Page 9 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Connor sat back, unimpressed. “That sounds more like a lady removing temptation from her husband than helping a servant.”

“She did it out of concern for the girl, not to help her husband be faithful. What a waste of time that would be.”

“Why is that?”

The cook cleared his throat. “My lord has a reputation for being a shameless philanderer even among his servants.”

“Like the parlormaid and your assistant?”

The cook nodded. “Most of the female staff.”

“Had he always been a philanderer?”

“Since before their marriage—though, I doubt the lady had knowledge of that until it was too late.”

Connor dismissed him and questioned the other servants. None of them had anything useful to add and no ideas as to where she might have gone. Conner went out the French doors to the terrace and followed the garden path to a tall gate. The latch had been pulled, and the gate stood ajar. Connor went through it and found himself on a narrow strip of land covered with grass that led behind several houses backing up to it. This led to a busy road. From a rose bush dangled a tiny piece of fabric. Connor freed the material from a thorn and inspected it. Lace. Very fine, delicate, expensive lace. This might have come from Lady Hennessy’s gown.

“Which way did you go, Lady Hennessy?” he said out loud. He went out to the busy street and glanced around. Now what?

He prowled the streets, looking for any urchins who might have seen something, but Mayfair seldom harbored enough safe hiding places. As luck would have it, he found his little waif, a little girl whose name she’d never told him but who sometimes saw things others missed.

He crouched down and held out his hands toward his little waif. “Were you here two nights past, dove?”

She stared at him mutely through overly large eyes.

He held out a farthing, and her eyes lost some of the dullness. “I’m looking for someone who ran away from the house in the middle of the night. Did you see anyone?”

His little waif nodded.

He kept his voice and expression benign lest he frighten her. “Who did you see?”

“Lady,” she whispered. “Running.”

He nodded. “Anyone else?”

The waif shrank away. Whether that meant she’d seen nothing and feared his reaction, or that she had seen someone else but feared that person more, was anyone’s guess.

Connor gentled his voice. “Which way did the lady go, dove?”

She pointed down the street. “Hackney.”

So, Lady Margaret had come out and taken a cab somewhere. “Did you hear her tell the jarvey where to take her?”

She shook her head.

“Thanks, dove.” Connor held out the farthing.

She crept up, snatched it from him, and darted away. Poor little thing. How long would she last on the streets? If only he could do something for her. But she’d only recently started trusting him enough to accept an offered coin. Perhaps, in time, as he gained her trust, he could do more for his little waif.

Connor headed the direction she’d pointed, keeping alert for lurking footpads. This part of town typically remained quiet, except for the occasional burglar, but one never knew.

A hackney pulled up next to him. “Give ya a ride, sir?” The jarvey called to him from his perch up front.

Connor strode to the driver. “Do you happen to know who might have been working late in this area two nights past?”

The jarvey scratched his head. “Can’t say that I do. You could ask at the cab stand.”

“Take me there.”

Connor got in and rode the hackney to the stand where drivers often gathered between customers. After an hour of asking about anyone who might have seen her, Connor nearly gave up and decided to learn more about the cottage where Margaret’s twin sister Rachel had lived. Then a new driver arrived.

Without much hope, Connor asked, “Did you happen to give a ride to a high-born lady two nights past—very late?”

“Yes, sir, I did. She seemed in a might bit o’ trouble.”

Connor blinked. Really? He almost grinned. At last! He fished her miniature out of the pocket of his coat. “Is this her?”

The jarvey squinted at the picture. “Can’t rightly say. ’Twas dark and I didn’t get a good look at ’er face, but that might have been ’er. She talked all genteel like. If’n I knowed she was such a looker, I’d’a taken a longer look.” He stared hungrily at the miniature.

Connor lowered the portrait, angling it face down and away from the jarvey’s gaze. “Where did you take her?”

“To a posting inn on th’ outskirts o’ town.”

“Take me there.” Connor jumped into the man’s carriage.

As the coach rolled down the cobbled streets, Connor looked down at Margaret’s portrait with the intent to put it back into his pocket. Instead, he studied it. With his fingertips, he traced her beautiful face. A sense of timelessness crept over him. Could such a vivacious beauty be guilty of murder as the servants believed? Or was someone else responsible, as Christian suggested?

Connor vowed to get to the bottom of it. Yet, as Connor gazed at the miniature of the lovely woman, his determination to find her had less to do with his allegiance to Grant than Connor cared to admit.