The door was open behind her, and her shrill voice echoed in the corridor as she dropped the armload of garments on a stool. "Miss Parr? Ye be dressing still?" There was no answer from behind the silk dressing screen. The shadowy feminine form cast on the screen by the candlelight flickered, but it was a trick of the flame, Mrs. Garrety decided, no doubt caused by her own entry into the room. She scurried deliberately in that direction, her shoulders hunched aggressively forward in anticipation of what she would find.

  India Parr's velvet pelisse hung from a hook on the other side of the screen. The stub of a candle on a nearby stand had almost extinguished itself. Frowning deeply, Mrs. Garrety lifted the dish and blew out the flame. A bit of hot wax dripped onto the tip of her thumb, but she paid it no heed.

  "Ah, dearie," she said softly, "what tricks are you about this night? Nothing you'll want repeating, I'll venture."

  Shaking her head, the dresser pushed at the screen with the toe of her shoe, folding one panel enough to move it out of her path. She set the candle dish aside, turned up the wick on the dressing table oil lamp, and began applying herself to storing the garments she had carried into the room. She worked quickly, with more agitation in her movement than vigor, as she considered the problem of her employer's absence.

  The mole on Mrs. Garrety's cheek twitched as her tightly pursed mouth moved from side to side. There had been one errand after another this evening. That cursed boy Doobin, so often underfoot when he was least needed, had managed to make himself scarce. Perhaps, Mrs. Garrety mused, all his sniffing after Miss Parr's skirt had finally landed him under them.

  This last thought brought her up short. There was nothing to be gained by veering off in that direction, only something to be done. It was uncharacteristic of her to hesitate, but she did so now. Did she want to do something? Or let this evening's disappearance pass without consequence? If she said nothing...

  Mrs. Garrety straightened, pressing her hands to the small of her back to ease the ache there. A movement in the hallway caught her attention. Her head cocked to one side. Silence. "Doobin?" She remained still, her feet firmly planted, elbows jutting outward. There were few people left in the theatre. She had seen Mr. Kent and and Ben Whipple in deep discussion on the stage earlier, and the wardrobe mistress was mending a doublet accidentally slashed at the end of the first act. As was much the case, Mrs. Garrety's own departure was among the last, planned to precede or follow Miss Parr's by but a few minutes. Except tonight she had no clear idea how long her employer had been gone.

  There was movement in the hall again, and the deepening of a shadow on the far wall. Mrs. Garrety did not flinch from it. "I know rats when I hear 'em, boy. I can hear 'em wigglin' their whiskers. Let me see ye, now, or I swear I'll box yer ears when I catch ye. And I will catch ye. Depend on it."

  Doobin stepped into the open door frame and regarded the dresser with a mixture of wariness and curiosity. "How'd you know I was there?"

  "Same way as I know everything else." She touched the bent fingers of one hand to her temple and tapped lightly. "I use what the good Lord give me for more than to hang my ears on."

  The tips of Doobin's own ears reddened at this rebuke. He shuffled uncomfortably in place. His eyes darted around the dressing room.

  "She ain't here," Mrs. Garrety said. "As if you didn't know." She clucked her tongue at his feigned surprise. "Actin' ain't your strong suit, so don't bother yourself on my account. Did Miss Parr put ye up to this?"

  Doobin remained loyally silent, pressing his lips together for good measure. If the truth were known, India Parr's dresser frightened him a little. She put the image of a hook in his mind, bent and barbed, ready to snag him smartly if he wandered too close. The boy made certain he remained hovering on the threshold, with an escape route at his back.

  "Did she?" Mrs. Garrety asked again.

  "Don't know what you mean," he said stubbornly. "I come lookin' for Miss Parr."

  Mrs. Garrety made a sound deep in her throat that clearly indicated her disbelief. "Did she tell you to come around pretending you didn't know she was gone?" Though she anticipated no reply to her question, she inclined her head in Doobin's direction. She chuckled without humor when he remained mute. "I'll tell her ye did just as she asked. She won't fault ye for yer efforts."

