The day outside was bright and sunny, but Elizabeth took no notice. Could take notice of nothing, at all.

The inside of her wrist still veritably tingled, as if Raymond had touched her mere moments ago, rather than hours. She found herself transfixed by her own limb, unable to believe that there was no mark, no physical evidence of his caresses. She thought, wonderingly, that the mark was there, visible or not.

"Elizabeth."

Aunt June's voice brought her out of her reverie, the sharp tone indicating that this wasn't the first time her aunt had spoken. Elizabeth realized she was holding the butter knife partway to her toast while she stared, seemingly at nothing. She busied herself with her breakfast, flushing pink.

"I'm sorry, Aunt," she said, striving to sound normal. "I believe I'm just tired from the late night." Although it hadn't been that late, in particular.

Aunt June smiled in a knowing sort of way that made Elizabeth blush harder.

"It was certainly a treat to have such a charming escort," June remarked. "Don't you think?"

Elizabeth was used to this sort of hint, no matter how it embarrassed her, and sidestepped nimbly. "Lord Blackwood was very kind to patronize us, I'm sure. Oh Aunt, did you see what Lady Aster was wearing?"

Easily distracted by gossip — at least for the time being — Aunt June sniffed disapprovingly. "No one over twenty-one has any business in that shade of pink, to be sure," she replied. "And four flounces is too many for anyone."

Elizabeth giggled, and managed to get through breakfast with the cheerful distraction of picking apart the ton. She slipped away with a murmured excuse the moment her toast was finished, and took refuge in Sam's study.

She sat at his desk and just breathed in, the scent of ink and books and a hint of old smoke immeasurably comforting.

"Oh Papa," she sighed, rubbing her hand over the soft blotter on his desktop. "I wish I could speak with you just one last time."

She'd ask him about his business, she thought, and wouldn't let him put her off with well-meant assurances. She'd ask about his partners and their motivations, she'd…

She was sitting at his desk, she realized, and without further hesitation, began to hastily rifle through his drawers. To her disappointment, the contents were sparse and insignificant — either Mister Oates or Tom had clearly already removed anything of the least importance.

Of course they did, she thought ruefully. Obviously, when working through the estate, Sam's man of affairs would have needed…but what was this? The bottom drawer stuck halfway open, and wouldn't open any further.

It looked empty…but if it was, why would it stick so? It took no little effort and left her with a bruised finger, but Elizabeth triumphed in the end, retrieving a small, leather-bound book from its spot wedged at the very back, between the bottom drawer and the one above it. It was the work of mere moments to realize that she was holding her father's journal, and her heart thumped painfully. Did she want to invade her papa's innermost thoughts? Did she want to read about herself?

What if he had been disappointed in her?

She couldn't do it. She'd pass the journal to Blackwood — he'd read it for her and see if there was anything important in its pages. Somehow, it was easy to trust him with such a precious object.

Elizabeth was contemplating whether she could entrust the parcel to a messenger and, if so, if there was a great deal of impropriety in sending a parcel to an unattached male, when a heavy tread at the door raised her from her thoughts. It was Tom, and she was glad enough to be interrupted in her dithering that she smiled brightly — perhaps a little more than she should have. He smiled back, face shining with pleasure.

"Miss Scott," he said warmly, hastening toward the desk. "I wasn't sure I'd see you this morning." He took her hand over the desktop and bowed over it as neatly as any courtier.

Here was a saviour, she thought happily. Tom would tell her what she needed to know, and she wouldn't need to feel guilty about not reading the diary.

"It's nice to see you, too, Tom — and how often must I tell you to call me Elizabeth?"

His smile grew wider. "Perhaps just a few more times, Miss Elizabeth," he replied teasingly. "Are you in need of the study this morning?"

"Oh no," she answered. "I was just looking for something, but now that you're here, I don't need to look anymore. I'm sure you can help me."

"I will certainly try," Tom said gallantly. "What were you searching for?"

"I wanted the names of Papa's last investment group." She tried not to sound too eager, but Tom looked mystified.

"I don't mean to be rude," he said. "But what on earth for?"

"I think one of them might be the murderer," she whispered excitedly. "Who else would profit as much from his death?"

Tom's expression was truly shocked. "Oh, Elizabeth, I don't think…all the gentlemen involved are quite respectable."

Elizabeth waved his protests aside with a pfft of annoyance. "Money is the great motivator, Tom," she insisted. "Many respectable men have done terrible things in its name."

"And what will you do with these names?" he queried anxiously. "You cannot approach these gentlemen and question them about Sam's death."

"Nonsense," she replied, whisking out a fresh sheet of foolscap. "I'm a lady of Society now, Tom. I'll simply arrange to dance with them, or…perhaps a chance meeting at a refreshments table. It should be simple enough."

"And if one of them is a murderer?" Tom snapped in disbelief. "It's too dangerous — you could get hurt."

"I'll be fine," she returned, impatient now. "Please, just write out the names for me."

"Promise me you'll take care," he pleaded, his blue eyes shining with appeal behind his neat spectacles.

She smiled — she'd won, she knew. "Of course I will," she said soothingly, standing and making room for him at the desk. "I have no wish for danger."

"If only that were true," he muttered, but scrawled out five names and offered her the page.

Elizabeth smiled more brilliantly than ever, dazzling. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "Now, I really should get on before Aunt June comes looking for me."

