Suzanne Robinson by Lady Dangerous Page A

cowardice. Someone else might know what he was.
    The beast lifted its head, pointed its muzzle skyward, and howled. He heard a small sound in his throat—a little grunting whimper. That sound jolted him into the present.
    Jocelin had finished pouring the brandy. No one seemed to have noticed his lapse. He tapped his cigar ash on the edge of his dessert plate. He was here because of Lieutenant Cheshire. Most of the old group were here, those who had survived. That was why he came, why he supported their political aims. He could watch them, especially Jocelin, who was so wild and on the edge, uncontrollable.
    Jocelin had lain next to Sergeant Pawkins in hospital at Scutari. Jocelin had been delirious when he’d come to the ward that night and smotheredPawkins. Jocelin didn’t remember anything. And if his friend ever did, he would be there, at his side, watching, watching, watching.
    Liza hiked her skirts and tiptoed up the back stairs. She had returned to her post determined to avoid the viscount. Not having seen him for almost two days, she had decided to risk sneaking into his rooms again for one last search. He was busy with his political meeting.
    She had peeked at the guests and their host from behind a door as Choke and two footmen took coats and gloves. It seemed as if they had all arrived at once, and never had she seen such a collection of brilliant young men. They must be rather like their cavalry horses, all sleek, working muscle and blazing spirits.
    She reached the door to the viscount’s sitting room and slipped through it. Listening for Loveday, she concluded that the valet was still submerged in the evening paper in his own room. A fire burned in the fireplace, but there was no other light. Where had she been when that awful man came upon her? Ah, the mantel.
    Liza went to the fireplace and stuck her hands out to warm them. Stiff fingers dropped things, and she couldn’t afford to drop Wedgwood or anything else. After rubbing her hands for a few moments, she grasped the Wedgwood urn. Empty, as she remembered. The nautilus shell cup concealed nothing either, which left the antique blue thing with the hinged top. She took the vessel in both hands and lifted it from the mantel.
    A delicate gold chain connected the top to theneck of the flask. She pulled the top back and looked inside, but the interior was too dark. Carefully she touched her forefinger to the lip, then slid it down the neck slowly so that she didn’t push anything too deep inside to be retrieved. Her finger hit something. She withdrew her forefinger and inserted her little finger. Snagging the object, she pulled it out.
    A small roll of paper. At last. Excitement caused her to fumble with the blue thing, and it almost slipped through her hands. Gasping, she caught her upper lip between her teeth and set the vessel back on the mantel. Then she opened the paper and read it.
    What disappointment. But then, had she expected a confession? Still, the list must be important, or the viscount wouldn’t have hidden it. She read the five names. They were set out in two groups, one of three and one of two names. She read them over and over in order to memorize them: Griffin Poe, Nappie Carbuncle, Frank Fawn; Sir Morris Harter, Dr. Lucius Sinclair. Her lips moved as she repeated them. Later she would give the list to Toby, who would make inquiries about them among his widespread acquaintances, criminal and respectable.
    She placed the rolled paper back in the blue thing and straightened it on the mantel. Then she tiptoed back to the door and opened it a crack. The hall was empty. Did she dare steal into the room that connected with the library? The viscount and his political friends had gathered there, and she might be able to hear something important. Jocelin Marshall wasn’t the only man to have close dealings with her brother. He was merely the most credible suspect.
    The night William Edward died he had gone to one of these political meetings and had