Nolan Baltimore’s business to do with this? He did well, but not extraordinarily so. And anyway, as you observed, he is dead now.”