Page 91 of Murder at the Debutante Ballby

I held mine up and peered at Harry through the tiny hole. I could just make out his eye. “Her ticket wasn’t punched.”

He studied his ticket with its hole. “It was not. But it had a stationmaster’s stamp on it.”

“Shouldn’t it also have a hole punched through it from the conductor on the train?”

He shrugged. “Perhaps they do things differently in France.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps her ticket is a forgery, but the forger forgot the hole. A fake ticket must be a relatively easy thing to obtain if one knows a good forger.”

“Underwood,” Harry muttered.

He was my first thought too. “He’s a painter who either forged the Bunburys’ paintings or knew who did, and she’s an art dealer.” I gasped as something else occurred to me. “Do you remember the forged painting she claimed someone tried to sell her? She specifically mentioned the odd hands. She knew that was a trait of Reggie Smith’s paintings so she added that detail to further point the finger of blame at him.”

“And to point it away from herself,” he added, nodding. “The painting never existed. She made it up after we went to her gallery. She was worried we might be onto her so she made up a fake painting and a fake seller to throw us off and implicate Smith because she knew he was already in custody. It was her way of making absolutely certain she wasn’t a suspect.”

It all made sense now. I knew we were on the right path. But proving it was going to be difficult. Difficult, but not impossible.

“Harry, will you please do something for me?”

“Anything.”

“Tonight, when you break into the gallery to look inside that hidden room, will you take your father with you? I hate to think of you doing it without someone watching out for you. If a constable happens by, D.I. Hobart can use his authority to persuade him not to arrest you.”

He crossed his arms and arched a brow. “Very well.”

“And don’t make it too late.”

“Why not?”

“Because while she’s at the ball, I can watch her. But I can only keep her there for so long. Besides, I’m sure you have somewhere better to be late at night. I wouldn’t want to keep you from a prior engagement.”

His only response to that was to purse his lips and narrow his eyes at me.

As we parted ways, he caught my wrist. My skirts brushed his legs and heat surged between us. My cheeks flushed. His gaze connected with mine in a long moment that was both excruciating and thrilling. He was going to confide something to me. Something important.

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath. “Be careful at the ball. Don’t be alone with her. Not for a moment.”

I swallowed my disappointment. “Oh. Yes. Of course.”

He let go of me, but not before his thumb caressed the bare skin at my wrist.

According to Peter,Floyd was in the smoking room. “He’s in a sour mood,” he warned me.

“Thank you. I’ll be as quick as I can and avoid all delicate topics.”

“Any update on the investigation?”

“I’ll tell you after I’ve spoken to Floyd.”

“Miss Bainbridge was looking for you earlier. Apparently you’re supposed to be getting ready for the ball.”

I checked the clock on the wall behind the front desk. “I’ve got time.”

I found Floyd alone in the smoking room, slumped in an armchair by the fireplace, a cigarette dangling from between his lips and a tumbler in hand. The liquid in it was dangerously close to spilling. He was staring at the carpet, eyelids at half-mast, and didn’t even look up upon my entry.

“You shouldn’t keep your own company when you’re feeling like this,” I said.

His lashes barely flickered as he lifted his head. His gaze focused on me then became distant again. He sucked on the cigarette.