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Which was why, despite his very real fears for Brendan and the baroness, or his guilt over Abbott’s forced marriage, Julius felt downright chipper as he inked his notes to the three remaining suspects.

He tamped down the instinct to prepare a fourth for Smythe. Abbott was investigating his own father-in-law, and Julius knew better than to overstep there.

Nay, he thought, flexing his cramped fingers, I shall focus my energies on the other men.

Henry Montague, heir to Lord Montague. Julius had uncovered a taste for gambling, a promising hint at financial desperation. But Montague’s wagers were cautious, even clever. The man generally won more than he lost.

Then there was Simon Scott, half-brother to Lord Blackwood. Handsome, charming, ambitious—yet no known scandals. He did have a calculating approach to courtship, aiming at a high-ranking debutante with unimpressive intellect but impeccable lineage. The sort of girl Julius would avoid like the plague, lest she trap him in tedium for life.

And finally, Edward Stone, vicar and youngest brother of Lord Harlyn. A cheerful, well-liked man who seemed harmless, content to serve his flock in a sleepy parish. Yet Julius refused to rule him out. Even a kindly priest might prove desperate enough to ensure his inheritance, perhaps to mend a leaky roof or fund his parish’s debts.

One of these men could well be a stone-cold killer who had bludgeoned the baron in his own study, leaving Brendan Ridley to swing for it.

Julius set his pen aside and cracked his stiff knuckles before returning to scratch out his letters. Each carried the same cryptic threat, with only the location and time differing between them.

He did not sign his name. This was bait. The guilty man, or his loyal henchman, would show up at the assigned time, desperate to learn the sender’s identity.

If none appeared, he would have cleared them of suspicion. But if even one did, they would know their culprit and could finally narrow the maddening search for parish records of the mysterious Peter’s marriage.

Reckless. Idiotic. But effective.

Donning a dark woolen cape to shroud his colorful attire, Julius paused to check the lock on his writing case before slipping out into the corridor. He moved silently through the sleeping house, boots soundless on the Persian runner.

By morning, the field of suspects would be smaller. And the next day promised to be filled with the sort of mischief and danger he relished. His steps were buoyant with anticipation at the thrills to come.