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Put it aside, lock it away. Today she was going to work.

Elizabeth was painting the portrait from a photo of her mother taken soon after she’d married her father, the newly minted tenth Earl of Camden, before he’d dried up her smile, her joy in her new life. In the photo, twenty-four-year-old Lady Millicent Palmer was running down the long, graveled drive toward her new home, Darlington Hall, just to the east of Brighton, set high on a grassy hill looking out to the Channel. She was laughing wildly, her blond hair streaming out behind her, shining beneath a bright sun. She looked ethereal, a fairy queen come to life. Was she running to meet her new husband, Elizabeth’s father?

The lion’s-head knocker sounded.

She checked her watch, frowned. It couldn’t be the repairman, it was far too early.

The knocker sounded again, twice, louder this time.

Her heart picked up. Was it the man who’d nearly hit her yesterday? Had he found out where she lived?

“Who is it?”

A man’s voice called out, “A delivery for Elizabeth Palmer.”

Did he have a slight accent? “Leave it next to the front door, please.”

“Madame, I need a signature.”

The door knocker sounded again.

“Please open the door. I cannot leave the package without your signature.”

“Raise the package so I can see it.”

Two loud shots rang out. The door shook from the impact of the bullets, but they didn’t penetrate the thick old door. Elizabeth slammed the dead bolt home and backed away. She pulled her mobile out of her jeans pocket, dialed 999 as she ran from the door to her kitchen, and jerked her prized butcher knife from its block.

She heard another bullet hit the door lock. How long before it gave?

“What is your emergency?”

“Hide, NOW. Police are on the way.”

She felt giddy and sick to her stomach as she bent low and ran back toward the front door. Her heart nearly stopped—booted feet were kicking the door right below the knocker, and it shuddered. Would the dead bolt hold? How long would the door itself hold before it sheared away from its hinges? Elizabeth raced up the stairs, ran down the hall into her bedroom. She slammed the door, locked it. Not enough, not enough. She dragged a heavy armchair in front of the door and ran to the side window. She pulled the thick drapery aside, unlatched the window, and squeezed through it onto a skinny balcony. She reached in, jerked the drapery closed, praying it would buy her time. A full-leafed ancient live oak snuggled up against the side of the house, there only because, thankfully, her house was the last in the colonnaded crescent.

Elizabeth fetched her key from beneath an azalea bush and opened both locks on the battered door. The woman officer walked her to the kitchen and sat her at the table. Soon Elizabeth had a cup of hot tea in front of her. “I’m Officer Beresford. Come on now, Ms. Palmer, take a sip.” Elizabeth did, and it felt wonderful.

The two male officers came back into the kitchen, shook their heads at Officer Beresford.

Officer Beresford said, “So you were at St. Paul’s last year?”

“Yes.”

When Officer Beresford mentioned Basara’s name to Inspector Dobbs, the game changed.