“I can do nothing with conjecture, Simon. Find me the proof of it. Then we can kill Welton and give chase.”

Behind her, the fire in the grate quickly heated her dressing gown and then the backs of her legs to an uncomfortable degree, but inside she was icy with terror. The thoughts that filled her mind made her ill. How would she ever find Amelia if her sister was in the world at large?

Simon’s brows rose. “Taking the search beyond the shores of England would greatly diminish the chances of a successful outcome.”

Raising the cordial in her hand to her lips, Maria drained the contents to bolster her spirits and set the small glass on the mantel. Her gaze moved across the room, once again finding comfort in the stained wood paneling and dark green drapes. It was an extremely masculine study, an effect that served two purposes. One, it established a somber mood that discouraged meaningless discourse. Two, it gave her a sense of control she needed desperately. Often she felt like a puppet on Welton’s strings, but here she was in command.

She shrugged and resumed her pacing, her black dressing gown swirling around her ankles. “You act as if I have something else to live for.”

“Surely there is some goal you wish to accomplish.” He rose to his feet, towering over her as most everyone did. “Something more pleasant than death.”

“I cannot think of the future beyond finding Amelia.”

“You could. It will not make you weak to wish for better things.”

The glance she shot him was narrowed and cool enough to discourage most. Simon, however, simply laughed. He had once shared her bed, and with it, the inevitable domestic discord that came with the role of resident lover.

Maria sighed, her gaze moving to the portrait of her first husband that hung on the wall from a length of thick ribbon. The swirls of paint created an image of a portly man with ruddy cheeks and bright green eyes.

“I miss Dayton,” she confessed, her restless stride slowing, “and the support he provided.”