Page 43 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 11

Inside the post chaise, Margaret glanced at Connor Jackson. “What happens when we arrive in London?”

“I deliver you to your family and return to work,” he said pragmatically.

“Will you find out who killed Hennessey?”

He didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to say it; he still considered her the main suspect. She looked him straight in the eye. “I didn’t kill Hennessey.”

“That’s for the magistrate of that district to decide. As far as I know, Bow Street hasn’t been included in the investigation.” He added softly, “If you wish to tell me what happened, I will listen.”

Memories hit her with the force of a storm as she returned to that horrific moment ten nights ago. Every color, shadow, scent, and sound swallowed her as if she were there again.

She gulped and snatched at the poise that had helped her survive the snares of the beau monde, despite her farcical marriage and broken heart. “I arrived home first and went into the library. Hennessy came home minutes later—we’d attended different events that evening. We spoke briefly,” she winced at the memory. If she’d known that would be their last conversation, would she have been kinder to him?

Watching her steadily, Jackson said nothing.

“I went upstairs. I heard noises, and Hennessy called out. So, I went back.” She had to swallow back her horror. “I found him on the floor. There was so much blood…” She wanted to shut out the images, but they opened up before her, even with her eyes closed.

“What happened then?” Jackson prompted.

She pulled herself together. “I saw a man climbing out of the window. He saw me. He drew out a knife and started coming back in. Then the servants came, so he climbed back out the window. And Hennessey… he…” She clamped her mouth closed, then her eyes, but couldn’t block the picture of his last few moments of life. “He tried to tell me something, but then he died. Right there. In my arms. I never even…” She shook her head, unable to speak.

All the heartbreak she had suffered as a result of his thoughtlessness, his selfishness, his infidelity, warred with the hopes and dreams of her younger self. No reconciliation. No love. Regret and relief and sorrow and shock all spun around in a mental whirlwind.

She shoved it back. Straightening, she searched Jackson’s face for a hint of his intentions.

He remained unreadable and mysterious. Finally, he said, “What do you think he was trying to tell you?”

“He said, Tal… something.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have no idea.” She searched her memory for anyone named Tal, or a place that began with Tal, but nothing surfaced.

“The man in the window. Did he say anything?”

She braced herself against the impulse to shrink. “He said I was next because I’d seen him, then he pulled out a knife. And when he heard the servants coming, he said he’d come back for me.”

“Can you describe him?”

“He had a long nose and receding chin.”

Jackson nodded thoughtfully as if filing that information away for later examination.

Outside, the sun sank, and shadows darkened. They reached London as night fell. Margaret steeled herself against the inevitable dread that always accompanied reaching the city. As a hopeful, bright-eyed girl so long ago, she had loved leaving behind her country estate and going to Town where a tapestry of different and interesting people, as well as an endless array of activities, awaited to thrill and delight. Since her marriage, she came each year to London out of duty—to don her perfect hostess mask and pretend all was right with her world. Worst of all, she had even resided in the same building as her errant husband during the Season.

Why had she done it? She could easily have remained in the country house in Cornwall that Hennessy never visited. There, she had built her own little world with enough diversions to keep her occupied by herself or with friends, or at least, people who admired her. Some even liked her for who she was instead of being in awe of her status and title. There, she had the freedom to do anything she pleased. Quiet country living offered so much more than the city ever had.

If only she’d stayed home this Season. Living in a different county would have provided her with an inarguable alibi for the night of Hennessy’s death, not to mention she would have been spared seeing Hennessy lying in his blood—nor would his killer want her dead.

But no. She’d refused to let the world know she’d been defeated by the very man who should have loved her most. So, she came to London, year after year. Always, she showed a brave face. The only consolation was seeing her family each year now that they had all returned to England. For her trouble—for her pride—she was now a prime suspect in her husband’s murder.

This evening, a new, deeper dread accompanied her approach to London. Someone had murdered Hennessey, left her to take the blame, and threatened her life. Would he make good on his threat? Endanger her family?

The post chaise rattled and bumped over the cobbled streets. With her limp bonnet pulled firmly over her face, Margaret stared out of the windows.

Wading through a heavy ground fog, lamplighters did their best to illuminate the streets. Shopkeepers and other members of the working-class trudged home, ignoring the pleas of beggars and urchins with outstretched hands.