“He went to the East End to see his twin brother, who in a fit of violence, which he is prone to, killed him! Ask the people of Limehouse-they are terrified of him!” she went on urgently. “I've seen two of his victims myself, a boy and a woman. Angus crossed him one time too many, and Caleb killed him--either by accident or on purpose. You have to prove it, for the sake of justice, and so Genevieve can know what happened and find some peace of heartand know what to do next.”

“I know what I have to do,” he said curtly. “It is a great deal harder to know how. Can you be as quick to tell me that?”

She would have loved to reply succinctly and brilliantly, but nothing came to her mind, and before she had time to consider the matter for long, there was a sharp, light rap on the door.

Monk looked surprised, but he went straight over to answer it, and returned a moment later accompanied by a woman who was beautifully dressed and quite charming. Everything about her was feminine in a casual and unaffected way, from her soft, honey-colored hair, under her bonnet, to her small, gloved hands and dainty boots. Her face was beautiful. Her large hazel eyes under winged brows looked at Monk with pleasure, and at Hester with surprise.

“Am I intruding upon you with a client?” she said apologetically. “I am so sorry. I can quite easily wait.”

Somehow the suggestion was painful. Why had the woman automatically assumed that Hester could not be a friend?

“No, I am not a client,” Hester said more sharply than she would have wished the moment she heard her own voice. “I called to give Mr. Monk some information I thought might be of assistance.”

“How kind of you, Miss . . . ?”

“Latterly,” Hester supplied.

“Drusilla Wyndham.” The woman introduced herself before Monk had the opportunity. “How do you do.”

Hester stared at her. She seemed very composed and her attitude made it apparent that in spite of the fact that this was Monk's office, her call was social. Monk had never mentioned her before, but there was no question that he knew her, and every evidence he also liked her. It was there in his expression. The way he stood with his shoulders straight, the very slight smile on his lips, unlike the hardeyed look of the moment before she came.

Perhaps he had known her in the past? She seemed extraordinarily comfortable with him. Hester felt a sudden, awful sinking in her stomach, as if there were nothing inside her. Of course, he must have known women in the past, probably loved them. For heaven's sake. It was not impossible he had been married! Could a man forget such a thing? If he had really loved . . . ?

But would Monk really love anybody? Had he that capacity in him to love utterly and totally, sharing all of himself?