But Stephen was no longer thinking of Miss Hereford. Though he didn’t want to imagine his brother had any part in this, he could not take the chance. “I’m going to find Quentin.”

His father crossed the room and set a hand upon his shoulder. It was the first time in many years that he’d shown any sign of emotion. “Be careful.”

Stephen gripped his father’s hand. “I will.”

When he arrived at Lord Carstairs’s residence an hour later, Stephen pushed his way inside.

“My lord, Lord Carstairs did not wish to be disturbed,” the footman protested. “He was not feeling well this day.”

“I am looking for my brother Quentin.” He strode past the man, forcing the servant to quicken his steps.

“I never saw him here, my lord. And I assure you, this is not a good time to intrude upon Lord Carstairs.”

The footman positioned himself in front of the study, his black waistcoat stretched across a large stomach that threatened to pop off the buttons.

“Perhaps not.” But had he eaten the poisoned biscuits, Carstairs’s constitution would have been even worse. “I must see the viscount.”

Stephen forced his way past, which was no easy task considering the man’s girth. Eventually, rank won over. The footman would not dare to defy an earl.

He tried the door, but found it locked. Knocking sharply, he demanded, “Carstairs, open the door.”

Silence.

He banged louder, to no avail. “Have you a key?” he asked the footman.

The servant puffed out his indignation and his grizzled whiskers twitched. “My lord, if the master does not wish to be disturbed, then it is my duty—”

“Hang your duty. A man tried to kill your master yesterday. Now are you going to find that key, or must I break the door down?”

The footman hesitated before another dark glare from Stephen sent him fleeing.

“What’s all this about?” a female voice asked. Lady Carstairs peered over the staircase. Her dark gleaming locks hung in a state of disarray, her maid standing behind her with a brush.

Stephen inclined his head. “Forgive me, Lady Carstairs, but I must have words with your husband. How long has he been in the study, might I ask?” He knocked on the door a third time.

“Since this morning. He did not wish to be disturbed.”

The butler returned with the key, and Stephen jammed it into the lock, twisting the metal. He shoved open the door.

The study had been ransacked. Papers lay everywhere, books overturned.

And in the middle of it lay the viscount’s body. Dead.

“My dear, why aren’t you ready?” Nigel opened the library door where Emily sat reading. “Tonight is your grand début. And aren’t you planning to show Lady Thistlewaite that she was wrong about you?”

“My husband doesn’t think I should attend. He says it’s too dangerous.”

“Dangerous? Whatever is he talking about?”