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he’d managed to track down one of the French soldiers who attacked us. The Frenchman claimed the ring never found its way into French hands.”
    “The French never used it to rally support on the Carevalo lands?”
    “No.” Fraser glanced down at the fire, his thick, dark brows drawing together. “We kept expecting them to. I rather suspect one of the French patrol appropriated the ring for himself.”
    “Why wouldn’t Carevalo believe you?”
    “I’m not sure, save that the war left him with little trust in anyone British. He was adamant that I must have kept the ring for myself. He refused even to consider other possibilities. You can see why he wants to get his hands on it. If Carevalo and the Spanish liberals rise up against the king, the ring could be just as valuable a symbol now as in 1812.”
    “What did he say when you insisted you didn’t have the ring?”
    “That I’d be sorry.” A muscle tightened along Fraser’s jaw. “I took it for bluster. He was half-drunk at the time, which isn’t unusual for Carevalo. When I saw him a few days later, he acted as though nothing had happened.”
    Roth tapped his pencil against his notebook. “Has Carevalo ever seen your son?”
    “Oh yes. Carevalo dined with us occasionally when we lived in Lisbon.”
    “Alliances shift. Friends turn into enemies.”
    Fraser was looking into the coals again. “Yes, but—”
    “Honor among gentlemen?” Roth tried to keep the irony from his voice.
    Fraser lifted his head. “The war taught me that men of all ranks can find honor elastic, Mr. Roth. I was going to say I knew Carevalo. I thought I knew him.”
    Mélanie Fraser stared at the unraveled mess she had made of the once pristine lace on her sleeve. “We saw Carevalo at the reception this evening.”
    “Did he say anything that could relate to your son’s disappearance?” Roth asked.
    “Not in the least. He flirted with me.” She shivered, as though the memory made her feel unclean. “Why didn’t you tell me he’d asked you for the ring, Charles?”
    “I didn’t see any point in dredging up the past.”
    Their gazes met. Roth couldn’t begin to guess at the memories that echoed between them, but the intimacy of that look went far beyond what he expected from husbands and wives or even lovers.
    A rap at the door broke the stillness. Fraser turned from his wife. “Come in.”
    “Sorry to interrupt, sir.” A slender man with straight fair hair and pale blue eyes stepped into the room. It was Addison, Fraser’s valet, who had shown Roth the footprints in the primrose bed. “Polly has something you and Mrs. Fraser and Mr. Roth had best hear.” He looked at Roth. “I told Officer Dawkins I’d bring her in. She’s a bit upset.”
    It was a classic bit of British understatement. The girl who followed Addison into the room was pale with fright and red-eyed with weeping. Roth would swear her legs were shaking beneath the printed cotton skirt of her gown. Her arms were folded across her stomach as though she was going to be sick.
    Her gaze went from Charles Fraser to his wife. “Oh, sir. Ma’am. I’ll never forgive myself. It was all my fault.”

Chapter 4
    M élanie Fraser pushed herself to her feet and crossed to the girl’s side. “It’s all right, Polly, we’re all overset. Sit down and tell us what happened.” She put her arm round Polly and steered her to the sofa.
    Polly sank down on the sofa and drew a shuddering breath. She was scarcely more than a child herself, perhaps fifteen or sixteen. She looked at Mrs. Fraser out of wide, troubled hazel eyes. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Well, I was flattered, truth be told. And he was so…so…”
    “He?” Charles Fraser’s voice was surprisingly gentle, though Roth could feel the force of his impatience.
    Polly raised her anguished gaze to him. “I didn’t know him for a criminal, sir, truly. Well, I still don’t rightly know it. Only Officer Dawkins, he was asking us