  Doobin's shoulders relaxed a tad. "She's a good 'un, Miss Parr is."

  The dresser nodded. "Yer in the right of it there, Master Doobin. And it falls to me to make certain no 'arm comes to her, what wi' so many depending on her for their bread and butter. Ah, I see ye hadn't thought of that. Well, think on it and ye'll know it's the truth I'm telling. Sometimes she gets an idea that she's no different from the rest of us, but you and me, we know that's not the way of it. Miss Parr is what they call a diamond of the first water."

  The boy could not disagree. India Parr was someone outside the ordinary. He wished he had thought to call her a diamond.

  "Did she accept an invitation this evening?" Mrs. Garrety asked pointedly, her eyes narrowing darkly.

  Doobin's chin came up as he was jerked out of his reverie. He was pinned back by the dresser's shrewd stare. "I don't know what you mean."

  She clucked her tongue as if disapproving of his answer, but she had already divined enough to know that she had the truth of it. "You were pimping for her again tonight, weren't ye, ye little maggot? I should box yer ears on principle. But I won't, if ye tell me 'is name."

  Doobin let both insults to himself pass. He minded neither being named a maggot nor a pimp, though the former was infinitely preferable to the latter. What raised the hair at the back of his neck was the implication that Miss Parr was a whore. "Take it back," he said, puffing his chest out like a banty rooster.

  Mrs. Garrety merely cackled. "You think yer 'er knight, do ye? Come to do 'er bidding. Defend 'er honor." With no warning, the old woman struck like a cobra, closing the distance between herself and the boy in a step-and-lunge that had speed and strength behind it. She held Doobin against the wall, her forearm secured under his chin and against his throat. With the slightest pressure she brought him up on tiptoe. "The man's name," she said. "Which one was it tonight?"

  Doobin's small Adam's apple pressed sharply against his windpipe. That, more than an unwillingness to speak, assisted his continued silence.

  "Dacre? Stanhope? Mr. Rutherford?" She eased the pressure on his throat, but Doobin's wheeze was an inconclusive response. "Shake yer 'ead, boy. Which one of 'em put you up to it? Dacre?"

  Doobin managed a small sideways movement of his head. He had not given Mrs. Garrety high enough marks for strength or agility. With the shortsightedness of his own youth, he had never considered the long hours Miss Parr's dresser spent bending, lifting, and carrying costumes that weighed twice over what she did. He hadn't thought of the time she was engaged in packing trunks, or in moving them when no one came round to assist her quickly enough to suit her.

  "Then Stanhope?"

  This time Doobin merely shifted his eyes in a manner that indicated the answer was no.

  Mrs. Garrety sighed. "Oh, not that romantical fool Rutherford," she said under her breath. "And 'im with naught but pennies in his pockets. What's he think he can offer Miss Parr?"

  Hoping the woman was caught by her own musings, Doobin simply shrugged. His strategy worked, because she slowly released him. "So it's Rutherford," she said, continuing to watch him closely.

  Doobin bit his lower lip and worried it. In the small space she gave him, he managed to get his right arm up and massage his bruised throat. There was a nervousness in his movement that wasn't entirely feigned. She wasn't allowing him enough room to get the open doorway to his back again. He could feel every ridge in his spine pressed against the frame.

  "I could have ye put out on the streets," Mrs. Garrety said, no particular threat in her tone. "Do ye think Miss Parr could bring ye back? Not when Mr. Kent finds she's put 'erself and the company at risk with her antics. Like as not, he won't listen to what she says in yer defense. Only cares that she doesn't come to any 'arm. If he discovers ye've been abetting her, as they say, 'e's the one that will show ye the door 'imself. Mr. Rutherford ain't for the likes of Miss Parr."

  Doobin almost surrendered then, but the dryness in his mouth had cleaved his tongue to the roof of it. He could only portray sorrow with his large coffee-colored eyes. The fact that his sorrow was in large part for his current plight and not remorse for what had brought him to it was not anything he could communicate.

  Mrs. Garrety's narrow shoulders hunched in defeat. "Next time I will box yer ears, boy. Just see if I don't. Go on wi' ye. I 'ave no more use for ye. See that Miss Parr don't find one either."

