Page 66 of Not a Fine Gentleman

She spread her hands. “He didn’t give a name. I can draw his likeness as well.”

“When we find out who that was, we will deal with him,” Cole said.

Tears pricked her eyes at her brothers’ protectiveness. She looked down at her hands until she could again recover her aplomb. Really, their concern ought not surprise her, but it had been so long since someone had her best interest at heart. She should have gone to her family the moment she had found Hennessy slain.

“No need,” Connor said. “I dealt with that animal the night I returned to London.” Again, he and Mr. Birnie exchanged glances.

She stared at Connor. He spoke matter-of-factly, with no emotion. His expression remained more unreadable than ever. Had his swift action against the night watchman been the result of a need to restore law or out of his desire to avenge her?

Margaret was delusional if she hoped Connor acted out of special tenderness for her. Regardless of Connor’s motivation, the women of London were safer with that particular watchman off the streets.

Mr. Birnie exchanged measured looks with each of her brothers. “That night watchman felt the full weight of the law for his multiple crimes against women.”

He steepled his fingers and asked her several more questions, each more probing than the last—the nature of her relationship with her husband, her state of mind that night, even the details of her marriage settlement. Cole clarified a few points, but largely let Mr. Birnie and Margaret speak. At least the magistrate’s tone, expression, and word choice reflected courtesy. She’d expected him to be much more confrontational.

After a time, Mr. Birnie turned his attention to Grant. “I have questions for you, as well.”

Grant nodded as if expecting that.

“Describe your relationship with the late Lord Hennessy.” It was a command, not a question.

“We tolerated each other when necessary but largely avoided contact.”

Mr. Birnie’s lips twitched. “Elaborate, please.”

“It was no secret that I thought he was as dissipated as the Regent’s set and that my sister deserved better.” Grant lifted his nose up and drawled in an exaggeratedly snobbish tone. “He, in turn, thought my behavior and values too lowbrow for an earl’s offspring.”

“You exchanged heated words at the opera the day before he was found dead.” Mr. Birnie said, his tone as mild as if they discussed the latest horse race instead of a motive for murder.

“Not true,” Grant said. “I insulted him handily, but he only managed to say something like ‘How dare you, sirrah!’ He really had no gift for verbal sparring, did he?” Grant lifted a brow and smirked at Margaret.

At least he was enjoying himself, in his own way, instead of showing concern at the direction of the questioning. If only Margaret could be as confident about today’s outcome.

Mr. Birnie glanced at his notes. “According to the gossip column, your exact words were, ‘You are a villainous toad who cavorts with cheap trollops and is not worthy to lick my sister’s boots.’ Did you say that?”

Thoughtfully, Grant nodded. “That sounds about right.”

“And you nearly came to blows?”

“I might have made a rude gesture. He lunged at me. I fell into a defensive stance to show him I was willing to fight him if he ever developed a spine for it. He didn’t.”

“Did you fight him, then or any other time?”

“No.”

“And that was the end of that confrontation?” Mr. Birnie asked.

Without breaking eye contact with Mr. Birnie, Grant said evenly, “I may have inferred that I could kill him with one finger.”

Margaret closed her eyes. “Oh, Grant.”

Jared and Christian both shifted but remained silent.

Mr. Birnie asked the crucial question, “Did you go to his house and kill him?”

“No.” Calm and unruffled, Grant met the magistrate’s gaze.

“Where were you the night of Lord Hennessy’s murder?”