guilty. Anything would be simpler than the hopeless longing she felt whenever he was close.
He must have read her expression. “I can promise you on everything I hold sacred that I had nothing to do with this. I might be a rascal, but I’m not evil.” His tone was gentle, almost apologetic, but she saw a flash of anger flit under the surface of his gaze.
It took every ounce of strength to keep her own voice level. “I know.”
“Thank you.”
How many women, she wondered, had been tempted to reform Tobias Roth? “You startled me in the upstairs hall,” she said.
“When?” His white, drawn face didn’t change.
“Never mind.”
If it hadn’t been Nick, or Tobias, then whom? Her stomach lurched.
Dear Lord
.
“Do you know what to look for?” he asked, jerking his chin at the body.
“Are you asking me to name the murderer by looking at the body?”
“Why not?” His eyes were bright with emotion. “If anyone could do it, you could. You’re smart enough.”
There was his redeeming grace. He didn’t treat her like a fool.
Evelina shook her head. “I’m not a consulting detective like my uncle. And be careful. You’re nearly standing in the blood.”
Tobias drew back with a sharp oath, then noticed the footprint. “Is that yours?”
“No. And I can’t be certain it’s Grace’s. Maybe it belongs to the girl who found her. I need to look more closely.”
“Well, I would suggest that you be quick about it. The police are on their way. They couldn’t find their backsides with an ordinance survey, but you can be sure they’ll toss everyone else out of the room.”
“Someone called the constables already?”
Tobias spoke low, through gritted teeth. “Bigelow did, before my father could stop him.”
“Stop him?”
“Someone crept into our house and committed murder. The scandal will be ferocious if it reaches the papers, so you can be sure the event will be buried faster than a plague victim.”
His words stalled Evelina’s brain. “How can you say that?” And then she realized that she was being naive.
Tobias made an impatient sound. “You know my father. Best to get on with your work.”
What work? What am I looking for? And why?
There was no good answer, outside the fact that it was impossible
not
to look. Partially it was curiosity. Partially it was respect. This woman had died. She deserved attention.
Carefully, she ran a hand down Grace Child’s arm, feeling for broken bones but not finding any. The limbs were still loose and slightly warm, the blood tacky enough to stick to Evelina’s fingers. She shuddered, wondering if it would be bad form to wipe herself clean on the victim’s skirts.
A small cross hung at Grace’s neck, the gold paint chipped. A purse with tattered fringes still held a few pence. Not robbery then—though any thief in this house would be after a bigger prize. Mended stockings. A hem and boots with fresh mud.
Grace had been out before this had happened. Errand? Assignation? Just a night off work to visit with friends? Evelina sniffed near Grace’s mouth. No telltale stench of gin. No scent of cheap perfume. Just a burned smell, as ifclothing or hair had caught fire, but she saw no scorch marks on Grace’s clothes.
She lifted the hem of the skirt slightly, trying to gauge the depth of mud the girl had tromped through. Not too bad. Probably paved streets, then. Moving the skirts revealed a long, careful mend in Grace’s right stocking. And, oddly, a brand-new petticoat trimmed in Brussels lace. Where had she come by that?
Evelina had a sudden, sinking feeling. A girl clinging to the edge of society, one with no protection, one tempted to seek affection in the wrong places. But for the grace of God, it could have been Evelina.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a long moment, fighting back tears, imagining the terror Grace had felt and no doubt falling short of the real thing. Then she drew out her handkerchief and covered the girl’s face, giving