Page 37 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Margaret gaped as ice filled the pit of her stomach.

“Five hundred pounds.” Jackson let out a slow whistle.

“For that sum, everyone is looking for me.”

Connor considered, his expression sober, his eyes darting as if reading from a script.

“I wonder who offered the reward.” She let out a sad half-laugh. “Likely Hennessy’s brother.”

He gave her a curious look.

“I haven’t exactly been on the best of terms with him.” She shrugged. “Of course, if anyone in my family were murdered, I would spare no expense finding the killer and bringing him to justice. Or to the wrong end of a gun.”

What if the killer had somehow orchestrated these handbills to assure he was never caught? No one would look for Hennessy’s killer if they thought they already had him.

She was probably getting overly dramatic and seeing evil in every shadow.

“This must not have been up long, or someone would have taken it,” Jackson said.

“Take a piece of paper? What an odd thing to do,” Margaret said.

He lifted a brow. “Yes, I’m sure it never occurred to you that people might steal an expensive commodity such as paper.”

“Certainly not.” She lifted her nose and sniffed just to add to the snobbishness he seemed to see in her anyway.

He reached for the door but stopped. “In any case, I’d best act as your captor, so do your best to look like a captured prisoner—one who has given up all hope of escape—so as to avoid another scene like that last one.”

“Agreed.” To prevent others from seeing the condemning paper, she tore it off the wall, folded it up and stuffed it down her bodice.

He took her by the upper arm, opened the door, and propelled her inside. Calling up all her acting skills, she lowered her head and slumped her shoulders and trudged along next to him.

An older woman with frizzy grey hair removed dishes from a table and loaded them onto a tray. She glanced up at their arrival.

“What’s yer pleasure, sir?” Her gaze strayed to Margaret. “Oi! Yer that fine lady what done away with yer husband, ain’t ye?”

Jackson answered, “She is my prisoner, and we are returning to London so she may stand trial.”

The lady glared at Jackson and stepped closer to Margaret. “Did he beat ye? Yer man? Is that why you offed him?” Though her tone was gruff, she wore a sympathetic expression. “Mine beat me, too. When he died of a fever, I wanted to dance on his grave. I didn’t have the guts to kill ’im, but if’n you did, yer a mite sassier than me.”

Taken aback, Margaret stared. “I didn’t murder my husband.”

“That’s what they all say,” Jackson said gruffly.

The woman patted her hand. “I hope they believe you, dearie. You were right to do it. No woman should have to live under the fist of a brute.”

“We’d like the private dining room so I can keep a better eye on her,” Jackson said.

The woman glared at him again. “You should let her go. She crashed that cull ’cause she wanted to live in peace.”

“I’m doing my job,” Jackson said. “What happens to her now is up to the magistrate and jury.”

“Sal,” hollered the man coming out of the next room. “Take them to the dining room.”

Sal patted Margaret’s hand. “Don’t mind my brother, dearie; he’s all bark.”

Margaret stifled a grin. She hadn’t been called dearie since she was a child. Usually people were so careful to give her the proper deference. It was rather sweet, actually, to be addressed in such an affectionate and familiar manner.

“My money’s good,” Jackson said meaningfully.