NOVEMBER 7

Life just gets more and more complicated.

I arrived back at Kensington Palace just as it was starting to rain—the hard, stinging kind of winter rain that makes walking so miserable. I was about to open the front door, anticipating a roaring fire and tea to follow when I was conscious of footsteps behind me. I turned to see a large bobby coming toward me.

“Lady Georgiana?” he asked. “DCI Pelham has requested that you come with me. He’d like to speak with you again.”

“Oh really, this is too silly,” I said. “I’ve nothing more to tell him.”

“I couldn’t say what it’s about, my lady,” he said. “I was just sent to fetch you, and I’ve been waiting quite some time.”

“I didn’t realize that I had to ask permission before I left the palace,” I said testily. Actually I wasn’t feeling annoyed but scared. Had they found out somehow that I had gone to Bobo’s flat this morning? Perhaps someone had heard that picture crashing down and called the police. And, more worrisome still, perhaps they wanted to trap me into saying something incriminating about Darcy.

I decided that haughty indignation was my best defense, so I strode down the corridors at Scotland Yard so fast that the young constable had trouble keeping up with me. I was shown into DCI Pelham’s office and approached his desk with the same belligerence as my ancestor Robert Bruce Rannoch had displayed going into battle.

“Really, this is too tiresome, Chief Inspector,” I said. “What can you possibly need from me now? I thought I made it clear that I’d tell you if I came up with anything you should know about.”

His eyes were focused on me like a snake’s, unblinking.

“Take a seat, Lady Georgiana.”

I sat. He leaned back in his big leather chair and folded his arms, never taking his eyes off me for an instant.

“I called you back here because I don’t think you did quite tell me everything when we chatted last time. You kept some interesting snippets of information from me, didn’t you?”

“Such as what?”

His expression didn’t change. “You and Mr. O’Mara, for example. Not just a friend, is he?”

“My relationship with Mr. O’Mara has nothing to do with you,” I said, keeping my haughty stare rather well, I thought.

“Oh, but I think it’s most important,” he said. “Most pertinent to this case.”

“That’s ridiculous. In what way?”

He leaned back in his chair. “A motive for killing Miss Carrington, perhaps?”

“A motive? Whose motive?”

“Yours, Lady Georgiana. Jealousy is the strongest motive I’ve ever come across. That and fear.”

“And who is supposed to be jealous of whom?”

“You were jealous of Mr. O’Mara’s relationship with Miss Carrington, obviously.”