Half an hour later, Diana stepped out of the hackney carriage on Chancery Lane and stood for a moment savoring the soft warmth of the English summer morning as she gathered her thoughts. It was still early, barely nine o’clock, but she had been so anxious to get installed in Cavendish Square that she’d left Brown’s Hotel, where she’d spent the previous night, after her arrival on the White Star liner from South Africa at soon after seven thirty. It had been the beginning of the South African winter when she’d left Cape Town for the monthlong voyage home, the dawn mornings bitter when she’d ridden out to watch Kimberley Diamond training on the racetrack. The cold air had seemed to suit the racehorse. How would the filly respond to her new home in the English countryside?

But there were more pressing matters at the moment than the well-being of a racehorse, however important she was. Diana walked up the shallow steps to the front door where a brass plate proclaimed the offices of Messrs. Muldoon and Muldoon, Esq., Solicitors. She pressed the bell and the door was opened almost immediately by an elderly frock-coat clad clerk.

He blinked in surprise at his unexpected visitor. “Why, Miss Sommerville, how delightful to see you. We didn’t realize you were back in the country. A letter was sent to you in South Africa only last month.”

“I had left by then,” she said, managing a slightly shaky smile. “I arrived in Portsmouth only yesterday, Mr. Bates. Would it be possible for me to see Mr. Muldoon?”

“Yes, yes, of course. I’ll tell him you’re here. He’ll be so pleased to see you.” The clerk held the door wide. “Please, step inside, Miss Sommerville.”

“Thank you.” She stepped past him into the cramped foyer from which rose a narrow flight of stairs. The air was stuffy and smelled dusty, a smell she remembered from past visits to the family lawyers. An attic smell of ancient books and piles of parchment. It was oddly comforting in its familiarity, as was Mr. Muldoon, who came hurrying down the stairs, rosy-cheeked and rotund as ever. He bowed with old-fashioned courtesy and kissed her hand.

“My dear Miss Sommerville . . . Diana . . . I wrote to you just last month. I wish I had known you were coming home.”

“After my father’s death so soon after my brother’s, I found it difficult to stay in South Africa.” She smiled the same shaky little smile.

“Yes, yes, I understand.” His clasp on her hand tightened. “I cannot tell you how sorry we are, both at Sir Geoffrey’s death and at your brother’s. To die so young, fighting for his country, such a brave and honorable death, but I know that can’t really be a comfort.”