Before we reached it, a man halted on the pavement beside us. It was none other than the irritating journalist, Billings.

"Good morning, Captain." He tipped his hat. "Madam."

Mrs. Westin turned her face away. I gave her to the care of her footman, and approached Billings, walking stick firmly in my hand. "Leave now," I advised.

"Good morning, Captain Lacey," the man said. "Returning home with Mrs. Colonel Westin at such an interesting hour of the morning. Good gracious heavens. What will everyone think?"

"Now," I repeated, "before I call a constable to clear you out."

He only gave me an insolent look and said to the air, "He is as rude as they say."

I advanced on him. His sneer turned to a look of alarm as I caught him by the elbows and tossed him into the street.

He landed on his feet, stumbled, then scrambled out of the way of a rapidly moving curricle. Before he could recover himself, I entered the Westin house and closed the door.

Lydia Westin's house was like her, elegant and understated. In a world of ornate gilding and faux Egyptian furnishings, the Westin household had retained a more classical feel. Ivory paneling framed delicate moire wallpaper hung with landscapes. Tapered-legged tables stood in niches along the black and white tile flooring, and fresh flowers filled vases hung on the walls flanking mirrors.

A straight staircase spilled down into the hall beyond the foyer, its dark polished rail ending in a graceful spiral. At the foot of these stairs, Lydia Westin waited, supported by a woman with iron gray hair. She was Lydia's lady's maid, I guessed, by her fine dress and mobcap. She eyed me severely.

The footman, closing the door behind me, hurried past and took Lydia's other arm. The worry in these servants' faces reassured me somewhat. They would take care of her.