“Indeed. As soon as we are home, send Thomas around to bid Dr. McLeod come see the boy.”

Weatherly nodded. He paused, his gaze gently assessing. “And perhaps for yourself, my lady,” he ventured.

I waved away the suggestion, trying to control an absurd rise of tears. “I am well enough,” I repeated and looked out the window, away from his concern. “It was an insult, but not much more. There is no need to speak of it again. To anyone.”

Weatherly kept his gaze steady upon me.

“Mulholland—” I stopped and swallowed the sourness that accompanied his name. “Mulholland said Mr. Kent divulged our connection to Lord Evan.”

“It may not be true,” Weatherly said. “Or perhaps it was said under pressure. I cannot see him placing Lady Julia in danger.”

“Perhaps. I hope not. The real worry is that Mulholland does not seem to fear any repercussions. In fact he challenged me to report his attack.”

Weatherly considered that information with a frown. “That can only mean one of two things.”

He was right: there were only two possibilities. His mind clearly worked along the same paths as my own.

He tapped one gloved forefinger against the other, counting off the first. “Mulholland is an overconfident fool who cannot foresee consequences.”

“He is no fool,” I said flatly.

“No, I do not think so either.” He tapped off the second. “He considers himself protected by someone of rank.”

“I think it is even worse than that,” I said.

“Indeed,” Weatherly said softly. “He is not only protected by someone of rank but, considering his notoriety, he is protected by someone who may have ordered him to kill Lord Evan, not bring him in alive.”

“Yes.” I looked out the window at the passing shop fronts. The rain had started again, a few umbrellas opening above the well dressed, but most people hunching their shoulders and quickening their pace along the mud-tracked footpaths. “So who wants Lord Evan dead and why?” I looked back at Weatherly. “And more to the point, can we stop them?”

Weatherly eyed me with a wry smile. “I do not know, my lady, but I gather you are going to try.”

•   •   •

The carriage pulled up outside our house in Grosvenor Square. I rubbed my shoulder; the ache had not shifted during the ride home. Perhaps it would be prudent to see Dr. McLeod, after all.

As Weatherly alighted in readiness to hand me down, I gathered the Rundell box and glanced out the other window at the large fenced garden that stood at the center of our square. A black horse stood tethered to the iron railings. A familiar black horse, with an equally familiar Elliott saddle.

Caesar, Mr. Kent’s mount.

So, how long had Mr. Kent been here? And what was I to say to him now that it was likely he had betrayed us to Mulholland?