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how the devil had he known it?

      Theo stood up, shaking his head slightly, and started back into the house. In the midst of all these speculations, there was one fact he knew for certain: there was no way he would be leaving London any time soon.

      He trotted up the steps to the terrace, unaware that he was whistling a merry tune.

      

      MEGAN WENT TO CALL on Andrew Barchester the following day, accompanied by her father and sister. She would have preferred to conduct the interview alone. Much as she loved her father, she was accustomed to doing her work by herself. Her father was all too likely to take control of the interview and send it shooting along some strange pathway. Nor did she really think that Deirdre was likely to be able to give them any pertinent information derived from the “feelings” Frank Mulcahey was sure Deirdre would receive on seeing this man, who was one of the last to see their brother alive. She would have liked to spare Deirdre the pain of hearing firsthand about Dennis’s death. Megan was accustomed to hearing and seeing gruesome things in the course of her work; Deirdre was not.

      Her father, however, had been insistent on accompanying her. And Megan could not deny that it would appear more natural for him to be the one making inquiries of the man who had told him of his son’s death. Nor could she keep Deirdre from going along, as her sister seemed determined to do.

      She would simply have to work around her family’s presence, she decided, and hope that Deirdre did not hear anything that would disturb her.

      They climbed the steps to the front door, and Frank used the heavy brass knocker. Moments later a servant answered the door, and Frank requested to see Andrew Barchester, explaining who he was. The footman, looking rather dubious, replied that he would inquire if the master was home and started to climb the staircase at a majestic pace, leaving the three of them standing in the entryway.

      “What a beautiful home,” Deirdre murmured, looking around her.

      It was, indeed, quite lovely, and it was clear that no expense had been spared in creating the house. However, to Megan’s eyes, it did not compare in magnificence to the stately Broughton House. While expensively built, there was a certain overdone quality to Barchester’s house, and a newness that bespoke riches recently acquired. The elegant Queen Anne–style Broughton House, however, had a sort of lived-in air, a casual acceptance of its wealth that let one know that this house, this family, had been important long before any of its present occupants were born.

      “Is Broughton House this elegant?” Deirdre asked.

      Megan nodded. For some reason, which she had not herself examined, Megan had not told her father and sister much beyond the bare facts of her meeting with the duchess yesterday. She had not told them how engaging the twins had been, nor how easy it would be to like the Duchess of Broughton.

      As for her meeting Theo Moreland, she had not even mentioned it. She knew that they would not understand the strange feeling that had assailed her when she’d met the man—indeed, she had not even understood it herself! Her father, she knew, would have lectured her about how dangerous it was to take a man like Moreland at face value. He would have pointed out that the man was deceptively charming, so she must keep her guard up at all times. She was fully aware of these arguments, as she had repeated them to herself all the way home. She did not want to have to listen to them from her father, as well.

      She would deal with the unlikely tug of attraction she had felt for the man. She was certain that it had been a momentary aberration, a result of her surprise at meeting the man when she had not expected to, had not prepared herself for it. Tomorrow, when she returned to the house, she would have herself better in hand.

      Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the stairs, and she turned to see the footman coming back to them.

      “Mr. Barchester will receive you,” he said, looking faintly surprised, and led them up the stairs and into a spacious drawing room.

      A man was standing by the windows, looking out, and he turned at their arrival and came toward them.

      “Mr. Mulcahey,” he said, reaching out to shake Frank’s hand. “I am Andrew Barchester. I am so pleased to meet Dennis’s father.”

      Mr. Barchester was a pleasant-looking man in his mid-thirties, with a high, wide forehead and even features. His eyes were a pale gray, and his hair was blond, and he was handsome in a nondescript sort of way.

      “Mr. Barchester,” Megan’s father replied, and introduced Megan and Deirdre to him.

      Barchester smiled at Megan and murmured a greeting, but when he turned to Deirdre, Megan noticed that his hand lingered on hers a trifle longer and his eyes took on an appreciative gleam. It seemed that Deirdre’s fragile beauty was once again having its usual effect.

      “What brings you to London, Mr. Mulcahey?” Barchester asked, showing them to a blue sofa and chair, and taking his own seat across from them.

      “We’re here to find out whatever we can about my son’s murder, Mr. Barchester,” Frank replied.

      They had had much discussion the night before over exactly what they should tell Barchester. Frank, not one to trust any Englishman completely, had been concerned that the man might balk at their intent of bringing a fellow Englishman to justice, and it was always Megan’s policy in researching her stories to tell everyone as little as she had to in order to get them to talk. That way, she felt, there was less chance of their stories being influenced by her considerations. Deirdre, however, had been of the opinion that if Barchester did not realize the extent and gravity of their interest, he might very well smooth over details or even conceal some matters in order not to cause them distress. It was, she added with a significant look at her sister and father, something with which she had had a good deal of experience. Megan and her father had had to agree with the logic of Deirdre’s argument, and they had agreed to be candid with Barchester.

      Now Barchester stared at Frank Mulcahey for a long moment. “I will be happy to tell you everything I know, of course.” He paused. “But I’m not sure I know exactly what you mean—are you hoping to do something about it? I mean, um…”

      “I’m not going to take vengeance myself, if that’s what ye mean,” Mulcahey assured him. “Sure, and I’d like nothing better, you understand. But I’ve promised the girls I’ll not harm the scoundrel. Still, we mean to bring Moreland to justice.”

      “Mr. Mulcahey…believe me, if there were any possibility of that, we would have done it ten years ago, when Dennis was killed.” He frowned. “But it happened in the wilds. I’m not sure even what country we were in—Peru, perhaps. We had followed the Amazon River all the way up into the mountains. Where we were was uninhabited. And even when we returned to civilization, it was a foreign country, and we could not prove—I mean, we could not even speak the language, and it would have been just our word against his. Lord Raine’s family is very old and wealthy. His father is a duke. And they are related to scores of influential people in one way or another. The government would have put such pressure on the local police that I am sure they would have let him go. And what government could we have gone to, anyway? We went back down the Amazon into Brazil before we reached a city of any size.”

      “Mr. Barchester, we are implying no wrong on your part, I assure you,” Megan put in quickly. “Pray do not think we feel anything but gratitude to you for letting us know what happened to my brother.”

      “Aye. It’s no slight to you, lad,” Frank agreed. “It is just that we need to know. We need to do everything we possibly can for Dennis.”

      Megan stiffened, afraid that her father would launch into the story of Deirdre’s visitation from Dennis. That, she was sure, would result in Barchester’s being certain that they were quite insane. However, her father said nothing further and she relaxed.

      “Thank you,” Barchester said. “I am glad you feel that way. But it was not concern for myself that prompted me to speak. I was merely trying to explain how unlikely it is that you will receive any satisfaction out of this inquiry. We are in England. The

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