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him.
    “Is that a profession?”

    She quickly glanced toward his wall of hanging porcelain plates, then back again. “I have made it mine.”
    “And it pays well?”
    “The pay is adequate for my needs.”
    Why the devil did he feel as if she summoned answers before he spoke the questions? With an unintended smirk at her clever evasiveness, he asked, “You assemble wedding attire for fashionable ladies, or fashionable attire for any woman who can pay what you charge?”
    She blinked, and her lips parted just briefly before she spoke. “I design and correlate the necessary bedding, linens, and wedding garments for elegant ladies who can afford my services. I employ two seamstresses who work with me, and on occasion I assist them with the actual sewing as well.”
    Again, not a terribly specific answer as far as he was concerned. He kept quiet for a second or two, then pushed to clarify. “By ‘wedding garments’ you mean to suggest you’re something of a dressmaker?”
    Her lips thinned as annoyance set in. Oddly, that didn’t bother him.
    “No, not gowns. Ladies’… apparel. For marriage .”
    For a split second the answer stupefied him as her meaning dawned.
    Not that he hadn’t seen it coming. Then he felt a warmth creep up his neck, which he ignored. “I see. Intimate… underthings?”
    “Do you make a habit of asking questions that embarrass your employees?”
    That stunned him on two fronts, first that she’d had the gall to say it, and second because it took her words to make him realize that it was he who employed her. He hadn’t thought of that. He’d been away too long.
    Marcus rubbed his aching eyes, which remained tired after a dreadful night’s sleep, then strolled three feet to his desk. He pulled his large green leather chair out and attempted to sit comfortably, which seemed exceptionally difficult for some reason.
    “I apologize, Miss Marsh,” he said brusquely. “It wasn’t my intention to embarrass you. Of course you had your duties, and I’m certain you performed them well.”
    One of her brows rose as if she questioned that response, but she muttered only a curt, “Thank you.”
    He quelled the urge to laugh. God, he was on edge, and she sat there primly, trying but failing to conceal both curiosity and annoyance. For some peculiar reason he admired that. Most of the women he’d been around lately were timid and unobtrusive. He’d grown rather bored

    with the female sex of his recent acquaintance. It was a refreshing change to sit and discuss something practically indecent with a lady who intrigued him.
    Leaning forward, elbows on his cleared and polished desk, fingers interlocked in front of him, he decided it was not the time for teasing, but to get to the point.
    “You see, Miss Marsh, I’m having some difficulty coming to terms with the death of my sister. I requested your presence here this morning because I would like you to help me discover what exactly happened on the day, and in the weeks, before she died.”
    He watched her. She frowned minutely, then shook her head.
    “I’m sorry, Lord Renn, but I don’t understand.”
    He expected that. Staring at her candidly, he inhaled deeply, and relayed his thoughts, which he knew would shock her.
    “I believe,” he revealed in a lowered voice, “that there was more to Christine’s death than simply slipping and hitting her head on her dressing table as she fell. She was not a clumsy girl. Beyond that, I have information that suggests she was very deeply troubled by something in the weeks before she succumbed to her fate. I would like you to help me discover what it was.”
    The wind howled against the shutters, whistling through the windows at an eerie pitch. Mary Marsh didn’t move a muscle, remaining nearly expressionless. But in her fascinating eyes he witnessed a flicker of… something. Marcus couldn’t put his finger on it, but he suspected suddenly that she understood exactly what he was talking