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be an inquest?" He moved to stand in front of her.
    "I don't know. I left too soon...right after they read the will."
    "Aye...that doesn't look good." He scratched his head, giving the matter some thought. "What was in the will?"
    "The fortune was left to Mark Freely and if he is deceased, to me. It was made out before I went to live with Hugh."
    "Who is this Freely character? The name sounds familiar."
    "Hugh's valet. Hugh didn't have many friends."
    "And where is Mark Freely?" He started to walk to the sideboard, away from the tea and towards a full decanter of port.
    "That's the worst part," she replied. "I think I killed Mark too."
     

    * * *
     
    Alexander turned the glass in his hand, watching the firelight beam through the crystal and cast inspired designs onto the wall. It seemed that every new thing he'd learned about Victoria had been accompanied by more questions. How many times in the last two days had he had to revise his opinion of her?
    It was really quite convenient that she had been headed for Cornwall all along. He could investigate and watch her every move from the comfort of his own home. The next morning he'd find out why she was visiting John Fyn.
    Wouldn't she be surprised when she found out that the man she'd left at the inn was her new neighbor?
    He thought of his father and brother. He hoped they wouldn't interfere when they realized where Victoria was. It was his job and his business to handle. They gave the smugglers so much free reign that he didn't trust them to do anything else that was lawful. He also doubted their ability to carry out the plan if they were to see the tempting murderess. His father, old dog that he was, would probably court her.
    He left his chair, still cradling the glass in his palm, the stem slipped between his fingers. He opened the glass doors and stepped outside. He'd noticed that Hugh had a similar set-up at Blackmoore. Both studies opened up into a garden. When the house was full, it was a convenient place to watch strolling ladies.
    The moonlight glinted off his glass when he reached for a piece of his late mother's favorite rosebush. It leaned languorously against the house. A hard thorn bit into his finger, but he smiled just the same. The scarlet, blood-colored petals felt soft against his hand...it was how he'd imagined Victoria's skin might feel.
    He'd thought it odd that she would put flowers on her victims' graves. She couldn't have done it for show. It had been in the middle of the night. The only thing it could have signified was that she was feeling remorseful. Still, it was a rather romantic gesture for a woman consumed by guilt. Perhaps she'd reveled in the irony and assumed secrecy of her gesture.
    Alexander left the flower where he found it, having satisfied his curiosity. His mother's roses were the exact same kind as the ones his murderess had left on her victims' graves.
     

    * * *
     
    The house was quiet when Victoria awoke the next morning. It reminded her of the morning Hugh had died and such a thought was enough to make her want to pull the covers over her head and wail. But she needed to get her life together and she couldn't do that from her bed.
    After she'd washed and dressed, the maid told her that her uncle was expecting an important shipment. He was in the bay and wouldn't be back for quite some time. He was a busy man, her uncle. Certainly not the sick invalid she'd imagined.
    She thought a bit of exploration would do her good.
    When she walked outside, however, she saw enough to satisfy her interests for that day.
    "Miss Carter, what a lovely surprise." Alexander Trevelyn leaned against the horse that was hitched in the yard. He absent-mindedly stroked its mane as he waited for her reply. He didn't look the least bit surprised. In fact, he even looked as though he'd been expecting her.
    "Mr. Trevelyn! What are you doing here?" She couldn't help but back away self-consciously. As handsome as he was, even more so in the warm morning sun,