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carried the notebooks and a scrap of paper I’d located in one of Mr. Dillman’s jacket pockets. A scrap of paper I hoped would prove to be our first significant clue.

 
    7
    I was convinced the sequence, M E E A M & M E O A O A M E, written on the paper I’d found in Mr. Dillman’s coat pocket were references to departments in the British Museum. I told Colin about the game Cordelia had played, and he agreed with my deduction, but was quick to point out these letters could have been used by Mr. Dillman ages ago. Regardless, without more than just them, we had no way of using the information for any further purpose. Colin set himself to search through the notebooks and continue his investigation of the dead man’s business dealings while, at his urging, I applied myself in another direction. I had learned when it was time to leave matters to him, at least temporarily. Marriage is a delicate balance, particularly when spouses work together. Colin and I had, after a certain amount of unsuccessful push and pull, found our way to contentment in this department. I was not about to disrupt it. Lady Carlisle had left a stack of pamphlets for me, and I was happy to head to Westminster to deliver them to the unsuspecting Conservative MPs.
    Tall plane trees brought welcome shade from the heat of the day as I made my way through Green Park, then crossed the wide Mall and stepped into St. James’s Park, where bright blossoms lined the paths and ducks and swans zoomed through the lake. The two parks, with Buckingham Palace between them, made for one of the prettiest parts of London, but today everywhere I walked the mood was tense. No scandal had yet been revealed to explain the red paint left on the Musgrave and Riddington houses, but this had not provided relief for the families. If anything, it had ratcheted up tension even further. Society was rife with speculation as to what secrets would come out, but even as gossip spread, people began to worry they, too, would be subject to similar unwelcome attentions.
    The Beau Monde were watching each other in ways they hadn’t previously. They were more on guard, more skittish. A couple walking a few paces in front of me broke apart with an almost violent force. “Why would you tell me such a thing?” the young woman cried as she pulled away from her companion. There could be no question of the gentleman’s motivation. He thought it preferable to tell her himself before he found himself exposed in an indecorous manner. I wondered how many people were making unwelcome, and possibly unnecessary, confessions and destroying lives.
    Or were these confessions unnecessary? If someone had told a lie or deceived their partner, in life or business, did that partner not deserve to make an informed decision about continuing the relationship? Would ignorance be preferable? I frowned, crossed Horse Guards Road, and continued on to Westminster, where I asked for Mr. Reginald Foster. Mr. Foster, a schoolmate of Colin’s, was touted as having the brightest political future of any man in the history of the British Empire. He’d been universally adored at Eton—elected to Pop and Library in his first year, the darling of every hostess in Windsor, best oarsman in memory—and had finished Cambridge with double firsts in history and classics.
    There seemed to be no limit to what this man could accomplish. He spoke seven languages fluently (although he himself counted only six, as he insisted Latin could not really be spoken in modern Europe), dedicated a great deal of his not insignificant fortune to charitable causes, and had proved himself a more than adequate painter during the two years he spent traveling on the continent after finishing at university. Most significant to me, at the moment, however, was the fact he had promised he could gain me admission to the offices of the Conservative MPs.
    “Lady Emily,” he said, stretching his arms to me as he approached. “What a delight! You’re even