“Do you have any idea where her friend Donaldson was on the morning of Montgomery’s murder?” Sir Bertrand asked, his hand to his chin. “That might be worth looking into as well.”

Daniel remembered one of the first lessons he’d learned when he was a green detective at Bow Street. Everyone was a suspect until they weren’t. Until he cleared Mrs. Fairchild and Mr. Donaldson, they were suspects, though he could think of no reason why either of them would want Mr. Montgomery dead. The Widow Fairchild stood to gain much more if she had wed Garfield Montgomery, if her claims of a near-betrothal were to be believed. However, if Daniel could prove they were cheating at the gaming tables, it would give him some leverage when it came to questioning them about their movements around the time of Montgomery’s murder.

With Juliette on his arm, Daniel strolled into the card room. Smoke hung near the ceiling, testament to the many cigars consumed during the evening. At the far end, a pair of waiters poured and delivered drinks to the tables.

A few women were present, but only Mrs. Fairchild sat at a gaming table. The others sat or stood around the room, as if bored. Perhaps waiting for a partner to finish his hand and return to the ballroom?

Sir Bertrand followed, but at a distance, and he separated from them to stand in the second doorway. It was a maneuver right out of the Bow Street training. Bar all forms of escape.

Talk buzzed, and the tink of fish counters hitting bowls and cards being snapped down covered their approach to the targeted table. A few paces away, Daniel removed Juliette’s arm from his and moved into Mrs. Fairchild’s view.

She shrugged and laid her cards facedown, a pouting expression on her pretty face as she waved for Mr. Donaldson to rake the counters toward himself. “That’s three hands in a row. Why won’t you show mercy on a poor widow woman?” She put her hand to her throat and batted her eyelids. The neckline of her dress was daring, to put it mildly. Daniel returned his gaze to her face, his mouth firming. She had dropped the persona of grieving woman, at least for this evening.

“He could show a little mercy on the rest of us too,” one man growled. “I’m out nearly fifty pounds.”

“Consider yourself lucky. I’m out eighty,” the other one said. “If my wife finds out …” He finished with a shudder.

“I’ll give you a chance to recoup your losses.” Donaldson handled the pasteboard cards with the dexterity of an illusionist.

“Evening, gentlemen, Mrs. Fairchild.” Daniel stood lightly on the balls of his feet, a few steps away from his quarry. “Might I have a word with you two?” He pointed to Donaldson and the lady. “In my professional capacity, of course.”