Page 51 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“I have. The crown turned the case over to Bow Street, and I’m in charge of the investigation.” Connor made a sharp gesture at the hearth. “What did you burn?”

She pressed her lips together, and sorrow dimmed her eyes. “Old love letters. Drawings I’d done of him. They were meaningless and misguided. I completed them years ago when I still fancied myself in love.” More quietly, she added, “Back when I thought he loved me.”

“Hennessy?”

She nodded. Her shoulders slumped. “I was young. So naïve.”

Her expression and posture gave every indication of truthfulness, yet her actions a moment ago remained suspicious. He pointed at her. “Sit. Don’t move.”

She let out a long-suffering sigh and sat on an armchair with her legs crossed and her arms folded.

Keeping an eye on her to be sure she didn’t bolt, or bash him over the head, Connor looked around the room, searching for anything he might have missed earlier. If Meg was truthful, someone else had come in here, murdered Hennessy, and threatened Meg. Grant wouldn’t have threatened her, of course, but she might be making that up to protect her brother. Otherwise, she was, indeed, very likely in true danger. A scene played out in his mind of a black-hearted scoundrel threatening a lady. His Meg. His protective instincts roared to life, awakening the hunter within him.

It might all be an elaborate lie.

Careful to keep his tone benign, he asked, “Where did you see the man you say threatened you?”

“He was climbing out through there.” She pointed at a far window, staring at it as if she still saw a person there. Skilled actress, or sincere?

Connor examined the window Margaret indicated. A scuff mark marred the wainscoting underneath the sill—possibly made by a shoe. Faint smears the color of dried blood remained on the frame. He raised the sash and placed his hand over the marks, his fingertips easily resting in the same place. A person climbing out of the room could have left bloodied fingerprints there.

Connor glanced back at Margaret, who watched him.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

Letting out a scoffing noise, she settled more comfortably into her chair and traced her wrist as if still missing her bracelet.

Connor sat on the sill the way he would if he were climbing out and looked around outside. A raised flowerbed bordered the house; the drop down would be easy. A climbing rose bush wound through a trellis on the right. To his left, a shrub bloomed. Bare soil lay directly below. He peered closer. Were those footprints?

He swung his legs over and dropped to the ground next to the marks. Crouching down, he took a good look. Though disturbed by soil movement, traces of shapes that could have been made by a pair of boots flattened the soil. Large boots. Connor measured the prints to his own. The prints belonged to someone with feet even bigger than his, and according to his bootmaker, Connor’s were larger than average. These large boot prints, some faded, others obliterated, and a few still recognizable, led away from the two deeply embedded ones. It certainly appeared that a big man had leaped out of the window, landed below, and walked away through the back garden.

Margaret leaned out the window, watching him. Of course, she hadn’t stayed put, stubborn woman. At least she hadn’t run off or acquired any weapons to use against him.

He made a shooing motion and waited until she stepped back. Connor jumped, grabbed ahold of the outer windowsill, and hauled himself up. Difficult, but possible. Still, only one set of footprints remained in the dirt, and they led away, not toward, the window. Which begged the question: How had the man who had made the tracks gotten in? And more importantly, could those boots have belonged to Grant Amesbury? Or someone else?

“What did you find?” Meg asked.

“Boot prints.”

“See? That proves my story about that man being here.”

“Someone went out this way.” Before Connor jumped to conclusions, he would need to investigate further. “Come. We’re leaving.”

“It wasn’t Grant who did it.”

“I hope not.” He sincerely hoped not. With all his might.

“What are you going to do?” she demanded.

Whether her tone arose out of defensiveness for her brother, or herself, he could not guess.

“Take you home and tell your brothers that they’d best keep you inside, or I’ll be duty-bound to report that you should be kept in gaol rather than in the custody of a lord.” Let that fine lady just see how much worse it could be if she didn’t have such lofty connections.

She stiffened. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh? Just like I wouldn’t get the evidence you tried to hide down your bodice?” Against his code of honor, he glanced at that particular part of her anatomy. But only for a second.

“Connor, my brother didn’t murder him.” She turned beseeching eyes on him.