“My name is Eleanor Catherine Ward.”

Lady Beatrice went completely still.

“Catherine?”

“My mother.”

Beatrice’s hand began trembling.

“Come closer.”

Eleanor knelt.

The old woman touched her face.

Cheek.

Forehead.

Chin.

Then she whispered:

“Nathaniel’s eyes.”

Eleanor’s throat tightened.

“You knew my father.”

Beatrice laughed bitterly.

“My dear girl, half this house knew your father.

We were simply taught to pretend otherwise.”

Eleanor removed the ring.

The old woman touched it.

And began to cry.

“Where did you find this?”

“On Adrian.”

Beatrice recoiled.

“No.”

“He dropped it downstairs.”

She closed her fingers around the ring.

Then something remarkable happened.

Lady Beatrice pressed her thumbnail against the side of the green stone.

There was a tiny click.

The top of the ring opened.

Eleanor stared.

The gemstone was hinged.

Inside the setting lay a miniature compartment.

Empty.

Except for a blackened scrap of paper no larger than a fingernail.

Adrian’s voice came from the doorway.

“Enough.”

Everyone turned.

He stood there with a pistol.

Mrs.

Fenwick screamed.

Dr.

Vale stepped in front of Beatrice.

Adrian pointed the weapon.

“Move.”

Nobody did.

His face had lost all refinement.

All charm.

He looked like a man whose house was burning while everyone else was still admiring the curtains.

Eleanor said quietly:

“You knew the ring opened.”

Adrian’s mouth tightened.

“That ring belongs to Blackthorn.”

“Then why were you hiding it?”

Silence.

Eleanor understood.

“You were looking for something inside.”

Beatrice whispered:

“The seal.”

Adrian looked at her.

The old woman stared back.

For the first time, hatred sharpened her age-weakened face.

“You found Nathaniel.”

Eleanor stopped breathing.

Adrian said nothing.

Beatrice repeated:

“You found him.”

Eleanor stood.

“What does she mean?”

Adrian raised the pistol.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“I said sit.”

Eleanor took one step toward him.

“You know what happened to my father.”

Another step.

“Stop.”

“Tell me.”

“I will shoot.”

“Then shoot.”

Dr.

Vale said, “Eleanor.”

But she kept moving.

Because suddenly she understood something about fear.

Adrian depended on everyone else feeling more of it than he did.

And now he was terrified.

That made him smaller.

Eleanor stopped six feet from the pistol.

“Tell me what happened to Nathaniel Ward.”

Adrian’s hand shook.

Then Lady Beatrice said:

“He did not steal money.”

Everyone turned toward her.

The old woman took a breath.

“My brother did.”

Lord Edmund Blackwood had been praised in newspapers for thirty years.

Philanthropist.

Industrial investor.

Patron of hospitals.

Friend of cabinet ministers.

The Blackwood fortune seemed ancient.

It was not.

According to Beatrice, Blackthorn had been nearly bankrupt when Edmund inherited it.

Then money appeared.

Rail investments.

Mining profits.

Foreign bonds.

Nobody asked questions because wealthy people are often assumed to possess a mysterious natural ability to become wealthier.

Nathaniel Ward asked.

He was twenty-eight when Edmund hired him.

Brilliant with numbers.

Meticulous.

Annoyingly honest.

He discovered that Blackwood investments were being funded by money siphoned from charitable trusts Edmund administered.

Widows’ funds.

Orphan endowments.

A hospital construction trust.

Small thefts at first.

Then larger.

Nathaniel began copying records.

“He came to me,” Beatrice said.

“He believed I might persuade Edmund to confess.”

“Did you?”

She smiled painfully.

“I was a coward.”

Adrian laughed from the doorway.

“At least one honest sentence.”