“Mrs. McKinley enjoys Paganini,” he said, and Caroline began playing the most mellow tune she knew by the famous composer. Her gaze strayed to a spot in the corner, anywhere but the invalid on the bed being tended by her husband. It seemed such a shocking invasion of their privacy to be in this room, but Ida desperately needed attention when these spells overtook her. First the seizures, then the savage headaches that made her weep for hours on end. It was going to be a long night.

She didn’t mind. She wanted to become indispensable to the McKinleys, for a presidential pardon might save her brother from a hangman’s noose. The more the president depended on her, the more likely that pardon might someday be granted.

Whatever it took, Caroline would serve both McKinleys with unfailing care until it was time to ask for the ultimate favor.

Nathaniel needed to read Caroline Delacroix the riot act. He had been explicit in his requirement to see a list of names of all visitors to the first lady. It had been a week, and she had ignored both his verbal and written requests.

Each time he reminded her to submit the lists, she sent him one of those half-teasing, half-dazzling smiles. Women that beautiful were probably accustomed to being able to wrap men around their finger, but he was immune. A dozen visitors were expected this afternoon to chat with Mrs. McKinley in the family’s private living room on the second floor. They would be within yards of the president, and he had no idea who they were, all because Caroline Delacroix didn’t think the rules should apply to her.

The problem was he couldn’t find her. Mrs. McKinley was playing a hand of solitaire in her private study, and George said Caroline hadn’t been in the office all morning.

But Caroline had to eat, so he headed to the kitchen to see if the staff knew her whereabouts. White enamel tile lined the floors and walls, and a cook kneaded dough on an oversized marble-topped table while others chopped mounds of brightly colored vegetables. Pots and pans dangled from overhead hooks, and heat poured from ovens lining the walls. The aroma was mouth-watering. Was there a more tempting scent on earth than warm cinnamon rolls? He’d only had two cups of black coffee for breakfast, and his stomach growled.

“You can help yourself,” Mrs. Fitzpatrick said with a nod toward a towel-covered bread basket. “I always make enough for the staff.”

“No, thank you,” he said. “I’m looking for Miss Delacroix. Do you know where she is?”

The housekeeper shook her head, but the woman kneading dough looked up. “She’s in the women’s dormitory on the third floor. She’s sleeping.”