Authors: Kat Martin
Bloody damn.
"I don't believe Miss Whitney is all that happy to see me," Rathmore drawled as he closed the door and moved farther into the room.
Adam felt the pull of a smile. "She isn't convinced you're as trustworthy as I am. Must be something in those shifty brown eyes of yours."
Rathmore laughed. He turned his attention to Jillian, who stood straight-backed a few feet away. "Lord Blackwood has vowed to help you prove your innocence. He asked for my help as he once helped me, and I gladly agreed. It is really as simple as that."
"Then please, Your Grace, know that I had nothing to do with Lord Fenwick's murder. His lordship was very good to me and I would never have done anything to harm him. In fact, now that he is gone, I find myself in very difficult circumstances. That alone should prove my innocence, for I gained no benefit from his demise."
"It certainly speaks to the issue of motive," the duke agreed.
Jillian seemed to relax. She tucked a strand of dark copper hair back into the thick coil at the nape of her neck and Adam noted the weariness in her movements. Her face was pale, turning her eyes an even more striking shade of blue. Even tired and worried, she was lovely.
Adam felt the same pull of attraction he had felt from the moment he had spied her at the duck pond, and yet there was something else, something more than her fine features and delectable little body, that drew him. He wished to God he knew what it was.
He walked over to the sideboard, poured Clay a snifter of brandy and Jillian a sherry.
"Establishing a motive is the reason I asked you to come,” he said to Clay. "Jillian couldn't think of anyone who might want old Fenwick dead." He glanced at her and couldn't stop a smile. "Except for Barton Witherspoon, of course, who may have been sent into a homicidal fit when the late earl compared his daughter to a crane."
Clay laughed as he accepted the snifter of brandy. "Fenwick said Hermione Witherspoon looked like a crane?"
"An underfed crane, to be exact." Adam flicked a glance at Jillian, who did not look amused. "But we've agreed the notion is rather far-fetched, so perhaps you can help us come up with a more likely candidate." He handed the glass of sherry to Jillian, and they all sat down on the sofa and chairs in front of the hearth to begin their discussion in earnest.
"I'd like to begin by telling Miss Whitney that I knew Lord Fenwick for quite some years." Rathmore took a sip of his brandy. "Since the shooting, I've been trying to think of anyone who might have wanted him dead."
"And?" Adam prompted.
"Actually, a couple of people came to mind. Theodore Boswell, Lord Eldridge, is one of them."
"Eldridge?" Adam swirled the brandy in his glass. "How does the marquess fit in?"
"Eldridge and Fenwick were in business together. A West Indies trading venture the earl recommended. Unfortunately, the deal went sour. The company went broke, and since Eldridge had invested far more heavily than Fenwick, he lost nearly everything."
Jillian sat forward on the sofa. "Good heavens—I should have remembered. Mrs. Madigan, Lord Fenwick's housekeeper, told me a couple of weeks ago that Lord Eldridge came to the house in a violent temper. She said he threatened the earl, that he stood right there in the entry and said he would never forgive him for the damage he had done."
Adam scratched a note on the piece of paper he had set in front of him to have the runner he had hired, a man named Peter Fraser, check on Eldridge's whereabouts the night of the murder. Of course, the marquess could have paid someone to kill the earl, a more likely scenario and more difficult to prove, but there was always the hope that Eldridge might have wanted the satisfaction of killing the earl himself.
"All right, we've got Eldridge to consider. Who else?"
Clay sipped his brandy, set the glass back down on the marble-topped table. "His solicitor, Colin Norton, had reason to kill him."
"I thought Norton left town."
"He did. And Fenwick was the reason. Apparently Norton was mishandling the old man's funds and a goodly sum came up missing. No charges were filed—as I recall, Norton was caring for an invalid wife at the time—but after the incident, his reputation was in shambles. His business was ruined, of course, and he was forced to leave London. I have no idea what happened to him after that, but the last I heard, he blamed Fenwick for all of his troubles."
Jillian set her sherry glass down on the table. "If the man stole the earl's money, he's lucky Lord Fenwick didn't send him to prison."
"True enough," Clay said, "but there are always people who refuse to accept responsibility for their actions."
Adam penned himself a few more notes. "Anyone else?"
"There are a number of others like Barton Witherspoon, people the earl offended, but I don't think they were outraged enough to kill him. Howard Telford, of course, had a motive. With Oswald Telford's death, he has gained the Fenwick title and fortune. And Ozzie's daughter-in-law is undoubtedly named in the will."
Jillian straightened. "I hadn't thought of Madeleine. Surely she wouldn't have killed him. The earl seemed to think very highly of her."
Adam knew little about the woman, except that she had been married to Lord Fenwick's only son. Early last year, Henry Telford, for reasons only Henry knew, had committed suicide. Word was Fenwick had been devastated by the loss. He had taken his daughter-in-law under his financial wing, though she remained at her late husband's estate on Hampstead Heath near the outskirts of the city.
"How much money was Madeleine due to inherit?" Adam asked.
"Quite a tidy sum, I imagine." Clay took a sip of his brandy. "As Miss Whitney said, Fenwick seemed to hold her in high esteem."
Adam turned to Jillian. "Did you know her?"
"A little. She came to the house a couple of times."
"How did the two of you get along?"
Jillian's eyes strayed toward the fire. "She was cordial. I'm not sure she really approved of me, but she was always courteous. As I said, I only saw her a very few times."
Adam had tried to pay a call on the woman but apparently as soon as the funeral was over she had left London to visit relatives in the country. He jotted down a reminder to pay a call on Howard Telford on the morrow and stuck the plumed pen back into its holder.
It wasn't much, but unless the constable turned up something else, it was all they had for now and more than they'd had before.
