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even attempting to hide the sarcasm from his tone.
    “Of course there is, dear. Men can marry and sire children well into their years. It is only we poor women who must marry early, else face life alone on the shelf.”
    Willow would be considered “on the shelf” already. She had mentioned she was nine and twenty. He pushed his hair back from his eyes. Willow had nothing to do with any of this.
    “I appreciate your concerns, Mother, but can we get back to why I’m here?” he prodded. The sooner they could discuss the case, the sooner he could remove himself and perhaps salvage the rest of the evening. At the moment, holing up in his townhome with a bottle of rich port sounded just the thing.
    “Yes, of course, dear,” she said. “Tell me how it is you think I might be of use and I will do my best.”
    “I believe you knew the victim.”
    “Victim of what?” she asked.
    “Murder.”
    “Oh, heavens.” Again her hand went to her throat. “I know someone who was murdered?”
    “Yes, the photographer Malcolm Drummond.”
    Her expression fell, clearly disappointed that the deceased hadn’t been someone slightly more important, and therefore more notorious. “Why would anyone bother killing him?”
    “I don’t know yet. But I know you met the man,and I thought you might provide some other contacts for me.”
    “Never trusted him,” his father said from behind his paper.
    “Oh, Harry, you never trust anyone,” his mother said. “I met Mr. Drummond on several occasions. We had planned to go to his new exhibit.” She shook her head and was quiet for a few moments. “I simply need time to think about it. Try to remember who I might have seen him with at times. You know what might help?”
    He knew that look. That twinkle that set in her eyes as soon as she had what she deemed to be a perfect plan. And her perfect plans were nearly always less than perfect for him.
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “Join us tonight.” She looked over at her husband, who met her gaze, shook his head, and went back to his reading. “It’s a small party. But seeing people might help my memory, and if you were there, I could point people out to you.”
    Point annoying girls on the marriage mart out to him, that’s what she would do. But it was the only way she’d help him. He knew that about her.
    He would have immediate access to them. Plus seeing the news of Malcolm’s death spread through Society might actually give him a better idea of who the man’s foes and allies were.
    “Where is it?” he asked.
    He thought he heard his father chuckle, but it was so brief, he couldn’t be certain.
    “Fieldcrest Hall,” she said.
    James snorted. “A small party? At Fieldcrest Hall? Mother, do you think me a fool?”
    “Of course not, darling. If it’s any consolation,” she said, “Louise said they invited half as many people this year as last year. And can you blame her, with all the traipsing around in her garden? It took them weeks to put her bushes back together. And the statue garden will never be the same. Insolent, the lot of them.”
    “Half as many,” James repeated. He sincerely doubted that. Lady Fieldcrest prided herself on hosting the first large ball of the Season and had been doing so for years. She still had one daughter to marry off, so no doubt this year’s gathering would be larger than ever and packed to the gills with eligible men. He didn’t really have the patience to wade through this sort of event right now, but it might be the difference between a break in this investigation and a dead end.
    “Here are my conditions,” he said, ignoring his mother’s glee-filled applause. “I’m going for business purposes only. Which means I will not dance with anyone. Nor will I fetch any pretty miss something refreshing to drink. Is that understood, Mother? I do not want to waste time tonight being paraded around for marriage-minded mothers.”
    His mother squeezed her lips together then gave him a big