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looking into this may lead."
    "I have. So has your father, which is why, apparently, he finds my turning over the family secrets preferable to Roth doing so on his own. Though he prefers to have a check on me as well. Which I imagine is why he sent for you."
    David froze, his hand on the back of his neck. "You think Father considers me a check on you?"
    "I think he knows your first care will properly be concern for your sister."
    "You saw Mary. She puts on a good front, but it's plain what she's been through." David straightened his shoulders and stared at Malcolm. "I don't want her hurt, Malcolm."
    "My dear fellow, neither do I."
    "But you want to get at the truth."
    "Yes."
    David glanced away. "Trenchard was a bastard."
    It was surprisingly strong language for David. "I assume you mean that figuratively rather than literally."
    "I have no reason to believe his mother played the third duke false. But I have good reason to believe Trenchard hit Mary a fortnight ago."
    Malcolm had little use for Trenchard, but he had not been expecting this. "Did she tell you?"
    "Not in so many words. But she had a bruise on her cheek. She gave me a farrago of nonsense about tripping and stumbling into her dressing room door, but I know the results of an uppercut. When I asked her if Trenchard had done it, she didn't deny it. She refused to talk more at all."
    "I know you, David. You didn't leave it there."
    "Of course not. I confronted Trenchard. He told me to stay out of matters between him and my sister." David rubbed his hand. "You know I'm not given to violence, but if I hadn't thought it would make matters worse for Mary I'd have hit him myself."
    "Do you think he'd done it before?"
    "My God, can you imagine I'd have kept quiet if I'd had any inkling of it? But now that I know, I can't help but think it likely wasn't the first time." David's hands curled into fists. "I'm well aware of how this looks, Malcolm. I didn't kill Trenchard but, so help me, I've been thinking distinctly murderous thoughts about him. It gives me a motive."
    It also gave Mary a motive, but Malcolm didn't say so. "Did you tell your father?"
    "Yes. I was determined to find a way to protect Mary."
    "And?"
    "He said he'd handle it." David's eyes widened. "My God, Malcolm, you can't think—"
    "My dear David, if your father has limits, I have yet to discover them."
    "You're talking about murder."
    "Your father is more than capable of getting rid of a troublesome asset. I don't see that this is so different."
    David shook his head. "You mean that he—"
    "My dear David. He's a spymaster." Malcolm clapped his friend on the shoulder. "On the other hand he practically ordered me into the investigation, which doesn't fit with him having something to do with the crime."
    David's eyes narrowed. "He knew you'd investigate anyway, with Miss Dudley implicated. This way he has Roth keeping an eye on you. And me apparently."
    Malcolm looked at his friend in appreciation. "You're learning."
    David's mouth hardened. "I never wanted to understand Father's world. But a bit's rubbed off after all these years round him."
    "And me."
    "You aren't like my father."
    Images shot through Malcolm's memory. The face of a Spanish innkeeper he'd betrayed to the French. The trusting gaze of a French soldier who'd confided in him, thinking he was a friend. The bewitching eyes of his enemy-agent wife. "I'm more like him than I care to admit."

    Mary Trenchard regarded Suzanne across the sofa table. "What did they send you to ask me about, Mrs. Rannoch?"
    Suzanne leaned back in her chair. "Who?"
    "Malcolm and Mr. Roth." Mary leaned forwards to refill the coffee cups. Steam rose from the pot. There might have been a murder in the house, but the servants had kept the coffee replenished. "Malcolm made such a point of taking David off that I can only assume there's something they wanted you to discuss with me in private. Questions about my husband's and my sleeping arrangements? More speculation on