Davenford House had never been as crowded as in the week following Bernard's murder. Poor Jeeves was so overwhelmed Evie had to power him down to stop him from combusting.

First, it was the Scotland Yard detectives tromping through the house like they owned the place. All but one were augmented with glass optical magnifiers embedded into their eye sockets--the Earl of Westmorland's work, in all likelihood. To Evie's knowledge, there wasn't another man in England who could graft the devices without scarring. Scotland Yard's finest, then. Westmorland was expensive.

The detectives left after interviewing the entire household, including Evie, with a promise to return. But word must have spread quickly, because less than an hour later, the journalists showed up on her doorstep. The grisly murder of London's greatest inventor would sell thousands of papers--the more gruesome the details, the better. They recorded their notes with their Remmington Dictaphones—one of Evie's first inventions to sell under her husband's name—and asked even more pointed questions than the detectives. Eventually they'd leave, but every day they came back, and every day there were more of them.

Despite all the noise and commotion, Evie was grateful for the distraction. She didn't fear grieving; she feared not grieving her husband enough. What kind of wife would that make her? What kind of person would that make her? She didn't want to know.

In the rare moments Evie was alone, she retreated to her laboratory and buried herself in her work. The laboratory was her territory, had always been hers. It was her sanctuary, the only place in this world where she was truly happy.

A laboratory conjured up images of cold, sterile slabs of metal, institutional lighting and everything perfectly in its place, but Evie couldn't work like that. Invention required imagination, and imagination could not thrive in an environment of rigid order. She preferred organized chaos. Half the floor space was taken up by large steam turbines and a labyrinth of hydraulic pipes and cylinders.  Wrenches and ratchets and sockets were scattered everywhere. Labeled crates with miscellaneous parts—screws, nuts, bolts, roller chains and a wide variety of gears and ball bearings—were shoved into a corner. In another corner were her old inventions that she couldn't bear to part with: the first clock she ever rebuilt from scratch, a wind-up toy butterfly that could actually fly, a parasol that transmogrified into a chair and then back again. And in the back of the laboratory she had her own smithy, with a massive hearth and self-inflating bellows. There were also separate, reinforced chambers where she tested her most dangerous—and often explosive—inventions, as well as a small library where she noodled over her schemas, usually late into the night. After falling asleep in the library one too many nights—and waking up with a painful crick in her neck—Evie finally caved and bought a small cot.

Exactly one week after Bernard's murder, one of the detectives—Detective Michael O'Doyle, a gargantuan Irishman with a thick red beard and nearly handsome despite his eye contraption—found her dozing there. She awoke with a shriek, clutching the sheets to her chest. Fortunately, she wore a robe over her night clothes, or the detective would've seen much more than he bargained for. And at least she'd managed to wash the soot her face and hands before collapsing into sleep.

The detective coughed, his ruddy cheeks stained with pink. "Begging your pardon, Mrs. Remmington. I didn't expect to find you here."

"How did you get in?" she asked, rather sharply.

"The servants let me in, ma'am."

Evie clenched her jaw. The servants weren't supposed to allow anyone into the laboratory without her or Bernard's express permission. They'd listened to Bernard, but now that he was dead, they likely saw no reason to continue to follow his orders.

"I do apologize, ma'am, but I must ask. What are you doing down here?"

"Sleeping," she said tartly.

Doyle's lips twitched—with amusement or irritation, Evie couldn't tell. "Why sleep here instead of your bedroom?"

She hesitated. Lying to a Scotland Yard detective was risky, especially one who had been outfitted by Westmorland. A few years ago, the earl had discovered that in most humans, lying resulted in a slight increase in temperature. It was rumored he'd gifted the Metropolitan Police with portable sensors capable of detecting a change in body heat. The test could be beaten, but it required practice. "I like it better here," she said.

"Have you slept here before?"

"Yes. Many times."

The detective's unaltered eye narrowed. "And when did you last sleep in your husband's bed?"

She stiffened. "I don't see how that's any of your business."

His expression didn't change. "Answer the question, Mrs. Remmington."

"Over a year ago," she muttered.

If the detective was surprised, he didn't let on. "Marital troubles?"

