Page 110 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 32

Rejecting Meg and her sweet declaration had nearly killed Connor. He wasn’t sure it hadn’t. Sick and numb, he stumbled through the streets and wound up at the river’s edge. Low tide revealed a long rocky shore. Without conscious thought, he wandered down a set of watermen’s steps and trudged along the water’s edge, barely registering mudlarks scavenging for items of value like desperate vultures picking over lost and rejected dregs.

He’d just given up the only person who’d truly mattered to him. Despite his better sense, he’d allowed himself to fall for her—so much deeper than what he thought he’d felt for Vivian. And now, stripped of everything that mattered, the searing loss chewed at him bite by bite. Soon there would be nothing left.

Meg’s words and face and touch haunted him. Tormented him. That proud, strong, courageous lady who had survived on presenting a hard shell to the world, had opened up to him. And he had cruelly dismissed her.

But what could he have done? Grant was right; Connor’s line of work was meant for bachelors, not family men. And he still lacked the ability to financially support any wife, much less a lady. Why would she give up her finery, her servants and silver trays and carriages, for a working man like him? She deserved better.

Nor could he bear to unman himself by living off her. Eventually, she would grow weary of having a mushroom for a husband. And he would hate himself for being so useless.

He had done the right thing by her, even if it felt wrong.

He must focus. He had a job to do. A killer still walked the streets, and a man who had stirred up a mob to attack a lady still had to be dealt with. Connor ground his hands into his eyes to erase the last traces of grief. Then he went on the hunt.

He stopped by the theatre and cracked a few heads to find out why so many of the rabble had attacked a lady over a crime about which they probably cared little.

No one saw anything. Of course not. None of his usual contacts seemed to be about—not the boy Tim and not Connor’s little waif.

Connor prowled the night, hunting for criminals and caught two within an hour. He might have been overly rough with them when he dragged them to the holding room where they kept offenders awaiting their turn with the magistrate. Nothing cooled the heat burning inside him or the image of Meg’s hurt expression when he’d rejected her.

To torture himself, Connor went to the neighborhood by way of Tarrington House and stood staring at the stately structure. Lady Margaret. His downfall. The moment he’d been attacked in the alley and his witness Ol’ Dan killed, he’d handed off the cleanup of the murder to a newer constable and headed to the Finches to make the arrest. If he’d gone straight there, instead of stopping to break up the mob, he might have reached his destination in time, and the murderer would now be behind bars.

But Meg might have been killed. Another few minutes, and she would have perished at their hands. He could never have lived with himself knowing he’d been there, able to stop it, and yet had allowed such a tragedy. Shaken to his innermost heart, he’d held her, vowing to keep her safe. And when she’d been so willing in his arms, he’d almost believed that they were destined to be together.

He knew better.

Connor turned away from Tarrington House and nearly ran into a dark form. Stepping back a few paces, he fell into a defensive crouch.

“Jackson,” Grant Amesbury said.

Connor scowled. “I hate the way you sneak about.”

“I need to talk to you.” With his bruised face, Grant looked even more menacing than usual.

Connor nodded curtly. “Talk. If it’s about finding the Finches, we have everyone looking, but no sightings yet.”

“It’s about Margaret.”

Connor turned to stone. “What about her?”

“She needs to be avenged. I’m on my way to Lord Hennessy’s house to rough him up a bit. Want to come?”

“Of course.” Not that he’d actually attack a lord if he wanted to keep his head on his shoulders, but it still sounded like a lark. “Why?”

“I think he’s behind the mob that attacked her.”

“Based on…?”

“He showed up at Tarrington House last night, ranting about her guilt and calling her some… unflattering names.”

The scoundrel! Anger simmered in Connor’s gut at the thought of someone harming her in any fashion. Of course, he now belonged in that group based on her clear hurt when he’d rejected her declaration.

Had he made the biggest mistake of his life?

Grant waited, eyeing him.

Connor asked, “And you think he paid a few thugs to incite a mob to attack her?”