Adam stood up and so did Clay. "Thanks for coming."
"I'm happy to help." He turned a look of scrutiny on Jillian. "I'll do a little digging on my own. Perhaps I can come up with something we've missed."
She summoned a smile, but it was obvious she was worried. "Thank you, Your Grace."
Adam walked Clay to the door. Once they were out of earshot, Rathmore drew Adam aside. "Sooner or later they're going to find out she's here."
He nodded. "Hopefully by then we'll have found some sort of proof that she's innocent."
Clay nodded, but didn't look convinced.
"You haven't mentioned this to Kassandra, I gather."
Clay shook his head. "I think she's beginning to harbor suspicions that I haven't been entirely forthright, but so far I've been able to dodge her questions. I don't want her involved in a murder, and for Jillian's sake, the fewer people who know, the better."
"I appreciate all you've done, Clay."
"You still believe she's innocent?"
"What she says is true; she doesn't have a motive."
"That we've discovered so far."
"No, not so far. But if she were guilty, she would have tried to run, and she hasn't done that."
"Not yet, at any rate."
Unless she had planned to run the morning of the funeral. Adam sighed. "I realize Fenwick's entire household believes she's guilty, but my instincts tell me she isn't the one who shot him."
"Well, you've always had good instincts."
His mouth tightened. "Unfortunately, not when it comes to women."
Clay chuckled. "By the way, I heard Howard Telford has posted a reward for her capture."
"Christ."
"As I said, I'll do a little digging, see what I can find out. If I learn anything new, I'll let you know." Clay clapped a big hand on Adam's shoulder. "Take care, my friend."
Adam watched him leave, then returned to the study. Sitting in front of the fire, Jillian stood up when he walked in.
"You were right about Rathmore," she said. "I believe he's a man of honor."
"He'll do what he can to help."
"Because the two of you are friends?"
"Yes. And because he wants to see the earl's murderer brought to justice."
"The same reason, then, that you are helping me."
That and his growing determination to have her in his bed. His eyes moved over her in a slow, thorough perusal. "Among other things, yes."
Jillian made no reply, but a hint of color crept into her cheeks. Good. He wanted her to know he wanted her. As soon as he was sure she wasn't in any way involved in the murder, he meant to have her.
"I need to get started on this," he said, reaching over to pick up the sheet of foolscap that contained his notes. He was headed for Bow Street to speak to Peter Fraser. He wanted this matter ended and Jillian freed from suspicion.
Most of all—he wanted her in his bed.
Another restless night, dreams of war, and erotic dreams of the woman asleep in the room next door. He needed to get out of the house, Adam thought the following morning, needed to get away from his turbulent thoughts for a while.
As he strode down the hall toward the stairs, he cast only the briefest glance at Jillian's bedchamber door. He was on his way to the stable. He had missed his early morning rides, and even his late night strolls had fallen prey to his preoccupation with the mystery of Fenwick's murder. He needed to get out, and riding was the best way he knew.
He had almost reached the bottom of the stairs when he spotted Maude Flynn hurrying toward him. His senses went on alert at the worried look on her face.
"What is it, Maude?"
" ’Tis your cousin, milord . . . Mistress Winslow. The lass is nowhere ta be found. She's not in her room, nor anywheres about. Ya don't think maybe she decided to go back to the country without lettin' ya know she was leavin'?"
The muscles across his shoulders went tense. "Are you sure she's not here? My . . . cousin is an early riser. Perhaps she's in the library. Or maybe she is out in the garden."
"I've looked, milord. Sure as there'll be hell to pay if the Little Corporal wins the war, the lass is gone."
Adam clamped hard on his jaw. Maude was right. If she wasn't in the house, she very likely
had
taken off for the country. Leaving the city was the best chance she had of escaping the gallows. Clay had suggested she might run and it looked as though she finally had.
Fenwick's lying little doxy would have known, sooner or later, he would find out she was the one who'd committed the murder.
Adam's hand unconsciously fisted. He'd sworn he would never be duped by a pretty face again, yet it appeared that was exactly what had happened. Anger surged through him, so hot it made the heat rise at the back of his neck. Storming up the stairs, he slammed open the door to her bedchamber, not quite sure what he would find, thinking of the morning of the funeral when she had tried to leave, wondering if she had meant to run even then.
His gaze searched the room. She wouldn't be able to take much with her, but surely she wouldn't go without a change of clothes and something she could sell, a silver candlestick, perhaps, or a small brass lamp, since as far as he knew, she had no money of her own.
But the room looked surprisingly normal, the rose silk counterpane turned back, the bed unmade but obviously slept in, her night rail draped over the tufted velvet bench at the foot of the bed. If she meant to run, why had she waited until morning? Or perhaps she had mussed the bed to make it look as though she had slept there when in truth she had left the house hours ago.
Barely able to control the fury sweeping through him, Adam left the room, trying to decide which way she might have gone, determined to bring her back to face the consequences of what she had done. No matter how much he might want her in his bed, if she had murdered poor old Fenwick, he was honor bound to see that she paid for the crime.
He had almost reached the stable when an odd thought crept in. Adam slowed for a moment, his mind whirling, grasping at the faint ray of hope. He shook his head at the ridiculous notion. The woman was guilty. She had run because she knew sooner or later the truth of her crime would come out. But the nagging thought remained, and as he approached the stable, waited while Angus saddled Ramses, then swung himself up in the saddle, he found himself turning away from the road out of town and riding toward the park instead.
Dammit, when he got there he was going to feel like a fool all over again, but he kept on riding, trying to ignore the heaviness in his chest and the ridiculous hope that he would find her there by the duck pond.