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knew how many M.P.s and peers of the realm. At last, Oliver gave a curt nod. "I'll write a note for one of the footmen to carry."
    "Ask for Jeremy Roth," Charles said. "He's discreet and clever, and Mélanie and I know him.”
    "Do you want me to come with you?" Mélanie asked Isobel.
    "No, you and Charles should stay out here with the—” Isobel glanced at the fountain then jerked her gaze away. "You should stay out here so no one disturbs things."
    Charles touched Oliver on the shoulder. "Make sure the doors are secured."
    "You don't think—"
    "We don't want anyone to leave until we have an accurate list of who's here.”
    Oliver opened his mouth as though to protest that none of his guests could have had anything to do with the dead man floating in his fountain. Then he glanced at the corpse again and followed his wife toward the house.
    The Lydgates climbed the terrace steps. The French windows closed behind them, and Mélanie was alone in the cold, moonlit garden with her husband and the body of Julien St Juste.
    "We need more light," she said, looking round the stone statues and clipped hedges that filled the garden. Focusing on details would help her hold on to her sanity. "The victim or the killer might have dropped something."
    "Roth will be here shortly."
    "Yes, but we might as well see—"
    "Mel—"
    "Look.” Something glinted in the murky depths of the water. “By the base of the fountain."
    "For God's sake, Mélanie—"
    "We can't just leave it there. Hold on to me, Charles." She knelt on the edge of the fountain without waiting for a reply. Charles drew a sharp breath, but his hands closed on her waist as she leaned forward and reached a velvet-clad, lace-cuffed arm into the cold, blood-filmed water. Her nails scrabbled against stone. She leaned farther forward and would have lost her balance were it not for Charles's hands at her waist.
    Her fingers brushed something smooth and thin and sharp. She straightened up, holding a dripping, six-inch object. "The sort of weapon that's meant for business. Whoever brought it here didn't intend it as part of a costume."
    "No.” Charles helped her to her feet and took the knife from her numb fingers. His gaze moved over it, sharp with an interest that he quickly masked. Or tried to.
    She tugged a handkerchief from her dry sleeve and wiped her hand. "He was stabbed in the chest not the back. That means he probably knew whoever the killer was."
    Charles glanced round the walled garden. "There's no sign of a struggle.”
    "The victim was probably standing at the edge of the fountain. He stumbled back with the blow and fell into the water. You can see where water splashed onto the flagstones. It could be an hour or more before Mr. Roth can get here. If the victim has papers on him—"
    "No.” Charles set the knife down on a wrought iron table.
    "But the water could ruin the evidence before—"
    "Damn it, Mélanie.” He crossed to her side and gripped her shoulders. His eyes had gone from gray to charcoal. "It's been two months. Two months since we almost lost—"
    "Everything.” Child, marriage, trust. Life, and all the things that went to make up a life.
    "We don't need to be dragged into more damned intrigues. We’re staying the hell out of it. We’ll show Roth the scene of the crime, we’ll do what we can for Oliver and Isobel, and we’ll go home to our children.”
    Check. The tie that bound them, the debt and responsibility she could not ignore. “You said yourself we can’t hide forever.“
    “That was about going to a ball. This is about a murder."
    She pulled away from his grasp. "I wasn't made for safety and cotton wool, Charles. Sometimes I don't think I was made for happily-ever-after."
    "Perhaps not. But you owe it to your family to try."
    She spun toward the fountain, hands pressed to her face. "Damn it all, I didn't mean— I owe you and the children more than I can possibly repay."
    "Don't turn maudlin, Mel. I wasn't trying to call in a