  As soon as the dresser stepped back, Doobin slipped sideways and turned to race off. He found himself abruptly snagged again, this time by the back of his breeches, and hauled into the room.

  "Let me see yer pockets," the dresser demanded. Without waiting for him to turn them inside out, she began rooting through his jacket. He wriggled as much from the invasion to his person as the fact that her scrambling fingers tickled him. "Here, now. What's this? Someone's left their calling card with ye, perhaps?" Hopeful, aware that Doobin was holding his breath, she grasped it between her fingertips and tugged. She read the engraved name, turned it over, and studied the florid script. "Bah! The man's imagination is as spare as his wit. What can she 'ave been thinking?"

  Doobin tentatively held out his hand for the return of the card.

  "I think not," Mrs. Garrety told him. "Are ye collecting them? I'll keep this one." She gave his hand a light slap when he did not immediately let it fall away. "Go on. Before I change my mind about those ears."

  This time when Doobin slipped past her he got away, but only because she permitted it.

  The dresser stared at the card for a moment longer before slipping it under her sleeve at the wrist. She spoke softly to herself, her voice at once derisive and rueful. "Rutherford. Hardly seems worth the effort."

  * * *

  India held her wineglass carefully by the stem, watching the contents as she crossed the room to the window. One could be forgiven for assuming she cared about spilling Madeira on the tapestry rug, but it was only that she feared breaking the stem between her fingers or smashing the glass against hearth or wall. It was constraint she wished to show Lord Southerton, not the extent to which she could be roused to acts of temper and violence.

  She freed the ties that held the heavy velvet drapes in place. They swung free and fell into place, making a silent, gentle rippling as they unfolded. She idly smoothed them with the fingertips of her free hand.

  "Am I responsible, then, for Mr. Kendall's death?" she asked, turning on South again. She felt marginally more composed with the closed drapes at her back than she had with the window. Light from the interior room had made them clearly visible to those with an interest, and India thought that even with the viscount's considerable experience, she was perhaps more conscious than he that there were always those with an interest. "Are you saying that is the case?"

  "Did it strike that chord with you?" he asked mildly, watching her. She was different than she had been only a few moments earlier. He had the sense she was drawing into herself, but no sense that she was acting. There was an alteration, he decided, yet he could not place his finger on what made it so. India Parr seemed to be very much a woman who confined her considerable talent to the stage. Off it, he continued to be left with the rather odd notion that she had little in the way of confidence, and that she could not adopt an air that made it appear otherwise.

  India's glass hovered near her lips. "Yes," she said. "It did strike that chord."

  "And do you think you are responsible?"

  She had collected herself and had wits enough about her not to recoil from the question so baldly put. "No, not if your meaning is to ask if it was by my hand. I assure you, it was not. But I have often wondered at the repercussions of these intrigues. I think I am responsible to the extent I played any part at all. I was not careless in my communication with Mr. Kendall. I was not unmindful that there might be others with an interest in what passed between us. Mr. Kendall seemed likewise circumspect."

  "Still, he was found out."

  "Yes."

  "A bad end for him, then."

  India's head came up sharply and she stared at South. His tone had been too cavalier for her tastes. "You dismiss it lightly."

  He could have told her it was done only to gauge her reaction. He shrugged instead, punctuating his offhandedness with this gesture. South did not miss the slight tightening around her mouth. India Parr was most definitely offended by this adopted manner. He wondered that he was not more relieved by this discovery, but at times he knew himself to be possessed of a perverse nature. Now was such a time. Relief was not at the forefront of what he felt. Suspicion was.

  "What of your own feelings for Mr. Kendall?" he asked. It was appalling, really, that he should put the question so frankly to her, but he did not back away from it. Perhaps he would apologize later.

  "My feelings?" she asked, something of her incredulity revealed in her voice. He could not be seriously asking if she had developed a tendre for the man. No, of course not. That Southerton would be interested in such a thing was too absurd to credit. "I had nothing in the way of feeling for him that I do not have for most men of my acquaintance."

