Page 13 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“We go back beyond that as well,” the constable said. “Grant and I served together in the war. For their sakes, I agreed to find you.”

She turned over his words. “Do you give me your word that you’ll deliver me—unmolested—to my family?”

“I vow it.”

She eyed him but saw nothing to indicate deception. “Then what?”

“I assume the magistrate will allow you to stay with one of your brothers—your eldest brother, as an earl, would be the preferred choice—while Lord Hennessy’s murder is fully investigated. If the magistrate charges you with murder, you will stand trial in the House of Lords.”

“I didn’t murder Hennessey.”

“That’s not my decision. I’m here to complete the job Christian hired me to do. Will you come with me willingly?”

Though he’d proved a determined and skilled foe, he must be a reasonable man, a man of honor. If Christian had faith in this constable, then surely she could trust him.

He squeezed his eyes shut as if in pain, probably from the lump on his head.

She gentled her voice and poured a breathy quality into it that she hoped would make her sound soft and feminine. It might be manipulative, but she desperately needed him to believe her and would use any tools at her disposal to win his cooperation.

“Forgive me for hitting you… Mr. Jackson, was it?”

He nodded.

“It was not my intention to injure you. I panicked. I feared you were of the same ilk as that watchman who talked about having a little alone time with me before seeing to it that I burned at the stake.” She shivered in true fear and revulsion.

His mouth dropped. “Burned at the stake? They don’t burn women at the stake anymore. Women are transported or hanged—not burned alive.” His brows drew together. “By ‘alone time,’ do you mean he threatened to harm you?”

“He certainly had more on his mind than escorting me to a magistrate. He said something about getting me there eventually, after he had ‘fun’ with me. And the way he looked at me….” She stopped talking. It felt too sordid.

He muttered under his breath. Deep in thought, he stared out over the landscape, making no move to release her or to hurry them off to catch a stage.

“I really am sorry I hurt you,” she added.

He glanced at her, but if there was any forgiveness in him, it did not reveal itself in his expression.

She used her best drawing room smile. “I vow I will go with you and not give you any further trouble.”

He eyed her for a long moment.

“These ropes are not necessary,” she suggested.

His obvious doubt shouldn’t have smarted, but it did. After all, she was a suspect in a murder. He probably believed her to be a liar—not to mention she had attacked him.

She tried for a conciliatory tone. “You know, if you’d told me right at the start that my brother sent you, it would have saved us both a great deal of pain and trouble.”

“I’ll remember that next time,” he said dryly.

“I have no objection to returning to London with you. After all, I had just reached the conclusion that I must do so—to clear my name. Also, I’m alone, unprotected, and have very little money. So, you see, I have every reason to travel with you. Will you take off these uncomfortable shackles, please?” She tried another charming smile, but he seemed unmoved.

He studied her. “I’m not entirely certain I can trust you not to bash me over the head again.”

She dropped her courtly manners and settled for some good old honesty. “If you conduct yourself as a gentleman, then I have no reason to strike you.”

“I am not a gentleman,” he growled. After a pause, he added, “However, I vow your virtue is safe with me.”

He watched her, unblinking, unflinching, as steady and calm as a placid lake with eyes too dark to be truly blue.

Quietly, she said, “I trust you, Mr. Jackson.”