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one could consider her a servant, but the pittance I pay her doesn’t really amount to her being a servant.” She smiled. “She is my dear friend.”
    “A moment more, if you don’t mind,” he said. Mia’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly. “I realize you’ve been through quite enough, but I should like to make certain I got all of the details down to share with the inspector in charge of the investigation,” he said.
    “I would be more than willing to speak to him myself, if you could make arrangements for a meeting,” she said.
    “I don’t think that will be necessary,” Alex said.
    She stood in front of him now, her lithe figure taller than most women in London. The heavy fabric of her wool dress hung on her, ill-fitted and loose, either from her not eating enough or simply not being able to afford a made-to-fit gown. Either way, it looked dreadful on her. She cocked her head to the side. “You are concerned they will not find my account credible. Or do you simply not want others to know of my connection to Danbridge?”
    “In case it has missed your attention, you’re blind, Miss Danvers,” Alex said. “And that is not the sort of witness the police are generally looking for. I will merely take all the details you’ve given me and I’ll make certain they receive it. But I believe I missed a few things and simply want clarification.”
    “Perhaps the police should not be so selective,” Mia said tartly. Indignation flared in her blue eyes and the delicate muscles in her cheeks tightened. “I can assure you, if I were ever to be in the same room with that man, I would know him. I would know that killer.”

Chapter Three
    Mia listened as Alex’s quill scratched across the parchment. He would ask a few questions, then he’d pause to write something down. She wondered what he would tell the police regarding the source of his information, but she decided not to ask. He was a peculiar fellow, very starchy and proper, bordering on rude. He was arrogant, as most men of wealth and title were, but he seemed to truly relish in such behavior.
    She found herself yet again somewhat thankful for her accident. Had she not lost her eyesight, she would have been pushed to marry a man such as himself. One who would prevent her from exploring statuary parks at night (which she shouldn’t do, but still no one else need tell her that) and who would forbid her from having opinions.
    Still Mia couldn’t deny the fact that she enjoyed the way he spoke, liked the cadence of his speech, the rhythms of his words and the deep timbre of his voice. It seemed to take on a life of its own. When many people spoke, their voices felt detached from them and instead became almost like floating words to her ears. But with Lord Carrington she could feel his very person in his tone. Knew he was near, felt the warmth of this body even though he was not close enough to touch.
    She didn’t enjoy reliving the details, but she had to admit that every time she told the story she remembered something new: a small detail, a hitch in the killer’s voice, the smell of his soap, the sound of his footsteps. He’d been wearing boots, she’d decided, heavy expensive boots by the sound of them. The way they’d crunched the rocks beneath each step, they’d been solidly made.
    Or perhaps he was a large man, broad and heavy. She shivered at the thought. Lord Carrington had been right. Had she revealed herself, it was quite likely she, too, would have been slaughtered. Still she couldn’t shake the guilt that she should have tried to save that girl.
    But it was over, she couldn’t do anything now to help except assist in finding her killer. Somewhere in London, her killer roamed free. Helping to send him to the gallows would perhaps give that girl a modicum of respect and peace.
    “I think that should do it,” Lord Carrington said after a particularly long moment of writing.
    Mia nodded. She wanted to ask him something, or at least wanted