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nothing. Is that clear?” With the house full of guests, there was no reason for the butler or any other servant to be in that corner of the house in the next few minutes. It would only take a few moments to get her ladyship. She would know what to do.
    “Where is the estate office?”
    The footman stammered directions, and Mallow took off to find her ladyship with two men working with ledgers. Frances looked up in surprise at Mallow’s concerned face. The maid leaned down to whisper.
    “My lady, there is something you should see, right now.”
    Not wanting to attract attention in case they were seen, they walked as fast as they could without breaking into a run.
    The footman was still guarding the door, and brought himself up straight when the two women approached.
    “My lady, I don’t know if you—”
    “Just keep standing there,” said Frances. She opened the door and entered, followed by Mallow, who closed the door behind them.
    Sir Calleford was slumped in his chair. Sticking out of his chest was an elegant, curved dagger, and blood had flowed over three large rubies set in the handle as if to join the jewels in continuous red.
    There was no point in checking , Frances realized. The man was dead. She looked at the wound and then glanced around the room. It was clear where the dagger had come from. The wall opposite the desk was decorated with swords and daggers of all kinds. She saw a huge Scottish claymore, a navy cutlass, an Italian dueling sword, an American Bowie knife, and an exotic-looking weapon with a wavy blade. The dagger’s scabbard was still on the wall. The artistry was Turkish , Frances concluded.
    What an odd collection , she thought, especially for a diplomat . But gentlemen often liked to collect things. De gustibus non est disputandum ; there was no accounting for taste.
    The rest of the room was masculine, as these offices were. Lots of polished wood, brass, and leather.
    “There is nothing else for us to see here, Mallow. Let’s go.” Outside, the footman was sweating out of fear.
    “Go get Mrs. Blake. Tell her that her presence is requested,” Frances told the footman, and he left with great relief.
    “I hope Mrs. Blake can summon the vicar tonight,” said Mallow. Frances smiled briefly. It was so like Mallow to worry about someone’s soul. But Frances was saving her concern for the living. Gwen was her father’s only child, and most likely had just become the mistress of the Eyrie—and one of the wealthiest women in England.

C HAPTER 3
    E veryone stumbled through the evening. Dr. Olcutt, who was there socially, formally pronounced Sir Calleford dead. Then came the chief constable of the county, along with a local inspector named Bedlow, several other constables, and the vicar.
    Gwen couldn’t seem to take it in, crying until she was sick as Tommie soothed her and fed her tea with honey.
    Frances eventually sent Mallow to find some sweet sherry, which she pressed on Gwen.
    “I don’t drink,” whimpered Gwen.
    “Now is a good time to start,” said Frances, and practically poured it down the girl’s throat. Eventually, Dr. Olcutt gave her a mild sedative and she slept.
    “I’ll sit by her in case she wakes,” said Tommie, pulling up a chair.
    “She should be out for a while,” said the doctor.
    “I don’t mind,” said Tommie. “When she does wake, I’ll be here.”
    Frances insisted on spelling her through the night, but Gwen slept continuously, if restlessly. In the morning, maids came with breakfast trays for the three women. Frances noticed they wore black armbands—someone was very quick and efficient. Was it Mrs. Blake, or someone else, who had such presence of mind as to make sure the undertakers provided them for the whole staff within hours after the master’s death?
    Gwen woke up, still a little dazed, but over her hysterics.
    “You won’t leave, will you?” she said, hugging Tommie.
    “Of course not. Not me, not Franny. We’re here for