Page 17 of Not a Fine Gentleman

She took another sip. “I don’t know the whole story except that she lost her heart to a scoundrel.” She let out a mirthless laugh. “We both made that mistake. Only I married the lout.”

“From what I hear, the man you married wasn’t exactly a paragon.”

Her expression closed over. “No. He wasn’t.” Her lower lip trembled, but she managed to keep herself together. She took another long drink.

“Then I suppose he got what he deserved?” he suggested casually as he refilled her glass.

“He…” she sucked in a ragged breath. “I thought he was perfect. So handsome, so charming… but he wasn’t happy with me. If I’d been more beautiful, or more talented, or more clever… or…”

“Or what?”

A new vulnerability entered her expression. “I don’t know. But I failed him somehow. I couldn’t keep him happy. He always had other women. These last few years, he wasn’t even discreet. Maids. Mistresses. Even the wives of friends.” Her blue-green eyes grew shiny, but she swallowed and looked away, blinking back the tears. Either she was a gifted actress or one of those rare strong women who eschewed usual feminine displays.

He arranged his expression into one of sympathy and said gently, “No wonder you killed him.”

She blinked. Slowly, she shook her head. “I didn’t kill him. That man who threatened me—he killed him.” Hurt, then accusing, she stared. More tears appeared. “You still don’t believe me.”

The pain in her eyes tugged at his conscience, but it was too late to undo what he’d done. Besides, she might still be lying.

“Who threatened you? The night watchman?”

“The man in the window….” Her words collapsed on themselves.

The man in the window?

The innkeeper bustled in. Lady Hennessy turned her head away and discreetly wiped her tears.

The innkeeper lit more candles and removed all traces of their dinner. “Your chamber is prepared for you, sir. Upstairs, last one on the right.”

Connor nodded. “My thanks.”

Lady Hennessy sat like a queen in her armchair, blinking slowly.

After the innkeeper left, Connor said to Lady Margaret, “You look tired.”

“I think I had too much wine.” Her eyes rolled back, and she slumped over.

“Sorry, milady.”

Between the wine and the powder he’d slipped into her drink, she would have a nasty headache in the morning. But Connor didn’t have the energy to sleep with one eye open all night in case she tried to escape. More importantly, the mixture tended to loosen tongues, sometimes even inviting confessions. Some suspects were too cagey or remarkably focused liars. Even if he believed her, the magistrate would decide whether or not to charge her with murder. At the moment, too much pointed toward her as the killer to assume her innocence.

What had she meant by a man in a window? He must ask her. Or, he could pass mention of it on to the constable leading the investigation.

Connor gathered the unconscious woman up into his arms and carried her upstairs to the room he’d secured for the night. He lay her on the bed, removed her shoes, and pulled a blanket over her.

Now what? Even he had enough scruples not to sleep in the same bed as his prisoner, even if she was unconscious. He glanced at the lumpy sofa, but it barely looked long enough for two people to sit on; it would be far too short for him to use as a bed. No matter. He’d spent years sleeping on the ground in the rain with a musket in his hand during the war. Surely, he hadn’t gotten that soft since returning home.

After blowing out all the candles but one, he glanced at the sleeping woman. In the near-darkness, she appeared soft and young and innocent.

He whispered, “I hope you aren’t a murderess—for your family’s sake.”

He lay down on the floor and fell asleep wrestling with options. By morning, he had a plan. While Lady Hennessy slept, he shaved, glaring at the mirror that revealed the wicked bruise Margaret Hennessy had dealt him. At least she wasn’t a ninnyhammer who fretted about her nerves and swooned at the first sign of trouble. Of course, that kind of society lady would have been easier to track down and apprehend.

Lady Hennessy sighed and turned over. As Connor finished shaving and wiped his face with a towel draped around his shoulders, she stirred again.

She let out a strangled scream and struggled to sit. “Who…? What…?”

He turned to her. “It’s me, Connor Jackson, remember? I’m Grant and Christian’s friend?” Friend was an overly simplified term, of course.