Why, yes, the former Beatrice Hyde-Clare is distracted. Having settled comfortably into marriage to the Duke of Kesgrave, she is nevertheless surprised to find herself in an interesting condition. And it has to be that—the unsettling prospect of motherhood—that causes her to overlook the obvious clue that Roger Dugmore had indeed been killed in his sleep. Summoned to the scene of the supposed crime by his grandson, a preening viscount from the country desperate to establish himself in society, she assumes he is trying to draw the attention of Mr. Twaddle-Thum, London’s most rapacious gossip. Disgusted, she dismisses the absurd lordship and his concerns. But the duke does not. Oh, no, he notices something is slightly off—the angle of the table, the position of the bed—and a horrified Bea begins to fear that the birth of her child will mean the end of her brilliant career as an investigator. It is not the most pressing concern, of course, not with a murderer on the loose, and she struggles to put it out of her mind as she grapples with an even more daunting possibility: that this peacocking nodcock might be her most diabolical opponent yet.