“He would indeed.” Whitby reached into his pocket and came out with a card, which he rose to hand over. “And we’re trying to hire mostly veterans who have been injured. I daresay we would have a position for him somewhere, regardless of his skills. Has he any education?”

“Some, though I’m not sure of specifics.” Margot held the card for a moment. It was just a rectangle of card paper, cut at perfect right angles in the typical aspect ratio.

But to Redvers Holmes, it could be the future. She smiled and tucked the card into her handbag. “Thank you. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know of the opportunity. And now I had better say farewell and get home.” It was already dark and no doubt cold, but she still wanted to stop by the park and see if Williams had made another play.

“I’m so glad you could join me.” Brook nudged Ambrose back to his feet and stood.

Her father took to his feet, too, with a huff. “Are you in trousers again? Brook Elizabeth—”

“I was riding!” She didn’t look repentant. If anything, she looked as mischievous as her sons.

“When? And why didn’t you change before your guest arrived?” With a shake of his head that did nothing to disguise the amused glint in his eye, Whitby turned to Margot. “Forgive my daughter. She thinks social conventions are in place solely to be challenged.”

“A proclivity I inherited straight from my recluse of a father.” Still grinning, Brook came over and clasped Margot’s hands. “Come again soon, please. And I’ll pass along the next journal.”

“Thank you. And thank you for having me.” She smiled, squeezed the duchess’s hand, and then shook the earl’s again too.

And could all but see Maman smiling at her. She’d managed a social engagement with two of England’s finest, and not once had her mother’s memory had to chastise her. Of course, they’d mostly been talking about mathematics and theoretical physics. But still.

The little ones said a farewell, too, and then Margot was shown out. The Stafford car sat waiting to take her home. She’d tried to turn down the offer, but Brook had insisted that the tube station was too far, at least after dark.

As she settled into the back of the automobile, handbag in her lap, she let her eyes slide closed. At home, she’d find the stack of newspapers still waiting. She’d gathered all she could find from the weeks surrounding Maman’s death, but she’d only made it through half of them.

There was nothing there. Not in the ones she’d searched. Granted, that meant nothing, but . . . but it drained her to pore over the newsprint for hour after hour and find nothing. Nothing.