Page 63 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 16

In response to a knock, Connor opened the door of his bachelor’s rooms to a grave Grant Amesbury who loomed large in the door frame—not just with his tall, broad build, but with his presence.

Connor eyed his friend. Conflicting loyalties—to his comrade-at-arms, to his duty, to justice—battered him. Grant and Connor had fought side-by-side and sometimes back-to-back against enemies both abroad and at home. Grant had carried Connor from a battlefield to the best surgeon in the area. Connor had aided Grant as he had shielded his family from all manner of dangers. They’d worked together to ferret out a conspiracy against the prime minister and his cabinet and protected them.

How could Connor even think to subject Grant to an inquiry and possible trial?

Without preamble, Grant said, “I didn’t kill my sister’s husband.”

Silently, Connor gestured for Grant to enter.

Grant stepped in, moving like a wraith and filling the room with intensity. “I admit I wanted to kill him—on a number of occasions—but I didn’t.”

“That threat at the opera was idle, then?”

“No, but if I really meant to teach that lout a lesson, I would have dragged him outside and beaten him senseless.”

“From what I gather, he had it coming.” Connor sat and gestured to Grant to take the only other chair in the room.

“I didn’t kill him,” Grant repeated.

Connor spread his hands. “I want to believe you, but you publicly threatened him, which means you have motive. You have the stomach and the skill for doing the deed. I don’t suppose you have an alibi? Were you in a public place the night of his murder?”

Grant shrugged, completely unconcerned. “Family dinner party, after which Jocelyn and I went home and went to bed.”

“The servants saw you come home, I suppose, but they would never have known if you left again.”

“Of course not—not if I truly wanted to leave in secret.”

Connor almost smiled at Grant’s pride in the art of stealth, but the situation called for soberness, not levity. “You aren’t making this easy on me.”

“Look. You know I’m capable of it. But do you really think I’d murder anyone? Especially a lord in his own home in the middle of London?”

Connor didn’t, but he had to play devil’s advocate if he had any hope to clear Grant. “You could have done that to make it appear that he’d been killed by an amateur to throw suspicion off yourself.”

Grant let out a sound of disgust. “If I were that calculated, I would have refrained from threatening him in public. I also would never have left Margaret to find the mess or to take the blame. And I’d make sure no one discovered his body.”

All true. Connor waved his hand as if to dismiss Grant’s valid points. “You might have acted out of pure anger, which clouded your judgment.”

“If that were the case, I would have killed him at the opera on the spot.”

Connor nodded. “True.”

Grant looked him straight in the eye. “You know me. Do you really think I did this?”

Connor considered, briefly, then almost slapped himself. Of course Grant had not murdered Lord Hennessy! Each time he had killed, it had been in defense of himself, or his country, or another person. Perhaps deadly force had not always been necessary, but in those split-second decisions when lives were at stake, those lines became difficult to gauge.

Grant was first and foremost, a protector—never a murderer.

Keeping eye contact, Connor shook his head. “No, I don’t. I believe you’re innocent.” His own words rang back at him as truth. Calm wrapped around him like a warm blanket. “You know I’ll have to report all of this to Birnie, though.”

“Don’t be a dolt—of course, you do. I just wanted you to hear it from me.”

Connor nodded. How could he have doubted Grant Amesbury?

Grant eyed him, calm, open, patient. Unasked questions hung between them.

Connor scrubbed a hand over his face. Grant didn’t murder him. Surely Meg hadn’t either.