Page 48 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“Where is Grant now?”

“Out looking for his sister. I expect him back any day. If I don’t put you in charge of this case, he will probably take over whether or not I sanction it.” He gave a faint but wry smile. “My question: Will you be objective?”

“Of course,” Connor said instantly.

Birnie narrowed his gaze as if trying to read deeper into Connor. “Lady Hennessy is remarkably beautiful and has a certain allure not found in many women. I half feared you’d fall for her.”

Connor scowled. “She’s stubborn and troublesome and arrogant. I couldn’t wait to be rid of her. I’ll find all the evidence I can and leave it to you to determine if it proves her guilt or her innocence.”

Birnie watched him another long moment. Connor met his gaze evenly, daring him to question him again.

“Very well,” Birnie said. “Go back over everything. Question everyone. Look for other potential suspects. We need a conviction for the marquis’ murder—but remember, she is not only a marchioness, but she’s also a lady in her own right; she was born the daughter of a well-respected earl. If we drag her to trial, we’d best make certain beyond any doubt that she’s guilty. I do not want this to blow up in our faces.”

“I only want justice,” Connor said.

Birnie nodded. “We are agreed, then. Go home and rest. You look like you haven’t slept in weeks.”

“You rest, too.” He shook his head. He was beginning to sound like Meg.

Birnie made a negligent wave and returned to his paperwork.

Outside, Connor let out his breath, half terrified that Margaret’s fate lay in his hands, and half relieved that he would know that every possible stone had been overturned in search of the truth.

The following morning, a well-rested Connor paid a visit to the home of the deceased Lord Hennessy.

As it happened, the new Marquis of Hennessy and his wife had already moved in but were presently out. Just as well. The new lord might have wasted Connor’s time peppering him with questions.

The butler, Gibbs, eyed Connor cautiously. “Why, may I ask, do you need to see the library again?”

Connor answered in a bored tone, “I’ve been ordered to again go over the scene where the murder occurred and to re-question everyone. A case with this much public awareness must be handled with extreme care.”

The butler pointed toward a room off the grand foyer. “I hope you find what you need to convict her.”

Her, meaning Lady Margaret, obviously. “What has you so convinced she did it?”

“I already told you; she’s as cold as ice. She probably did it just as a diversion.”

Connor raised a brow. “Few on a jury would believe that motive.”

The butler shrugged. “Perhaps she decided she wanted to marry another. No doubt, she had a paramour. Maybe he was a duke, and she wanted to improve her rank. She certainly relished her power. Probably wanted more.”

Nothing in her behavior as they traveled revealed a thirst for power—just the opposite, in fact. “I see.”

Connor pushed open the door to the scene of the murder. Gibbs’ footsteps led away as he no doubt resumed his duties. Inside the library, a fire in the hearth crackled, and the faint scent of smoke greeted him. Odd. Few burned fires on a warm, sunny day such as today. Next to it stood a slender, shapely woman throwing a few papers, one at a time, into the fire. The flames leapt up to consume it, sending off a fresh wave of smoke. The woman’s faded and tattered gown suggested she was a scullery maid, but her queenly posture laughed at that suggestion.

He scowled. “Lady Margaret?”

Meg turned with a squeak and shoved something into her bodice. At the sight of her beautiful face, his heart lurched, stammered, and then leapt about. Wearing the same clothes she’d worn during their return trip to London, she looked so much like the Meg of their journey together rather than a high-born lady, that he almost forgot they’d ever been apart.

Her expression turned from guilty fear to calm in astonishing speed. The trait of a killer?

Connor turned cold at the ramifications of her actions. Burning evidence?

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “And why are you dressed like that?”

She donned that haughty expression that reminded him, all too painfully, that they were not merely in different classes, but different worlds—not that he was in danger of forgetting.

“I was… looking for something.” A guilty flush reddened her cheeks as she squared her shoulders.