Page 59 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Disbelieving, he shook his head. “So, you’ve decided to look for the killer yourself?” Foolish, but admirable. And she wouldn’t be searching for clues if she were the murder.

Her shamefaced expression precluded the need for an answer.

Then the truth behind her motives hit him. More offended than he cared to admit, he demanded, “Because you don’t trust me to do it?”

“I’m sure you’ll do all you can, but my fate is in your hands. If I help you, you’ll find the truth sooner. Besides, I have to know what Tal means—not just for the case, but… well, it was the last thing he said to me.”

He could understand that kind of drive. “Why did you think this girl would know?”

“Because she used to work as our cook’s assistant in our London house. Hennessy had a…” she took a labored breath, “…a particular fondness for her. As I understand, his advances were unwelcome. When she was found with child,” she swallowed, “the butler sacked her. She came to me, in tears, begging not to be sent away and asking me to believe that she never welcomed Hennessy’s advances.”

Connor nodded. Hennessy’s cook had mentioned that Lady Hennessy had helped a servant girl who’d attracted unwanted attention from their lord.

“What did you do when this girl came to you?” he asked.

“I arranged for her to go someplace to have the child. Unfortunately, it was a sickly baby and died shortly thereafter.” Quietly, she said, “His only child, that I know of.” A faraway look came into her eyes, and she turned introspective.

Did she regret never having children—even with a husband who so cruelly neglected and betrayed her?

“How did she end up here?” he asked after a moment.

“I arranged it because Mr. Finch, despite his friendship with Hennessy, has a reputation for not being the kind of man to trifle with the help.”

Strange that Meg thought more highly of Mr. Finch than the man thought of her. “He and Hennessy were friends?”

“Very much so. But that’s not why I’m here. I came to ask if she’d heard any mention of Tal. I had asked the same question of a few of my trusted servants that day you found me burning my old love letters. It was the other reason I was there.”

Either she was truthful or remarkably cagey in her method of appearing innocent.

Regardless, the disliking Connor had developed for the late Lord Hennessy narrowed into the closest thing to hatred he’d experienced in years. Apparently, Meg’s husband was worse than Connor’s father.

Meg huffed a wounded laugh. “It’s sad, isn’t it? That I believed a girl he pursued might know more than I as his wife would.”

“He was a callous scoundrel with no self-control nor appreciation for what he had,” Connor said.

Wide and defenseless, her gaze met his. Everything in Connor went still. Standing so close, her warmth went straight to his heart. A desire to protect her, to reassure her, stole over him so softly it failed to activate his inner defenses. Her admirable courage and strength, not to mention her confidence, had earned his admiration almost from the beginning, but her rare moments of vulnerability revealed a need that Connor ached to fill. He touched her cheek, sliding his thumb across her smooth skin and over her bottom lip. Her eyes dilated. Heating deep inside, he took a step closer until they nearly touched.

He whispered, “Only a fool would fail to recognize what a gift you are.” Drawn by the lure of her shapely lips, he bent his head.

Meg put a hand on his chest over his galloping heart and lifted her chin. But she came to her senses before he did.

Her dazed expression cleared. She jerked away from him. Both hands went over her chest as if to keep her heart in place, and she inhaled sharply. She made a weak gesture toward the door. “I should get back home before I’m missed. By home, I mean Tarrington House, of course.”

More like an inexperienced girl, and less like the self-possessed woman she usually appeared to be, Lady Margaret fled the room.

Connor gripped the back of a nearby chair and took several breaths, willing his blood to cool. He swore. When did he lose his professional detachment? He was on the verge of falling, not only for a lady in a class so high above him that nothing good could come of it, but also for the only plausible suspect in a highly publicized murder case.

He went to the front parlor and found her there, staring at a case of snuffboxes and frowning.

“What is it?” he asked.

“That snuffbox,” she pointed to one sporting a hunting scene. “It belonged to Hennessy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m certain. He was toying with it during our last conversation.”

“Maybe it’s merely painted in a similar fashion.”