Page 67 of Not a Fine Gentleman

“Here, at a dinner party with my family.” He made a gesture around the room. “Then, I went home with my wife.”

“What time did you arrive home?”

“Sometime after midnight.” Grant’s eyes remained alert as usual, but his posture still revealed no concern.

Mr. Birnie remained sitting in a relaxed manner. “Can anyone corroborate your alibi?”

“My wife.”

“Anyone else?”

Grant’s lips twitched. Dryly, he said, “No. We agreed not to invite others to our bed.”

Birnie coughed into his hand to cover up a laugh and hurried to resume his appropriately solemn expression. “The servants didn’t see you come home?”

“A stable lad took the carriage and cattle at the mews.”

“But no one at the house.” Mr. Birnie lifted a brow.

“No, the servants had already retired.”

“Then no one, other than your wife, can vouch for you. You and your sister are our only suspects,” Mr. Birnie said sharply.

Grant’s posture remained relaxed. “You have a drawing of the murderer. Find him, and you’ll find your man.”

Mr. Birnie made a dismissive wave. “That could be anyone. It could be someone Lady Hennessy drew in an attempt to throw us off. However, you have motive—a public one—and you’re fully capable of killing him. You’ve proven in the past that you’re willing to take the law into your own hands for the sake of your family.”

Jared and Christian both shifted again.

Cole said, “Now see here—”

“And you had the opportunity,” Mr. Birnie continued, ignoring Cole. “You could have slipped out of your home, walked the few blocks between the two houses, killed Hennessy, and returned before anyone missed you.”

A muscle in Grant’s jaw twitched as he leaned forward, his expression hard and intense. “If I had planned to kill him, I would have waited until he went to his country house where I would have shot him with my rifle.”

Mr. Birnie also leaned forward, “If you hated him, you might have wanted the satisfaction of stabbing him, to feel his flesh tearing, and look into his eyes as he died.”

Cold chills rushed through Margaret’s limbs at the dreadful account. More cold chills, joined by shivers, raced over her as the horrifying reality hit her: the magistrate was going to blame Grant! Why he would blame Grant on such flimsy evidence when she’d been found with blood on her gown, she could not imagine, but she refused to allow Grant to be blamed for Hennessy’s death.

She glanced at Connor, who watched her, silent, guarded, tense. He and Grant were friends. Why did he not speak up in Grant’s defense?

Grant had a sweet wife who adored him. Margaret had no one. Her family would miss her, but she had no spouse or child who needed her.

“He didn’t do it,” Margaret burst out.

“Of course he did,” Mr. Birnie said. “All that remains to be seen is if you put him up to it.”

Indignant, Cole leaned forward. “Mr. Birnie—”

“I didn’t put him up to it,” Margaret cut in before Cole could finish. “Grant had nothing to do with Hennessey’s death.” She struggled to take a breath, but all the air left the room. She gasped, “I killed him.”

All her brothers moved, their words of denial ringing out on every quarter.

Before she lost her nerve, she raised her voice to be heard. “I killed him!”

The room fell quiet.

Grant leaned in, pinning Birnie with a hard stare. “Whatever game you are playing needs to stop now, Birnie. My sister is no killer.”