Page 53 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Genevieve Amesbury looked him in the eye and gave him a genuine look of gratitude. “You always seem to be there when we need you, Mr. Jackson. Thank you for keeping Margaret safe and bringing her back to us. Again.”

“Merely doing my duty, Mrs. Amesbury.”

Christian’s wife gave him a bewitching smile. “Oh, please, after all we’ve been through together, I’m Genevieve. My parents and I will be forever indebted to you.”

He bowed. “Happy to be of service.” However, he knew their differences in class well enough not to address a lady by her given name. Guiltily, he glanced at Meg, who warded off questions from Lady Tarrington.

Meg. She wasn’t Meg anymore. Not to him. He must stop thinking of her as anything other than Lady Margaret. He’d been presumptuous and rude to call her Margaret. His mother had taught him better. And he most certainly ought not address her as Meg, her request notwithstanding—especially not now that they were back in London and firmly planted in their separate worlds.

He said, “Please, for Lady Margaret’s sake, keep her inside. She’s only under the Earl’s protection as long as she is a guest inside his home.”

Mrs. Amesbury went still. “She’s a prisoner here?”

Didn’t they understand how privileged they were? No one in the working class suspected of a crime was allowed such freedoms prior to trial.

Sharply, Connor said, “Trust me, staying here is a minor inconvenience compared to Newgate, and that is where she may end up if she leaves the house again.”

Genevieve Amesbury gave an elegant nod, making the light dance on her auburn hair. “I understand. We will do our best, short of chaining her.”

Perhaps they ought to try that. Connor inclined his head. “Thank you.”

He left Lady Margaret in the care of her loving family. At the door, he cast a longing glance back.

What might that have been like, to be surrounded by family who looked out for him? For years, it had only been Connor and his disgraced mother. Then he’d gone to school, courtesy of his errant father, and he’d been even more alone—the illegitimate son of a lord who paid for his education but refused to acknowledge him. With no other family, and few friends, he’d lived in the shadowy space between worlds. He was too well-spoken and educated, not to mention accustomed to a higher quality lifestyle, to fit in with the working class, but not a member of the gentry who viewed family connections as more important than money or manners. He lived much like his mother had been when she’d worked as a governess.

Connor hadn’t found his place in the world until he’d begun serving in the army with men who saw only his character and his rank, but not his social standing—men like Grant Amesbury. Later, working for Bow Street filled that same role and created a fraternity of sorts—again with Grant Amesbury. Whom he now suspected of murder.

Lady Margaret met his gaze and strode toward him. She held out a hand. “My gun.”

He fished the tiny weapon out of a pocket and gave her a meaningful look as he walked past her and handed it to Lady Margaret’s twin sister. “I cannot in good conscience give a weapon to a murder suspect, but as I understand it, this is something of a family heirloom.”

Lady Rachel stared at it and said reverently, “My mother’s gun.” She closed her hand over it. “Thank you.” Her eyes shone, and for a moment, she was almost as beautiful as her twin sister.

Connor turned away from the ladies in their glittering world and strode outside. On the doorstep, he bade a silent farewell to one of the finest families he’d been privileged to know. That might have been the last civil conversation they would have with him. Sometimes his line of work was downright lonely.

He returned to the Hennessy home to resume his investigation, much to the obvious irritation of the butler, Gibbs. Connor re-questioned the staff—had they seen an outsider in the house? Had anything out of the ordinary happened that night or the previous few nights?

The scullery maid remembered something useful—a late delivery that night.

Could this be significant? Connor leaned forward. “What was it?”

She shrugged. “I never see what packages are delivered.”

“Do you remember what the delivery man looked like?”

She scrunched up her face. “Tall. I didn’t really pay attention. I had lotsa pots to wash.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve.

“Did he leave right away?”

She hesitated. “I didn’t see ’im go.”

He questioned her further, but she knew nothing more helpful. A few other servants remembered a delivery, but no one remembered when, or if, he left, or could describe his appearance. How very odd.

Connor’s heart beat faster. This might be the way the owner of those boot prints entered the house. Still, he had to make certain. This mysterious he of whom the scullery maid spoke could have been anyone.

Either way, Connor would find what facts he could and turn it over to Birnie. The magistrate would sort it.

And if the murderer turned out to be Grant Amesbury…

Connor and Grant had worked alongside one another more than once. Did he deserve punishment for killing a reprobate with no redeeming qualities? Indeed, if Grant had killed Hennessy, he’d probably had a good reason.

No one was above the law.

Grant had carried Connor from the battlefield to the surgeon when others had left him for dead. They’d been fellow officers, comrades, and had always had each other’s back, in more ways than one, on the battlefield and at home.

Could Connor truly testify against Grant?

For the first time in his life, Connor considered burying evidence. He no longer clearly saw the lines between justice and lawlessness.