Page 60 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“Perhaps.” But she looked doubtful.

Could she be trying to throw suspicion on someone by feeding him false clues?

She looked up at him, and that soft openness came into her expression again. Desire, and something far more tender within him, weakened his resolve.

He could not, would not, develop feelings for a suspect. Nor for a high-born lady. “You’d best get back now,” he said perhaps rougher than needful.

A hard shell slammed into place over her vulnerability. “Of course. As a murderess, clearly, I should be imprisoned in my own home.”

“It’s better than imprisoned in Newgate, which is what most suspects get,” he shot back.

She glared at him and stalked out.

Tension and anger simmered like a pot left too long on a fire. Connor stormed after her to ensure the foolish woman actually went home. And that she got there safely. Unaware of him, she darted through the streets, dodging carts and carriages. Despite her clothing, her regal bearing and confident walk declared her a member of the elite. No one would mistake her for a servant.

Connor pushed out his breath, releasing his anger. She couldn’t help being who she was, after all. And he couldn’t seem to help his confusion about her. All he could do was focus on his duty—finding all evidence and submitting it, along with his professional opinion, to the magistrate.

Slowing, Meg strode up the stairs of Tarrington House. Just before reaching the door, she adjusted her posture to a slovenly slump. After perfecting her disguise, she went around the side, through the gate to the servants’ entrance, and disappeared down the steps.

He almost chuckled.

After returning to the Finch’s kitchen, he strode into a room full of gossip and laughter. Perfect. “I’m Connor Jackson, an officer with Bow Street,” he announced, bringing the room to silence.

“A Bow Street Runner,” someone murmured. Expressions ranging from awe to fear met him.

He didn’t correct them on the nickname. “I’m investigating the murder of Lord Hennessy. Did any of you see anyone enter or leave the Hennessys’ home around midnight on the nineteenth?”

Amid the gathered servants sat the girl Meg had been speaking to. Another victim of aristocratic cruelty, she watched him with wide, fearful eyes.

The ancient butler, who looked thin enough to fall over if the wind blew too hard, nodded toward a young man wearing the livery of a footman. “Jensen was at the door then.”

Jensen looked startled. “Erm, yessir, I was.”

“Did you notice anything unusual? Comings or goings?” Connor asked.

Jensen considered, his eyes dancing back and forth as if watching a rapid tennis match. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Lady Hennessy came home. Not much later, Lord Hennessy arrived.”

“Anyone else?”

The footman thought a moment. “I did see someone come out the garden gate not long after.”

Connor perked up. “Male, or female?”

“Male.”

Connor went still. Could this male be the one Margaret claimed to have seen leaving the library after the crime?

Could it be Grant?

Connor asked carefully, “Can you describe him?”

Jensen closed his eyes. “Tall. Broad. Confident.” He opened his eyes. “But sneaky, if you know what I mean.”

Sneaky. Someone practiced at walking stealthily like a burglar or an assassin. He’d observed that very skill in Grant Amesbury, who fit the physical description. “How do you figure he was tall?”

“Walked past the streetlamp. Might’ve been able to touch it without a ladder if he’d reached up.”

Connor nodded. “Did you notice hair—light? Dark?”

Opening his eyes, Jensen shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Do you think you’d recognized him if you saw him again?”

Jensen shook his head again. “I didn’t see his face.”

“I understand. Thank you. Did anyone else see anything that night?”

No one had seen anything useful.

“If any of you think of anything, even if you think it unimportant, send word to the Bow Street office.”

Connor left the Finch abode and headed to Bow Street. All he had was confirmation that a tall, confident, male skilled in the art of stealth had left the Hennessys’ residence that night. It might have been anyone—the person Margaret claimed to have threatened her. A hired killer.

Or Grant Amesbury.

If so, then Meg knew full well who had been there that night. Which gave further weight to the gossip column about Grant threatening Lord Hennessy. But then why was she asking questions amongst the servants and inquiring about Tal? Could Tal identify Grant Amesbury as her husband’s murderer?

Sickened, Connor had to admit it: Grant had ability, opportunity, and motive. And possibly an eyewitness.