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fitted the key in the lock, and he nodded to her reassuringly. As soon as she opened the door, the stout constable, Mr. Cooke, walked past her and entered.
    “Well, my lady,” Constable Cooke said, glancing around from the center of the room. He crossed his arms over his barrel chest, and his upper lip curled with disdain. He obviously still believed he’d been called there for their amusement or as part of a wager. “Where is this injured party?”
    Olivia took a step toward the wardrobe and her gaze fell once again to the dark stain on the floor in front of it. Her small footprints painted a trail in brownish red, pointing in her direction. A cold sweat prickled down her back, making her shiver. The thought of opening the door and exposing the man within made her stomach clench.
    She didn't want to see the body again. She flung a beseeching glance at her brother.
    “Quite,” Peregrine said without the hint of a stutter. He stepped forward, opened the double door, and backed away, carefully avoiding the bloody stain on the floor.
    Cooke's round face grew pale, then flushed, and finally settled into a sickly gray that made the dark shadow of his beard stand out like coal dust on his lower face. “Mr. Idleman,” he said in a strangled voice. He gestured toward the wardrobe.
    The coroner stepped around Constable Cooke, took one look at the contents of the wardrobe, and frowned. “Mr. Andrews, if you please, we must have our twelve men. This poor soul is past our help.” He waited while one of the men hurried out before he faced Peregrine. “Mr. Archer, explain if you will. What is the meaning of this outrage?”
    Peregrine took a deep breath and answered slowly, “W-we found him as you see him now.”
    “Found him?” The coroner's thin, long face grew longer still, and vertical lines carved deep grooves from the edges of his narrow lips to his nose. He looked around. “Who owns this house? It appears abandoned. Why were you here, sir?”
    Before Peregrine could answer, Constable Cooke interrupted. “As a member of the local constabulary, I must warn you, sir. If this was one of them wagers gone wrong, the law shall look very harshly on those involved.” He studied Peregrine with hard eyes before casting an equally critical glance at Olivia. “Now, why is this man in your wardrobe, sir?”
    “It is my wardrobe,” Olivia answered hastily. The firm, noble expression on her brother's face hinted that he might believe she had something to do with this terrible situation and was prepared to sacrifice himself to keep her safe. “And this is my townhouse. We are renting it from my brother, the Earl of Wraysbury.”
    “This house?” Mr. Idleman looked around, his gray brows raised in disbelief as he took in the dusty furniture and gray cobweb dangling near the ceiling in the far corner.
    “As I indicated, the owner is my brother, the Earl of Wraysbury. I am renting it from him,” she continued hurriedly. “I am starting an academy for ladies on the premises.”
    The curl in Cooke's lip grew more pronounced. He clearly didn't believe either her or that ladies had need of an academy of any sort.
    Olivia studied him, relieved that she’d had the foresight not to mention it was a fencing academy. She could just imagine his reaction to that information.
    Not that she was ashamed of her school, of course. Quite the opposite. But the last thing she wished for was to engage in an esoteric argument on the merits of fencing as a form of beneficial exercise for women with a man like the constable. He clearly had a stubborn, bulldog character which might be wonderfully suited to his job, but made him particularly dismissive of new ideas.
    A quick peek at the window only increased her desire to leave. The sky outside was glowing with crimson streaks, and the room was gradually growing darker. She glanced at her brother and then again at the gloomy, dirt-streaked panes of glass.
    “Ladies?” Mr. Idleman asked in disbelief,