Page 52 of Not a Fine Gentleman

He ignored the quickening of his heart at her use of his given name and stifled a softening for her. With perhaps a bit more force than was strictly necessary, he took her by the arm and started hauling her out of the room. “Let’s go.”

She glanced about. “Please, before my brother-in-law returns, there is something else of personal value that I want. It belonged to my mother. Please.”

Connor had spent too much time with this woman. He should not be getting so soft. “Hurry.”

She went to the bookcase and opened a panel disguised as a shelf of old tomes. Inside, she retrieved a small pistol.

Connor had his gun out and pointed at her before he’d had time to think about it.

She turned, and when she saw him, she froze. “It’s not loaded. It’s just an old flintlock.”

He cocked his gun. “Put it down. Now.”

Moving slowly, with her free hand out, palm out, she bent her knees and set the gun on the floor. “I only want it because it’s special. It doesn’t even shoot straight—not at a distance, anyway.”

“Back away.”

With both hands still out, she took several steps back. “Take it. Give it to Cole. I want this gun to stay in the family—not go to my brother-in-law, who will not see its value.” Her mouth curved into a sad smile. “There’s a story behind that gun.”

Without taking his focus off Margaret, Connor bent down and retrieved the pistol. The small gun with a mother-of-pearl handle certainly fit a feminine hand. He checked the barrel. She’d spoken the truth; the barrel was clean and empty. Unloaded.

She folded her arms. “You know, if I’d wanted to kill Hennessey, I would have shot him. I have good aim.” She made a huff resembling a humorless laugh. “He was so foxed that night when he came home that I could have loaded it and shot him dead.” She mimicked shooting a gun at the spot where her husband’s body had been lying.

Chilled at the image her words painted, and more so at her cold expression, Connor tucked away her gun. Then he pocketed his own.

He made a point of rubbing his head. “Why didn’t you just bash him over the head?”

She melted, and a tiny, apologetic smile curved her shapely mouth—which he shouldn’t be thinking about right now. “I truly am sorry about that. You aren’t going to let me forget that, are you?”

“Probably not.” He gestured. “Let’s go.”

She gave him no further argument. Outside, he hailed a hackney. He opened the door and handed her in as he called out the destination to the driver. Then he sat across from her.

Inside, she fixed her luminescent gaze on him. “I know you don’t believe me, but I beg you; please, find the man who did it.”

“I will find the truth. I give you my word.”

Surprisingly meek, she remained silent during the drive to the Earl of Tarrington’s London house.

Inside the stately home, a cluster of ladies wearing black mourning frocks swarmed around her. Awkwardly, Connor stood off to the side. He’d never seen such a collection of beauties in his life. Two brunettes—one he recognized as Lady Tarrington, and the other who looked enough like Meg that she must be her twin sister, greeted her first with embraces and exclamations and demands to know where she’d been. The stunning redhead, Genevieve, who’d married Christian, alternately hugged her and scolded her for leaving the safety of their home. None of them had Meg’s remarkable appeal, nor her strong self-possession.

A shapely blonde, Mrs. Grant Amesbury, whom he knew formerly as Jocelyn Fairly, stood off to the side as if not yet certain of her role in the family. Catching his gaze, she gave him such a friendly grin that he returned it in spite of himself. They had worked together trying to catch conspirators before they could carry out their plan to assassinate the Prime Minister and his cabinet. In that time, Connor had almost—almost—begun to think of Jocelyn Fairly Amesbury as a friend, as much as a scruffy, low-born constable could be friends with a lady.

Jocelyn Amesbury would be devastated if she learned Connor suspected her husband, Grant, of murdering Lord Hennessy. She would defend him as fiercely as she’d defended her father. For that matter, the entire Amesbury family—some of the finest people of Connor’s acquaintance, despite their lofty place in society—would view him as the enemy. They’d all suffer if it turned out one of them had committed murder.

By all accounts, Lord Hennessy was loathsome, but no one deserved murder.

And no one deserved to get away with murder—not even a friend.

Jocelyn Amesbury sidled up to him and said, “Grant is still out searching for Margaret. We sent a messenger after him, but it may be some time before he returns.”

“When he does, will you please ask him to contact me?” Connor said as casually as he could.

Her smile remained friendly and open. “I’m sure you will be the first person he will want to see.”

Connor nodded, his loyalties torn. Could he build a case against his friend and former comrade in arms?

Genevieve—Mrs. Christian Amesbury—approached Connor next. She offered her hand, as soft and white as any fine lady’s. Her posture relaxed, her eyes peaceful, she looked safe and happy, unlike the way she’d been the last time he’d seen her—frantic but trying to keep a brave face.