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leaned over enough to see a date and deduced that Brenna was examining a diary entry midway through Volume II, just before the crap hit the fan for Ophelia. It had been a time in her life when she was between “protectors” and playing the field, living large as the ultimate catch among London’s gentlemen. That time was spent gallivanting to the opera, the theater, and the finest dinners and parties. It was also a time when she regularly held private “salons” with gentlemen in her own home, a perfectly outrageous activity for a proper lady in that day and age, but not for the courtesan known as the Blackbird.
    Piper smiled as her friend’s eyes scanned frantically from line to line. She’d already decided to share her discovery with Brenna, which was good, since there’d be no chance of hiding anything now. Besides, she’d always told Brenna everything. Brenna knew she was back on dairy. She knew she’d struggled to find a theme for the Ophelia Harrington exhibit, and would surely appreciate the value of the journals.
    And her friend knew all about Mick Malloy.
    Just then, Brenna’s eyeballs popped. She began flipping from page to page, gasping and clicking her tongue in disbelief. Piper watched her desperately search for the cover page, written in an elegant, flowing hand.
    Volume II
    The Life of Ophelia Harrington, Courtesan
    Brenna looked sideways at Piper, not moving except to blink. “What in the name of God is this?” she whispered.
    Piper shrugged. “It’s pretty self-explanatory, don’t you think? The one you’re holding is the middle of her three journals. In my mind, I’ve been calling it her ‘Britney Spears Years.’”
    “But…” Brenna stopped, sat up straighter, and cocked her head. It had been a long time since Piper saw her eloquent friend speechless.
    “Basically,” Piper continued, “Volume One is ‘The Deflowering,’ while Volume Three—that’s the shortest one and the one that has all the details of the murder charges and the trial, not to mention an absolutely mind-blowing twist I never saw coming—I like to think of that one as ‘The Morning After.’”
    Brenna’s brow knit together in bewilderment. “But this can’t possibly…” She paused, taking a second to rephrase her words. “Are you sure this is the same Ophelia Harrington?”
    Piper nodded. “Oh, I’m sure.”
    “The abolitionist? The one whose portrait is hanging in every elementary school in Massachusetts?”
    She nodded again.
    “Claudia handed these over to you?” Brenna shook her head in confusion. “It took that woman three months to agree to let the museum borrow the family candlesticks! Why in the hell would she give you something as … as … incendiary as this?”
    Piper chuckled. “Yes, well, there’s a story behind—”
    Brenna waved her hand through the air, cutting her off. “Wait!”
    Piper knew what was happening—her friend’s mind was barreling down a single track of inquiry and it wouldn’t be slowed or stopped until her relentless curiosity was sated. It’s what made Brenna an outstanding scholar and an often annoying conversationalist. (Just ask any of her former boyfriends.)
    Brenna scowled. “You told me once that it didn’t make sense that the courtesan put on trial in London back in 1825 was your Ophelia Harrington. You said there was speculation, but no proof.”
    “I did say that.”
    “And you said there was some innuendo about Ophelia Harrington’s having a mysterious past, but that nothing could be substantiated.”
    “And it never was,” Piper said. “Not until about seven o’clock Friday evening, when I bit a pen in half, broke my glasses, and tripped over Ophelia Harrington’s travel trunk, and out fell diaries that had been stuffed in a false bottom for the last one hundred and eighty-seven years.”
    Brenna sucked in air. Ever so carefully, she extended her hand and returned the document to the coffee table, almost as if she feared the pages