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that is the seventh Lord de Lacey, miss. Yer Christien’s brother.”
    Sebastien Laurent St. John de Lacey. The Mad Lord of Lasingstoke. Of his brother, Christien was notoriously silent. She honestly didn’t know what to think.
    “That’s a strange portrait,” she said. “Why can you not see his face?”
    “’E wasn’t there, miss.”
    “What’s that? He wasn't there?”
    “Not for the sitting, miss. The painter came every week for four months, but each time, ’is Lordship was unavailable or away. A painter can only paint what ’e sees, miss, and the painter did not actually see ’is Lordship.”
    “What an odd story,” Ivy mused under her breath, eyes still glued to the figure in the painting. There seemed to be far more than two dogs at his feet. “You’ve met him, then?”
    “Oh, yes, miss. Ah ’ave.”
    “And? What is he like, then?”
    “Well, miss, ’e’s, ah, ’e’s . . .”
    “I won’t talk. Promise.”
    “’E’s kind, miss. ’E’s very kind to me mother and Ah.”
    “Is he strange?”
    “Of course ’e is, miss.” The girl beamed at her. “As strange as can be.”
    And with that, she trotted down the last of the steps, and Ivy followed, but not without throwing one last look at the painting of the Mad Lord de Lacey, seventh Baron of Lasingstoke.
     
    DAVIS HAD ALREADY enjoyed his breakfast in the dining room and he perked up at the sight of them.
    “Hallo,” he said, tugging the brim of his cap. “I’m Davis.”
    “Lottie, sir.” She blushed and curtsied.
    “Are you the lady of the house, then?”
    “Oh no, sir!” She laughed. “Not me, sir. Ah’m just the maid.”
    “You’re far too pretty to be ‘just the maid,’ Miss Lottie.” He leaned his elbows across the table. “Does Lottie stand for Charlotte?”
    “It does, sir.”
    “Charlotte,” he repeated, green eyes gleaming. “What a beautiful name . . .”
    Ivy kicked him under the table but Lottie seemed not to notice. She curtsied once more.
    “Ah’ll fetch me mum. She’s trying to get the mop working. One of its gears keeps sticking.”
    As she ducked quickly through a doorway, Davis shoved a biscuit into his mouth and watched her as she went.
    “Sweet,” he grinned.
    “Davis,” she growled but leaned forward conspiratorially. “This house is haunted.”
    “I hope so. I’ll go bloody batty sitting around counting the sheep.”
    “I’m serious.”
    “You’re obsessed.” Her brother turned his chair and straddled it beside her, tossing a newspaper down beside her plate. “Did you read this? There’s been another one.”
    It was a newspaper, the Lancaster Guardian, and her eyes scanned for the article. It wasn’t on the front page. The murder of a prostitute did not warrant the front page. In Whitechapel, things like that were happening far too often to be considered news. But her father had seemed to think that this was different, this shadow man who killed with a stroke and dissected with skill. She began to read when a door pushed open and a woman bundled in.
    “’Ere. That’s not fit for breakfast readin’,” growled Cookie. She was carrying a tray covered in breads and scones, jams and jellies, and, of course, a pot of tea. “It’s not fit for anytime, if ye ask me.”
    Ivy swallowed. The woman was as fearsome this morning as she had been last night. Her voice was musical however, with a lilting Cumbrian accent that was likely tempered by years working in a great house.
    “It’s just a newspaper, ma’am.”
    “Don’t they teach ye nowt in London? Readin’ at the table is bad manners.”
    Davis laughed. “Men do it all the time.”
    “As Ah said, boy.” Cookie glared at his tweed cap. “Bad manners.”
    Davis grinned but, naturally, did not remove the cap.
    “I suppose you’re right,” said Ivy. “But my father is one of the investigators. I already know far more than the papers will print.”
    “Yeah,” said Davis. “It’s one of the reasons we’re here, ain’t