"A servant. She has been in Italy but returned recently. She says she saw something... troubling."
"More troubling than a fire that killed someone?" Julian asked.
The magistrate's mustaches twitched. "She says there were two women arguing before the fire started."
Lucien went very still. "Two women?"
"Oui. The late Mademoiselle Matilda and another. A blonde English lady."
"Cassandra," Arabella breathed.
"Lady Velott is here," the magistrate confirmed. "She arrived yesterday, most anxious to speak with you."
"I'll bet she is," Julian muttered.
"She is waiting in the salon with her... companion. Monsieur Harrington."
"Of course she is," Lucien said grimly. "Always theatrical."
"Shall we?" Arabella suggested, squaring her shoulders.
"You don't have to..."
"Yes, I do. We face things together, remember?"
"I'm starting to regret that promise."
"No, you're not."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not."
They found Cassandra holding court in the salon as if she owned it, draped across a settee in black silk that suggested mourning while revealing entirely too much décolletage to be properly grief-stricken. Harrington stood by the window, his expression unreadable.
"Lucien!" Cassandra rose, moving toward him with outstretched hands. "How wonderful that you came."
"Cassandra." He ignored her hands. "What are you doing here?"
"Trying to help, of course. When I heard about the witness, I knew you'd need support."
"I have support," he said, pulling Arabella closer.
"Your little wife. How... steadying." Cassandra's tone suggested Arabella was anything but. "Though should she be traveling in her condition?"
"How did you know about her condition?" Julian asked sharply.
"One hears things."
"One spies," Arabella corrected.
"Such an ugly word. I prefer stays informed."
"I prefer leaves us alone," Lucien said coldly.
"But darling, I have information you need."
"Nothing you have to say interests me."
"Not even that I was here that night? That I spoke with Matilda before she died?"