"I shall hope to see you again soon, Miss Elizabeth," Tom said, all politeness once more.

Whisking out of the room, it didn't occur to Elizabeth to wonder — if the desk was already empty, why did Tom still arrive there, day after day, and what did he do with his time?

She didn't see Tom watching her go, his face filled with yearning.

Aunt June had greeted her reappearance with a smug smile and a note from Blackwood, inviting her to go riding in Hyde Park that afternoon. It was too perfect — not only did she have Sam's journal for him, but Tom's list of names, as well. The day had been interminably long until it was time for her to dress.

She adjusted her riding habit a little anxiously — one of Aunt June's purchases for Season, she wasn't sure about the deep blue-green colour.

"You don't need to fuss, miss," Sally assured her. "You look a right picture, you do."

"You don't think it…garish?"

"Oh no, miss." Sally smiled at her in the glass. "You're just used to dark colours. This is lovely for a lady like yourself."

Elizabeth still wasn't sure, but she was sure that she wouldn't get away with the dust-coloured split skirts she'd worn in the deserts of Egypt. The sound of the door knocker ended her dithering, and she soon found herself astride her pretty mare, on the way to the Park with Blackwood alongside, Blackwood's groom and Sally trailing behind.

They chatted amiably enough as they made their way along — but the streets were busy and noisy and no place for a private conversation. She was eager for the seclusion of the Park, to reveal the slim journal currently bumping in her skirts. But as they passed through the Corner to take a walk down Rotten Row, her face fell and she let out an involuntary gasp of dismay.

Raymond looked down in concern. "Is something wrong?" he asked. "Is your mount all right?"

"Oh yes, I'm fine," she replied, still frowning as she looked out over the crowded lawns. "It's just… so busy."

Raymond's horse halted, so she stopped in turn, and looked up at him. He was wearing a frown of his own, now, and she wondered what was wrong.

"It's always busy at the Park on afternoons during the Season — everyone wants to see and be seen, you know that. Did you…" He hesitated, then gave her a wry smile. "Did you not want to be seen with me, Elizabeth?"

She was truly taken aback at the thought. "Oh no, Red," she said earnestly, the old nickname coming easily in her eagerness to reassure. "Never that. It's only that…I was hoping for a bit of privacy, really."

His face softened and he smiled a better, truer smile in relief. "I'm sure we can find a spot for a chat," he said, and was rewarded by her beaming smile in return.

He led his charming companion along the winding path, utterly pleased with her. For one brief moment, he'd thought his hopes dashed — and the strength of the pang in his heart had surprised him. To hear instead that she merely wanted to be alone with him — that was a gift he couldn't have predicted.

He wished he could sweep her hat off, and see the sun's gleam on her rich, dark hair. He wished for true privacy, so that he might touch that creamy skin and soak up its warmth. He was so absorbed in watching her, he almost forgot to listen to her.

"…anyhow, you'll never guess." She looked so pleased that he didn't have the heart to ask her to repeat herself.

"I'm sure I cannot," he replied, leading her into the shelter of a pleasant little copse of trees. He carefully backed his horse around so they were facing one another, and signalled his groom to stop in front of them, just out of hearing range. "You'll have to tell me."

"Look!" she answered gleefully, bringing a battered black book out from within her skirts and offering it to him. "It's Papa's journal."

He took the book from her, a little unsure. Her face went somber.

"I didn't…I couldn't read it," she confessed. "Those are Papa's private thoughts, you know, and maybe some of them are about me. But I thought perhaps… Oh, Raymond, would you read it? Could you? There might be clues to our mystery and I can't just let it go."

Raymond found himself warmed immeasurably by her simple faith in him. "Of course, Lizzy," he answered. "I'd be pleased to do you this small service."

"Thank you, R– my lord," she exclaimed. "It is most gracious of you, really. And, look, look inside."

"You know I don't mind you calling me Red," he reminded her. He flipped open the journal to find a half-sheet of foolscap carrying five names in an unfamiliar hand. "Are these–"

"Papa's last business partners," she confirmed triumphantly.

"I know most of them, at least casually," he said thoughtfully. "It should be simple enough to talk to each of them relatively soon."

"Oh," Elizabeth said airily. "If we split them up, it will go much more quickly. I'm sure I've been introduced to Simpson and Dorchester, and I can easily arrange a dance, or–"

"Under no circumstances," Raymond interrupted, feeling as black as he no doubt looked. "It's entirely too risky. What if one of them is a murderer?"

"And it's not dangerous for you?" she retorted pointedly.

"I can take care of myself," he said ominously. "And at least I will be in no danger of being hauled off and ravished."

She reddened, but refused to look away. "That's not…I mean to say…how ridiculous!" Her horse sidestepped anxiously, alerted by her tone. "I'm not…I'm a spinster, no one would…" She trailed off, no polite words left to her.

He looked at her, creamy skin flushed pink in embarrassment, sky blue eyes sparkling with anger, lithe form perfect in its fashionable habit, and wanted to laugh aloud. Instead, he walked his horse a few steps closer, and leaned in to cup her face in one gloved hand.

"In that, my dear," he said, voice gone low and gravelled, "you are utterly mistaken."

He leaned one final inch, and kissed her. He laid his lips on hers and she was soft, and sweet, and everything he'd dreamt of.

And he was lost.