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in vain for any mention of lung trouble when he first came to us.
    The duchess thought highly enough of him to give him a gold watch, so there could be no scandal with her daughters. He was not what I thought he would be like at all. He was better-spoken, friendlier, more ... thoughtful, really quite nice. But dangerously handsome. I had underestimated his appeal. He was one of those people who improve on longer acquaintance. There would be no disgraceful scandal over the mistress of the house carrying on with a servant at Gracefield.
     

Chapter Four
     
    Aunt Lovatt and I were relieved to see the weather was fine for our trip the next morning. The only regret was that I did not have proper mourning attire. I had outgrown the clothes from my mother’s mourning. The modiste had hastily fashioned one black gown for me, but it was a gown for evening. My pelisse was pale blue. Mrs. Lovatt decided that my navy traveling suit and navy straw bonnet with the flowers removed would be more fitting. They made me look like a governess, but I wore them. Mrs. Lovatt was better equipped. She, at least, would be wearing somber black.
    Bunny Smythe posted over at eight-thirty, as promised. His mourning attire was limited to a black arm band and a black ribbon around his hat. Even in our well-sprung carriage, a journey of over fifty miles was no small undertaking. The road along the sea was well maintained and well traveled, however. Between the natural beauty of the coast and the diversion provided by many towns and villages, we were kept from brooding on the troublesome nature of our quest. After a stop for lunch at Eastbourne, we arrived at Brighton in midafternoon.
    Both its charms and geography were familiar to us. Brighton was a favorite spot for a weekend’s vacation from Hythe. The Prince of Wales’s Pavilion had made it a mecca for holidayers of the nobility, and for the commoners who came to gawk at their antics. It was not the onion domes of the Royal Pavilion that drew our interest that day, but the Royal Crescent Hotel at the east end of town, just off the Marine Parade.
    “We shall try if we can to get the same room Papa had,” I said as we approached the portals.
    “The room will have been cleaned; you will not find any clues, if that is what you mean,” Mrs. Lovatt replied.
    Still, it was worth a try. We were left cooling our heels at the desk. I put the time to good use to scan the registry. A lump formed in my throat when I saw Papa’s name, inscribed in his familiar crabbed script. Harold Hume , Esq., Gracefield, Hythe, it said. He was registered in the Prince George Suite. If the suite lived up to its name, it would be the most lavish set of rooms in the hotel. Such lordly accommodations did not sound like my father’s way of carrying on.
    “We would like the Prince George Suite,” I announced when the clerk attended us. He was a pompous-looking little dandy, of the sort commonly called a “man milliner.”
    He looked from me to Mrs. Lovatt, and over our shoulders to Bunny Smythe. “Is it a honeymoon, ma’am?” he asked. Mrs. Lovatt’s inclusion in the party confused him.
    “No, it is Mrs. Lovatt and myself who wish the Prince George,” I said.
    “That suite is often used by honeymooners.” He glanced at some papers beside the registry and said, “Unfortunately, that suite is spoken for. Lord Fairfield will be arriving any moment.”
    “Oh dear, and I did so want to see Papa’s room,” I said to Auntie. “Would it be possible for us to just see it?” I asked the clerk. “My father was Mr. Harold Hume,” I added in an undertone, thinking the name would be familiar to him. A death at the hotel must have caused quite a ruckus.
    He recognized the name at once. “A most tragic and regrettable accident,” he said. “I can show you the suite, if you would like a quick glance at it.”
    “Yes, we would.”
    “I can give you and Mrs. Lovatt the Eastview Room,” he suggested, and mentioned the