“Miss Austen,” Sir William said warningly, “pray confine yourself to facts, and leave judgment for the assembly.”

“Yes, Sir William.”

My old friend turned towards the Lord High Steward. “I would request a recess, my lord, in order to call Lord Harold Trowbridge, and present him as a witness at the Bar. It is best to have his story regarding matters between himself and the Countess, rather than Miss Austen's.”

“So it shall be,” the Lord High Steward pronounced, letting fall his gavel; and I was allowed to step down — Sir William having failed to reach any of the matters for which my testimony was required — that of the finding of Isobel's handkerchief, or the maid's body, or indeed the scrap of foolscap overwritten by Fitzroy Payne's hand.

“YOU HAVE TAKEN A GREAT RISK, MISS AUSTEN,” MR. Cranley said gravely, as he handed me a cup of tea in the witnesses’ anteroom; “for we cannot know what Lord Harold Trowbridge shall say at the Bar, and we are powerless to counter it. Nor can we show that any collusion existed between him and the maid — as we must, if we are to suggest he is responsible for the Earl's death.”

“I offer my apologies, Mr. Cranley,” I said humbly, sipping at the restorative liquid; “I confess I did not think that far beyond the moment. I merely wished to divert the assembly from consideration of Isobel's guilt. You know that Sir William is not obliged to present evidence that does not support his case; and I was determined to make it known that Isobel depended upon her husband's fortune, and was thus unlikely to have killed him, when at his death it must pass to his heir. But I was unable to say that much.”

“Sir William may as readily suggest that the heir's fortune should be Isobel's,” the barrister pointed out, “can he but introduce the notion that they were lovers.”

“And how should he do that? The maid alone knew; and the maid is dead.”

“All of London suspects it; I have heard it myself, in three separate places, during the course of the past week. But all that is hearsay. Our greatest danger lies with yourself.”

“I shall never pronounce such a thing in public, even did I know it to be true!” I cried stoutly.

“Sir William might demand it of you, Miss Austen, when you are next at the Bar; and you are under oath.”

I saw then that I had a great deal to learn of the law, and wished heartily that one of my brothers was an adept at the profession; and vowed to be more careful in future. But I had little time to consider how virtuous that future should be — a bell was rung announcing that the proceedings should recommence, and we were obliged to find our seats once more within the House. I observed that Mr. Cranley settled himself in his with a worried frown; and regretted my unfettered tongue.

I soon put aside all thoughts of self, however, for the tall form of Lord Harold Trowbridge strode through the assembly's ranks, under escort of the Court. He moved with his usual athletic grace, an ease that never deserted him; and kept his face to the front of the room. Upon arriving at the witness box, however, he found my eyes, and held my gaze with an expression of amusement. He seemed to feel only delight in my efforts to heighten his notoriety.

The Lord High Steward called us both to attention.

Sir William cleared his throat, and glanced at his notes. I knew he bore Harold Trowbridge little affection, and wondered how my old friend felt, turning to such a man from need. “Did you, Lord Harold, speak with the Countess of Scargrave in the presence of her friend Miss Austen, on the night of the Earl's death?”

“I did.”

“Would you describe the nature of the interview?”

“It was a business matter,” Trowbridge said dismissively.

Sir William frowned. “A matter for the Countess, and not her husband?”

“As the property I sought to purchase was entirely the Countess's, it was solely her consent that was necessary.”

“And how did her ladyship respond?”

“She very nearly showed me the door,” Trowbridge said, with a thin smile.

“The Countess was not amenable to your proposals?”

“The Countess has long been opposed to them.”

I felt my spirits begin to lift with hope. Perhaps even Lord Harold would speak the truth, when under oath. I glanced at Isobel, and saw that her eyes were fixed upon her enemy as if in a trance; Fitzroy Payne stared at nothing, his thoughts apparently elsewhere.

“And why is that, Lord Harold?” Sir William said.

“Because she does not wish to turn over her property.”

“And what property is that?”

“The property I wished to purchase.”

He is relishing this fool's errand, I thought, gazing at Trowbridge's heavy-lidded eyes; he says no more nor less than he must, and will drive Sir William mad before he lets slip anything that is damaging to himself. But my old friend the magistrate leaned forward keenly, his eyes fixed on the witness's face, as he posed the next question.

“Lord Harold, was the Earl equally opposed to your aims for his wife's property?”

“He was not,” Trowbridge said.

I started in my seat, all amazement. A deliberate falsehood! I looked for Isobel, and saw her sway where she sat.

“His lordship wished to complete the sale?”

“The Earl's object was in every way aligned with my own,” the rogue calmly replied; and at that, I heard Isobel gasp. As I watched, she slipped from her stool in a dead faint; it was as I thought — the strain had been too great to bear.

A murmur arose from the assembly, and Sir William halted before Lord Harold, his questions suspended. Fitzroy Payne leapt to his feet, all solicitude for the Countess's distress; and this, too, should be noted by the assembled peers. He was restrained by the Clerk, and Isobel righted; her wrists were chafed, and smelling salts administered, and she very shortly opened her eyes; but so ill was her appearance, that the Lord High Steward ordered her conveyed from the room, and the proceedings adjourned for the day.

“WHAT CAN BE HIS GAME?” I QUERIED MR. CRANLEY — NOT for the first time, as I turned back and forth before the drawing-room fire at Scargrave House. We were alone, and wasting away the hours remaining until dinner with little appetite. Fanny Delahoussaye seemed much fatigued from her parade before the House of Lords, and had gone above to rest, to Mr. Cranley's disappointment. Madame had no reason to seek my company — if anything, she avoided it, since our contretemps of a few days before. But I had no time to spare for the sensibilities of Delahoussayes.

“Trowbridge has deliberately lied before the Bar,” I declared to the barrister, “and should be cited for perjury!” My tone betrayed my indignation, which was considerable. That I felt responsible for the rogue's appearance at all, I need not underline; and my guilt and remorse only heightened my desire to shake Trowbridge's grin from his insolent face.

“But how are we to prove perjury?” Mr. Cranley asked reasonably. “We have only the word of the Countess that her husband was bent upon fighting Lord Harold. Trowbridge knows as much, and feels secure in his deceit. He may say anything he likes, while the Countess but looks on and faints.”

“There is not a man more despicable,” I retorted bitterly, and threw myself into a chair with less than my usual grace. “Having dispatched Isobel's husband — her sole defender — Trowbridge would send her to the gallows, the better to win the property he cannot gain by any other means!”

“There is still Madame's consent,” Mr. Cranley pointed out. “But perhaps Trowbridge shall kill her as well.”

“That is hardly necessary — at Isobel's death, the property shall pass to Fanny, and as the sole trustee, Madame may turn it over to Lord Harold as she wishes. She shall free herself of an incumbrance, and think no more of Crosswinds.”