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Lady Halstead had to exert herself to fend off her children’s patently insincere interest.
    Mortimer sought to end the discussion by stating, “I daresay, Mama, that you have many long years ahead of you yet.”
    “Perhaps,” William said, now slouching in his chair, his hands sunk in his pockets. “But in any case, I hope you’ve got your affairs in order.” His dark gaze swept his siblings. “Heaven help us if there’s any question over the estate once you’re gone.”
    Violet fully sympathized with the comment, but, of course, Mortimer, Cynthia, Constance, and even Maurice took it badly. The resulting furor broke over William’s head and looked set to last for quite some time—
    Lady Halstead set down her cutlery and clapped her hands sharply. “Quiet! Oh, do be quiet .” As the voices faded, she picked up her cutlery again and returned her attention to her plate. “If you must know, I’ve asked Runcorn—the young man who has taken over from his father—to review my affairs and those of the estate and ensure that all is in order.” She glanced up briefly, her gaze bleakly severe. “Although I have no intention of dying just yet, rest assured that when I do, there will be no uncertainty concerning the estate.”
    Silence held the table for a moment, then quiet mutterings rose, all to do with “young Runcorn” and whether he was up to the mark.
    Violet glanced at Lady Halstead, then followed her lead in ignoring the rumblings.
    As Tilly came in to clear the table prior to laying out the desserts, Violet wondered, as she had many times over the past eight years, how it came to be that a lady as kind and gentle as Lady Halstead had ended with a family like this, in which all the members were selfish and self-serving, albeit to variable degrees.
    D amn it!” He peered at the reflection in the round shaving mirror. With a vicious jerk of his wrist, he plucked the stray hair from his chin, then half straightened, turning his face from side to side, confirming that all was as he wished it to be.
    Beyond his shoulders, the paneling of his dressing room was barely lit by the single lamp he’d brought in. He found the gloom comforting. This was his most private place, the place where he made his plans, refined and adjusted them.
    In the mirror, he met his eyes. “She isn’t even close to dying. Here I’ve been patiently waiting for her to fade and pass on, and instead she’s rattling on . . . and now, damn it all, she’s got this young blighter looking into the estate’s finances.”
    Straightening fully, he forced himself to think through this new, unexpected, and unsettling development. “Will he find it? That’s the question.”
    After a minute, he went on, “If he does . . .”
    Several moments later, he shook his head. “Even if he doesn’t realize, she will. He’ll bring it to her attention in some way, even if only by not including it on some list. And once she realizes, she’ll start asking questions—I know she will. She won’t simply let it rest.”
    His escalating tension rendered the last words sharp enough to cut.
    As the sound faded, he continued following his thoughts.
    The pervasive silence of the night was broken only by the distant ticking of a clock.
    Eventually, he drew himself up and, in the mirror, looked himself in the eye. “I can’t afford to have it come to light—not now, not ever. So I’ll have to take care of it. I won’t be able to breathe easily again until I’m safe. Obviously, there are others I’ll have to silence, too, but . . . one step at a time.”
    That had been his private motto for as long as he could recall; thus far it had served him well.

Chapter 2
     
    M ontague hadn’t previously realized how satisfying bringing relief to those who found financial matters overwhelming could actually be. It was, he now saw, a facet of his professional activities that he had failed to appreciate but should acknowledge and, indeed, take more pride