Had the request come from the last home secretary, Chase would have declined. He did not like Sidmouth, or approve of how he had used the power of the office. There had been too many poorly supervised agents making too much trouble throughout the land for his taste. Peel, however, had proven adept at finding other ways to hold down unrest, and had already shepherded a reform of the criminal laws through Parliament.

A good man, from the evidence so far. His father had accumulated tremendous wealth in his textile factories and other ventures, and the son had been raised and educated to have a place in government and society. The next Pitt the Younger, it was said. Home secretary already, and a protégé of Wellington’s, eventually he would probably be a prime minister, and inherit not only that wealth but also the title of baronet his father had received.

As he turned into the Treasury passage and walked beneath its stone vaults, he spied a figure at the end. Of middling height and size, the man had fashionably cropped hair and a face with regular features except for a prominent aquiline nose. Peel was meeting him halfway, and wore his greatcoat. It seemed they would not talk in the office. Chase decided the early hour had been to avoid witnesses after all.

After greeting him, Peel eyed the poultice on his head. “I trust the other fellow fared worse.”

No, the woman who did this is both unharmed and unrepentant. He had considered Minerva Hepplewhite long into the night, wrestling with the way she both annoyed him and . . . fascinated him. If he was correct about his uncle’s death, however, she remained the most likely culprit. Not only her sudden good fortune said as much, but also the very self-possession that impressed him. She was not one to be underestimated.

“It is a small wound—it looks worse than it is.”

“Walk with me,” Peel said.

They fell into step together and began slowly retracing Chase’s path.

“It is my hope that you can solve a conundrum for me,” Peel said. “It has to do with your uncle’s death.”

Peel had been among the many at the funeral. As had Peel’s father, with whom the late duke had some business dealings.

“Had things progressed as they usually do, if his heir received everything, everyone would say what a shame he fell, and that would be that,” Peel said. “That will of his has got tongues wagging, I’m afraid. So much money, and yet so little to the family.”

“That is common knowledge already, is it?”

“Your aunts and a few cousins have not been quiet about their disappointment.”

“It was his personal fortune, to bequeath as he chose.”

“Of course. Of course. And yet, so many angry relatives. Ambiguous circumstances. Mystery legatees. It begs explanation.”