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Hardy was a well-known novelist, though few, I suspect, knew the author was a spinster. Old women wrotehousehold tips or fashion critiques, not adventure. But then again, Aunt Geraldine wasn’t a typical woman.
    It surprised me that my father hadn’t come. They weren’t close, each one with strong opinions about the other; still, I’d thought he’d pay his respects. I didn’t know if I felt anger or relief at his absence. Maybe losing my mother years ago was grief enough to last him a lifetime. Maybe he just didn’t care. Did he know about the Empress ? About me? I wondered. Either way, he wouldn’t have come to my funeral, that I knew. I was disowned. Dead to him already. He’d made that painfully clear when we last spoke nearly two years ago. My father had buried me with my shame.
    I stared into the fire, unsure of what to do next. With the house. With my grief. With my life. I’d lost everyone that ever mattered to me, and I’d only realized how much after they’d gone.
    The doorbell rang. Moments later, Lily appeared, followed by a tall, broad-shouldered man in a pinstriped suit. I assumed it was Mr. Cronin, but as the fire’s glow lit his face and flickered in his dark eyes, I knew exactly who he was. And what he’d come for.
    â€œMiss Ryan”—Wyatt Steele took off his hat and extended his hand—“good to see you again.”
    I stood, rigid, and glared at Lily. “You were specifically told to turn away reporters asking for Ellie Ryan.”
    â€œI’m sorry, miss.” Her huge blue eyes darted between us. “Only he asked to speak to you, Miss Hardy. He didn’t look nothing like them other reporters, neither.” She blushed, clearly taken in by his handsome charm. His dark eyes and bright smile. Foolish girl.

    â€œI mean—” she blustered on.
    â€œOh, go get me some tea.” I waved her away.
    â€œMake mine a whiskey,” Steele added as she scurried out. He turned and smiled as though we were old friends. “I’m chilled to the bone. Does the sun never shine in Liverpool?” He sat on the wing chair on the other side of the fire and surveyed the room, his eyes observing every draped item, as if he knew in one glance what hid beneath. He stared at me with the same knowing appraisal. His confidence, his ease infuriated me. His very presence did. Who did he think he was, showing up here? Now?
    â€œThis is not a good time,” I said. “I just buried my great-aunt yesterday and—”
    â€œYes, my sympathies, Miss Ryan.” He paused. “Or do you prefer Miss Hardy?”
    I stood there, wordless. Not only had he found me, he’d dug up my real name. What else did he know?
    Lily appeared with our drinks. She handed Steele his whiskey and, hesitating at my clear annoyance, set my teacup on the end table. “Um … will there be anything else, Miss Ellen?”
    I shook my head and she disappeared into the kitchen, seemingly grateful to get away. If only Steele picked up the hint.
    Instead, he raised his glass. “To G.B. Hardy.” He took a swig. “Huge fan of her work. Brilliant writer. Loved her Garrett Dean novels. Climbing Kilimanjaro, sailing the Nile, hunting lions on safari—each great adventure was as real to me as if I’d lived it myself.” He stared into the fire, and for a moment he seemed like the boy he must have been.A scallywag if I ever saw one. “He was every boy’s hero. I wanted to be Garrett Dean.”
    â€œAnd yet here you are,” I said, revelling in catching him off guard. “Hounding people in their grief. Heroic, indeed.”
    He blinked a few times and I could almost see the shift in his eyes. A tightening intensity, like the slight turning of a telescope lens as he refocused upon his purpose.
    â€œThe paper sent me to do a feature on the British army,” he said. “War’s brewing, you