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wisdom to hide the fact that she was probably both more intelligent than he and more courageous. She had also been less tolerant and less generous in her judgments. He had had a quick temper, but it passed like a squall; he had overlooked the foibles of his own class and ignored the weaknesses of others. She did neither. Injustice infuriated her, more now than when she was younger. As time passed she was becoming more like Charlotte, who had always been opinionated, quick to anger, and a fighter against all she perceived to be wrong, even though that perception was sometimes hasty, and far too outspoken. Emily had been more sensible—at least until now.
    Today she sat down and wrote a letter to Jack Radley, inviting him to call upon her at his earliest convenience, and dispatched the footman with it as soon as it was sealed.
    His reply was satisfactorily rapid. He arrived in the early evening, the hour when in happier times she would have been dressing for an evening at dinner, or perhaps a ball or the theater. Now she sat by the fire reading Robert Louis Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, published the previous year. She was glad to be interrupted; the story was darker and far more frightening than she had supposed, and she could see the elements of tragedy already. She had it in a brown paper cover, in case the servants should be scandalized.
    Jack Radley entered the moment after the parlormaid announced him. He was casually dressed, but his tailor was clearly his chief creditor. The cut of his trousers was immaculate, the jacket fit perfectly. It was his smile she looked to, however, and those remarkable eyes, which were full of concern.
    “Emily, are you all right?” he asked, searching her face. “Your message sounded urgent. Has something happened?”
    She felt a trifle foolish. “I’m sorry. It is not an emergency, and I am perfectly well, thank you. But I am bored to distraction, and Charlotte has discovered a mystery.” There was no point in lying to him; he was too like her to be deceived.
    His face relaxed into a smile and he sat down on the chair opposite her. “A mystery?”
    She tried to sound nonchalant, suddenly realizing that he might imagine she had dredged up an excuse to call him. “An old murder,” she continued quickly, “that may have a scandal behind it, or may not, in which case an innocent woman might be ruined and unable to marry the man she loves.”
    He looked puzzled. “But what can you do? And how can I help?”
    “There is a great deal the police can discover, of course, about facts,” she explained. “But they can’t make the sort of judgments we might, because it all has to be terribly discreet. “ She saw with a flicker of excitement that she had caught his interest. “And naturally no one would speak in front of the police as they might with us, nor would the police understand the shades of meaning if they did.”
    “But how can we find ourselves in a position to observe these people?” he said seriously. “You haven’t told me who they are—but regardless of that, Emily, you cannot introduce yourself into Society again for some time.” His face tightened, and for an unpleasant moment she feared she saw pity in his eyes. She might have accepted pity from someone else, but coming from Jack it grated surprisingly, like an abrasion of the skin.
    “I know I can’t!” she said, and instantly regretted the tartness in her voice, and yet was unable to stop it. “But Charlotte can, and then we can discuss it together. At least, she can if you will be prepared to help her.”
    He smiled a little ruefully. “I am very good at scraping an acquaintance. Who are they?”
    She looked up at his face, trying to read his expression. His eyelashes still shadowed his cheek the way she remembered. How many other women had thought precisely the same thing? Really, this was the utmost foolishness. Charlotte was right; she needed some occupation for her mind,