She peeked over the blanket and whispered, “Look.” René lifted his head.

Madame Hasard had come out of the print house and was picking her way back across the lawn with the covered lantern. If Madame dug her high heels in for a fight, which of them would come out on top? Sophia wasn’t sure, but she was going to find out. Starting tomorrow.

“Will you go with me?” René whispered. “Say that you will come.”

Sophia brought the blanket back over their heads. “Ask me tomorrow. But for now, I am staying right here.”

It was well after middlesun when Sophia entered the kitchen of Bellamy House, her head tied again in a kerchief, face dirtied behind round spectacles, wearing a plain cotton dress that was a little frayed. Nancy and her daughters were at a near run, sweating in the heat of cooking.

“Could I bring some soup to Madame?” she asked in loud Parisian. Nancy did not speak Parisian, but she knew what “Madame” meant. She pointed to a pot on the coal cooker, wiping the tears away as she chopped more onions while one daughter frantically washed dishes and the other left with the water bucket. Sophia shook her head as she ladled soup. Nancy’s family deserved a medal, or at least a lot of money. But their distraction with a house full of strangers was serving her purpose. If this went badly, it was best that none of them knew a thing about it.

She put the bowl on a tray, left the kitchen behind, walked about halfway up to the north wing, where there were no former prisoners milling, and set the tray on a small table. This was a bizarre way to behave after her father’s burial rites, she knew. She should have been spending the rest of her day in quiet mourning, if not helping poor Nancy in the kitchen. But the Bellamys were a bit too desperate for that. Tom would be arrested tomorrow, if they could find him. And she’d already determined what she would risk for René. Which was everything.

She looked left, right, and then emptied the contents of a vial—what she normally kept for filling her ring—into the soup, stirring it in well. She’d really been going through the stuff lately; Tom would have to get more from the hospital in Kent, assuming he wasn’t in prison. She picked up the tray, went to the north-wing door, and knocked.

“Enter,” Madame called. Sophia stepped inside and Madame glanced up from the letter she was writing, eyes brushing once over the tray, but never high enough to see Sophia’s face. “Set that down and you may be on your way.”

Madame needed to learn that they asked, not ordered, in Bellamy House, Sophia thought. “Enjoy your soup, Madame,” she couldn’t help adding in husky Parisian just before she closed the door.

She waited in the dim end of the corridor, biding her time, surprised when not too long after, Madame Hasard opened the door and began a teetering progress down the hall, a black bag in hand, her unbalance having nothing to do with the height of her heels.

Sophia bit her lip. She had intended for Madame to be snoozing on her bed or on the floor. Why could no Hasard ever be drugged properly? Hopefully, anyone who encountered Madame would just think she’d been in the wine. Hopefully, she’d be able to negotiate the stairs. Hopefully, she’d never remember receiving her soup in the first place. In any case, Sophia thought, now was the opportunity. Her only opportunity. When Madame had indeed made her way safely down the stairs, Sophia dashed into her room, locked the door, went straight to the desk, and began to ransack.

It was nearly highsun before Sophia managed to find something interesting in Madame Hasard’s room, and that interesting something was sewn into the bodice lining of her silk dress. And it was so interesting that Sophia had to sit down on a chair to read it a second time, a chair that she nearly missed. When she had read the documents a third time, she felt her hazy thoughts focus, sharpened against the whetstone of a hard, grinding fury. It was good to be angry. She much preferred it to being helpless.

She flung the door open, leaving it swinging on its hinges, almost running the corridor to the stairwell. Down, around the corner, down again, and then she was marching over the multicolored floor tiles of the dining room hallway.

“Miss Bellamy! Miss Bellamy!”

She heard the clack of Mrs. Rathbone’s not-very-sensible shoes coming up from the front hall. She’d completely forgotten about their meeting.

“Miss Bellamy! Really! Who are all these people in your house? What …”

Sophia threw open the door to the waiting room and then burst into the dining room. None of the lanterns were lit behind the glass, only three sets of candles illuminating Benoit, Peter, Enzo, and Francois seated around the table, their conversation coming to a standstill at Sophia’s abrupt entrance. She looked at them each in turn.

“How many of you knew?” she said, shaking the documents at them. “Who knew about this? Benoit?”

Then Mrs. Rathbone came through the door in a panting explosion of skirts. Wesson’s page sixteen, Sophia thought automatically. “Sophia Bellamy, whatever is wrong with you? If this is the way you’ve been taught to conduct business, it’s no wonder the family finances have gone the way of the bulb!”

Francois frowned. “What is a bulb?”

“It is a Commonwealth expression, Franc,” Peter explained, “there is no such …”

“I want to know about this!” Sophia yelled, shaking the papers.

“Sophia! I insist that you discuss my offer …”

Benoit frowned just a little. The mix of Commonwealth and Parisian in the room was confusing. “Tell us what you hold in your hand, Mademoiselle, and then we shall …”

And then they all turned as Tom came through the door, his stick in hand.

“What are you doing here?” Sophia said. She thought he’d gone straight back to the farm with Jennifer after the burial. Tom came so quickly across the room that his limp was hardly noticeable, then not noticeable at all in the bloom of rage that erupted over his face when he saw Mrs. Rathbone. Sophia stared. Tom was never angry. Not like her. And not like that.

“Why is she here?” he asked without removing his gaze from Mrs. Rathbone.

“She made me an offer to buy Bellamy House,” Sophia replied. “I haven’t told you yet …”

“Did you accept?” Tom snapped.

“No. I …”

“Then ask her where she got the money.”

Tom’s face had been made into something hard-edged. But there was a hint of a smile from Mrs. Rathbone.

“Ask her!” Tom demanded.

Sophia glanced over at the sound of footsteps in the waiting room, and then René, Émile, and Andre filed in, mud on boots and, in René’s case, streaked across his shirt.

“Ask her, Sophie!”

She turned to Mrs. Rathbone. “Where did you get the money to buy Bellamy House?”

Mrs. Rathbone looked at them all, and then she pulled out a chair and sat, her large purse perched on her knees. “Tom would like me to confess. Wouldn’t you, Tom?”

“Idon’t mind confessing,” said Mrs. Rathbone, “because it won’t do me any harm or you any good. I’ve already called on Mr. Halflife and Sheriff Burn to let them know that Bellamy is dead and that you’re both back safe and sound, and I’ve hinted just the tiniest bit that Tom might be taking off to parts unknown. They’ll be here quite soon, I think, instead of waiting for tomorrow. But if you sell me Bellamy House … Well, then I imagine you can show him the money, as it were, I’ll show Mr. Halflife the deed, and your troubles will be over.”