“His country manor house has a parapet at the roofline behind which one can walk. He often went there at night to take some air. Unfortunately, one night he . . . fell.”

The slight hesitation and the subtle shift in tone sent a shiver up her spine. She conquered the alarm and held her composure. “An accident, then.”

“Most likely.”

“You are not sure?”

“It will probably be investigated. Dukes have their privileges, even in death.”

She advanced on him until she stood only five feet away. She gazed right into his eyes. “I think you believe it was no accident. You believe he was pushed.” She stepped closer yet. “Perhaps you believe that I was the one who pushed him.”

The ice with which he met her gaze melted and for an instant she saw enough in his eyes to know she was correct.

“Not at all,” he lied. “Now, to claim this inheritance, you will need to present yourself to the solicitor who is serving as executor of the estate.” He reached into his frockcoat and removed a card. “Here is his name and the location of his chambers.”

He made it sound so simple. Only it wasn’t. This legacy would complicate everything, and reopen a perilous door.

She took the card.

“I will show myself out.”

As he walked toward the door, she stared down at the solicitor’s card.

“Oh, there is one other thing,” he said, turning back. “The solicitor may ask you about your history, to ensure you are the right woman. The will referred to you as Minerva Hepplewhite, previously known as Margaret Finley of Dorset, widow of Algernon Finley.”

Then he was gone, leaving her utterly stunned.

She would have sworn that no one in London knew about her history, except Beth and Beth’s son Jeremy. No one.

Yet apparently this duke—the Duke of Hollinburgh—knew exactly who she was.

Now that she thought about it, she was sure Mr. Radnor had not entered her home to make sure he had her identity correct, as he had claimed. There were better ways to do that. He had done so because he had suspicions about her.

Perhaps because he already knew about the murder accusation she had run from back in Dorset.

* * *

The next morning, Chase left his apartment and walked across St. James’s Square. He approached a warren of buildings on the western edge of Whitehall.

Robert Peel had written, asking him to meet at nine o’clock. No one else was about yet. Chase wondered if that had been the plan, or if as an industrialist’s son the home secretary always started the day at this hour.