She looked away from him, humiliated. "I have always been faithful to my husband," she told the detective truthfully.

"I see," Doyle said softly, his gaze pitying. "And Mr. Remmington? Was he faithful?"

Damn Bernard for putting her in this position. "Why don't you ask your real question, detective? You already know my husband strayed. The question is, did I? Of course I knew. That daft girl wasn't clever enough to hide it from me. Not that she was the first." Her lips thinned into a bitter smile. "But don't worry, Detective. I wasn't so gauche as to actually love my own husband."

Doyle pulled out the stool beneath her desk and took a seat. "Mrs. Remmington, it's only right you should know you're a suspect in your husband's murder."

Evie's mouth fell open. "I beg your pardon?"

The detective rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. "The coroner's report came back this morning. There were no signs of a struggle, though Mr. Remmington was stabbed more than a dozen times. And by your own report, nothing of any value was stolen. You're a smart woman, Mrs. Remmington. What conclusions would you draw?"

"His murder wasn't a random act of violence," she said slowly. "Bernard knew the culprit."

"Precisely. And the manner in which he was murdered suggests a crime of passion. The decision to remove his, erm, genitalia? Seems like the petty revenge of a spurned lover."

Evie didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "So you think I murdered my husband because he took up with the maid?"

"I don't know," Doyle said quietly. "I hope you are not. There are other suspects we're interviewing, and we haven't enough evidence to formally accuse anyone. Yet, that is. But your husband was an important man, Mrs. Remmington. We'll have to name our prime suspect soon."

"Me?" He nodded. Evie stared at the detective, her thoughts in chaos. "Why are you telling me all this?" she asked finally. She knew enough about the law to know he was not required to.

"Because I knew your husband, Mrs. Remmington. He and I had the unique distinction of being the two poorest boys in our year at Harrow. Bernard was always good for a laugh, but as a student he was rather beef-headed. He cheated his way through school, and knew he hadn't the brains for Oxford or Cambridge. So imagine my surprise when a decade later the Royal Society awarded my ne'er-do-well schoolmate the Copley Medal for his achievements in mechanical engineering. Bernard was many things, but a genius was not one of them."

A chill ran down her spine. "What are you trying to say?" she asked hoarsely. Had the detective somehow guessed what no one else had ever even pondered?

He leaned toward her, gripping his knees with his enormous hands. "I think you already know, Mrs. Remington. But I shall say it aloud anyway: Your husband was a fraud. The brilliant inventions that made him famous were stolen from someone else."

She cast her gaze down, afraid that if she looked at the detective her face would give her away. But her silence was just as damning.

"I'm right, aren't I?" asked Doyle.

"Yes."

The big man let out a shuttering sigh. "Mrs. Remmington, do you know the man he stole from?"

The air rushed out of her lungs. Doyle didn't know it was her inventions Bernard had passed off as his own. Of course he didn't—no one would believe a woman capable of it. She didn't know whether to be relieved or angry. "I do not know the man." She hoped Westmorland's sensors could only detect blatant lies, not half-truths or lies of omission.

He studied her for a moment, then gave her a tight nod. "A shame. I'd bet half my annual wages the murderer and our mysterious inventor are one and the same."

A knot formed in her throat. If he ever learned the mysterious inventor was her, he'd have twice as much reason to suspect her. "And what do you want from me, detective?"

The detective stood. "Nothing just yet, Mrs. Remmington. I merely offer a warning. If I were you, I wouldn't be caught in your husband's laboratory again."

She gritted her teeth. It's my laboratory, you dolt. But it was only hers as long as Bernard was alive to cover for her. "I'll take your counsel under advisement."

"See that you do." He produced a card from his pocket and handed it to her. "If you think of anything else that could support my theory, you'll know where to find me." He tipped his hat in farewell and ducked out of the library.

Reeling, Evie stared after him, and then glanced down at herself. Oh lord. Their entire conversation she'd been in nothing more than a robe and nightgown. How scandalous. Fool that she was, she dropped her face into her hands and began to laugh.

A/N: So, my brain can't stop thinking about this story. I haven't felt that way about my writing in a looong time. I hope you're enjoying it so far! As always, look forward to your thoughts and feedback.