Page 112 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Grant folded his arms. “Are you sorry you barged into our dinner party and vilified her in front of all our guests?”

Hennessy winced. “I wasn’t thinking. I’d had too much to drink, and I was so angry about my brother’s death.”

Grant cut in, “I hope you know that your colossal faux pas has ruined you socially.”

Paling, Hennessy looked up. “What do you mean?”

A gloating glint lit Grant’s eye. “In the state you were in, you may not have taken note of all our guests. The Duke and Duchess of Suttenberg, Lord and Lady Averston, the Earl of Bradbury, among others—our family’s closest friends—witnessed your unforgivable maligning of Lady Margaret. They vowed not to attend your house party this summer and to give you the cut direct if they should cross paths with you or your wife. Ever. I have no doubt they’ll spread word of your abominable behavior. You’ll never be admitted into society now.”

Connor almost smirked. It was a fitting punishment to someone who clearly was anxious to enter the beau monde now that he had his brother’s title.

Hennessy pressed his face into his hands. “What have I done? What will my mother say?”

Grant twisted the proverbial knife. “If you come near another member of my family again, I will hunt you down and kill you. And believe me when I say, I know how to hide a body.”

Connor silently echoed the sentiment, but he could never get away with saying something like that; the lord would have his head. Grant, for all his good points, was the son of an earl. As such, he’d always enjoy privileges that Connor wouldn’t hope to have. Justice always smiled upon the elite. So did love.

However, sometimes being friends with the elite had its satisfying moments, such as this.

Defeated, Hennessy lifted his head and looked Grant squarely in the eye. “She will have no further trouble from me. I vow it.”

Connor and Grant left together, wading through an army of servants who stared at them in open-mouthed shock.

“That was invigorating,” Grant said with a dark grin as they stepped outside.

“We still don’t know who paid the mob to attack her. The next most likely suspect is Finch.”

Grant nodded. “We must find him.”

“This is a Bow Street matter, and you, I believe, are finished.”

Grant narrowed his gaze. “The case isn’t closed.”

“No. But I wager your wife wishes you were home.” Connor tried to keep the bitter envy out of his voice. “I’ll send you word if I learn anything.”

Grant nodded. “You haven’t been to bed yet, have you?”

Connor shook his head. “No time.”

“Get some rest, or you’ll lose your edge,” Grant said.

Connor nodded numbly, but he was too keyed up to rest.

“My thanks to you for your timely intervention last night,” Grant said, “If you hadn’t arrived when you did, that mob….” He shook his head.

Once again, the agonizing image of his and Meg’s last encounter, and his rude, abrupt dismissal, assailed him. But what else could he have done? Invited her to live in some seedy little set of rooms while he hunted thieves and murderers at night?

Hoarsely, Connor said, “I would have done that for anyone.” Did his voice betray his defensiveness?

“I know. But you did it for my sister. I’m grateful.”

Connor nodded. They parted, and Grant melted into the shadows. Before Connor got more than a few steps away from the house, a lean form came up the stairs from the Hennessys’ servants’ entrance and out through the gate.

“Mr. Jackson?”

Connor halted.

Gibbs gestured to Connor. “Sir,” The butler dropped his guise of proper stuffiness and looked at Connor, man to man. “I hope you find whoever did the deed. I admit I was partial to my lord. I’ve known him since he was a babe. But I can see that I was wrong—about a great many things. I regret that I thought so ill of my lady. And I was sorry to hear that she was injured.”