  One corner of South's lips twitched. "That, Miss Parr, is no answer at all, but I will accept it because your feelings are your own and I have no right to pry."

  "Indeed, you do not."

  South did not disabuse her of the notion that it would always be thus. He drained his brandy and set the snifter aside. "There is no proof that Kendall's murder is related to his work for the Foreign Office, although that is the suspicion under which we must proceed." He regretted the necessity of further blunt speech. "The condition of his body when it was discovered made it difficult to know certain details about his manner of death. That he was beaten is clear, though whether he faced one or more attackers is not. It cannot be determined if he was restrained at the time of his injuries, either by other assailants or by mechanical means."

  India paled a little. "Mechanical means?"

  "Ropes."

  "Why did you not simply say that he may have been bound?" she asked, a measure of color returning.

  "Irons," he continued as if she had not spoken. "Leather straps."

  India lowered herself onto the window seat. "You are speaking of torture," she said on a thread of sound. "Why?"

  "Why do I speak of it to you?" he asked. "Or why must I speak of it at all?"

  "Both," she said. "Either."

  "Your protection and the necessity of seeing that it is done."

  "I—I think—" India fell silent, aware that she had no coherent thoughts of any kind.

  "It has happened before," he continued. He cautioned himself against adopting a gentler tone or softening his expression to reassure her. Creating false confidences, especially where none were warranted, would lead to precisely the opposite outcome from the one he wished. "If it is how Mr. Kendall met his end, then he would not be the first."

  "But you do not know..."

  "No," he admitted. "We cannot be certain."

  "It may have been footpads."

  He nodded slightly, allowing this could have been the case, then added, "It may have been that Mr. Kendall had too much grog at the Keg and Kettle and fell repeatedly on his face, but I do not believe that." South paused. "And neither do you."

  "I do not know what to believe." India finished her wine. It was uncharacteristic of her to indulge in a third glass, but she did so now. Standing at the sideboard, she said, "It does not necessarily follow that I am in danger. Or at least no more than I have ever accepted as a reasonable risk."

  Southerton doubted she knew how to assess the risk to herself. Her idea that any was reasonable chilled his marrow. Like the sailor he had been, he changed tack in the face of her wind. "Tell me what else you remember from your last conversation with Mr. Kendall."

  India did not immediately answer, thinking on the exchange. "As I said, I gently teased him about his manner of dress; then we spoke of a recent musicale to which he had been invited. I asked him several questions. Who played. Who attended. What was his favorite piece. Our discourse was brief because there were others waiting for my attention and those politely listening to our conversation in anticipation of having their own with me."

  "Then the musicale was no imagined affair. It truly occurred."

  "I've always assumed so. It afforded him the opportunity to speak of Lady Macquey-Howell and allowed me to inquire about the Spanish consul."

  "And you gave him the information he was seeking in this fashion?"

  "Yes. Always. I can assure you, our exchanges were unexceptional."

  Unless the musicale had never occurred and someone overhearing knew that to be so. Would Kendall have been so careless? No, South told himself. He knew little of the man's character, but he knew a great deal of the colonel's. John Blackwood did not suffer fools, and there were precious few he selected to work for him—fewer still he entrusted with the diplomatic tinkering that was Kendall's forte. Eastlyn was one such as Kendall. South suspected that solving Kendall's murder and protecting India Parr was ultimately in the service of shielding the Marquess of Eastlyn. East only admitted to being embroiled in one coil—with two women, true—but no one among the Compass Club believed their good friend was not engaged in something requiring his other, less remarked upon talents.

  Southerton determined to investigate the musicale. As a starting place it was likely without promise, but he had no other at the ready.

  "I take it you have met the colonel, Miss Parr," South said.

  "Only once."

  It was extraordinary that they would have met at all, though India Parr had no reason to know that. "And how did he impress you upon that occasion?"

  She smiled slightly and her answer came without hesitation. "Persuasive," she said. "He impressed me as persuasive." Her eyes widened as South gave an unexpected but appreciative shout of laughter.