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aunt’s name, eh?”
    “It seems Sir Arthur’s sister married a Mr. Ashton, owner of a struggling newspaper—the Boston Examiner, I think it was—but the Ashtons were childless, so perhaps that’s why.”
    Napier forbore pointing out the lady’s tendency to alter her name as it suited her purpose. So far he was up to three, he was fairly well certain, and still counting.
    “Well, I pray she isn’t a troublemaker like her brother,” said Sir George. “Where did Jack Coldwater come from, by the way? I thought Sir Arthur Colburne had only daughters.”
    Napier lifted one shoulder, and told another of his almost-lies. “A bastard, Lazonby alleges, by some actress whose name no one recalls,” he said. “Miss Ashton claims her father acknowledged the child amongst close family. She says she lost touch with Coldwater for a time, then he turned up in Boston and went to work in the Ashtons’ newspaper business.”
    Claims. Alleges. Says.
    Christ, he’d sunk all the way down to Lazonby’s level. Weasel-words, indeed!
    “An illegitimate son,” Sir George murmured. “I cannot claim surprise. I knew Sir Arthur Colburne in passing—a charming rakehell, forever on the verge of financial ruin. What is the daughter like?”
    Napier was inexplicably reluctant to answer. The truth was, he had tried not to remember, despite the fact it was his job to remember everything. But the lady was a conundrum wrapped in an enigma. Alas, Napier loved nothing better than a mystery.
    Perhaps it was that dichotomy—her intelligent, almost ruthless eyes and stubborn mouth, contrasted with that luminous skin and alluring scent—which had so roused his attention. And his suspicion.
    What was she like? Ethereal was the word that came most readily to mind. And yet ethereal implied heavenly , and there was nothing angelic about Elizabeth Ashton.
    “She is a lady,” he said reluctantly, “and quite tall and striking in appearance.”
    “Striking?” Sir George set his head to one side. “In what way?”
    Frustrated, Napier shook his head. “Her eyes are a remarkable shade of green,” he said. “Or perhaps it’s blue. Like . . . a cat. And her face—it is almost luminous—like something out of a Romney portrait. And her hair is quite—”
    He jerked to a halt, realizing that he wasn’t perfectly sure what color her hair was.
    “Quite what?” urged Sir George.
    “— lovely ,” he finished awkwardly.
    Sir George cocked an eyebrow. “My word, Royden. You sound smitten.”
    Napier opened his mouth to snap out a retort, then remembering his place, shut it again. “Not in the least,” he finally managed. “I have my eye on her, that is all.”
    “Yes?” said Sir George almost hopefully. “To what end?”
    Napier’s shoulders fell. “To no end, sir, truth be told,” he finally answered. “This case is likely never to be resolved. And I think we both know it.”
    Sir George sighed deeply. “Still, the Home Office must give every impression of taking this matter seriously,” he said. “Do . . . something , Royden.”
    “Such as?”
    His answering smile was wan. “Interview her again,” he said. “Handle it personally—but gently, of course. At least we’ll be seen banging on the lady’s door.”
    “She lives out in Hackney,” said Napier dryly. “No one’s apt to recognize me.”
    The girl came back with two tankards and set them down with heavy clunk! —a sound of true finality.
    “So that’s it, then.” Sir George threw up his hands. “Sir Wilfred was guilty, Lord Lazonby wasn’t, our police have been humiliated, and Jack Coldwater has fled, never to be apprehended. Does that about sum up this bloody mess?”
    Napier could not bear to answer. The clamor in the pub had risen now—but not loud enough to drown out his guilt.
    Finally, Sir George gave him a thin smile. “Well, none of this is your fault.”
    “It happened on my watch,” Napier returned. “And on my father’s.”
    “Ah, yes. Your