These scars had healed better than most. Time had gone far to fade them. That meant they were quite old, and the back on which they were laid had been young. The mere act of growing up had changed them.

Finley had been a brute with more people than his wife, it seemed.

* * *

The caller came two afternoons later. Chase was not expecting anyone, least of all this man.

Mr. Martin Monroe, the card said. Private Inquiries.

Monroe entered the sitting room and looked around, as if taking its measure and assessing its worth. Chase waited for him to do the same thing with the apartment’s owner.

A big smile beamed on Monroe’s florid face. In his early middle years, he had thickened around the middle and a few gray hairs salted his dark hair. The smile made balls form on his cheeks. The blue eyes, however, showed more shrewdness than his bonhomie manner suggested.

“I’ve come on a professional matter,” he said once they had greeted each other and he had sat. “Professional courtesy, actually. I’m told you and I share a calling.”

“You have been conducting inquiries into me, I see.”

“Well, I saw you at the concert and asked my friend who was that there and he told me. He’s not a friend of yours, but he knows that box and the family that uses it.”

It all sounded innocent, but Chase heard the architecture behind the façade. “Why did you ask about me?”

“Ah, that is the whole of it, isn’t it? I’ve some information that may be of use to the man in that box and needed to know his name. Imagine my surprise to learn it was a duke’s relative, and one whose days are spent much like mine.”

“Of course if what you know is of some use, I will be grateful to hear it. Perhaps you should inform me of your fees before you share the information itself.”

Monroe was not insulted. He was in the business of information, after all. Still, his smile demurred before his words did. “No fees as such. My thinking is that if I do you a good turn, professionally speaking, that someday you will return the favor. Our sort needs to stick together, right?”

Apparently, Mr. Monroe had sought him out with the best of intentions. “I have been remiss as a host. Let us share some brandy while you visit.” Chase went to the decanter, poured two glasses, and brought them back.

Monroe sipped his, expressed delight, then set it down. “So, here it is. That woman you were with at the concert. I know her. And, to be honest, I’m wondering if you really do.”

“I think so.”

“She uses the name Hepplewhite now. But she was not six years ago Margaret Finley. That’s her real name. Married she was, to one Algernon Finley.”

“I am aware of that.”

“Are you now? Do you also know she killed the man? Came within an inch of hanging for it.”