Page 68 of Not a Fine Gentleman

She hugged herself and painted a story. “We argued. He taunted me about his new mistress. I could not take one more insult, one more public embarrassment. I hated him!” Emotion shook her voice as her story skirted too close to the truth. She took a moment to gather herself. “So, I took a knife, and I stabbed him.”

“No, she didn’t,” Cole put a quelling hand on her arm. “Margaret, stop talking.”

“I acted alone.” She shook off his hand. “No one else was involved or had knowledge of what I did.”

Behind her, Jared spoke for the first time. “Margaret, stop. We all know you’re innocent. You don’t have to do this to protect Grant. We will clear him.”

“I have confessed. You may take me to trial.” Margaret flattened her hands on the desk.

Christian put a hand on her shoulder and leaned in. “Meg,” he whispered into her ear. “Don’t do this.”

She refused to look at her brothers or Connor. Instead, she focused on Mr. Birnie. “I did it.”

The magistrate watched her steadily, assessing, almost curious. Finally, he spoke. “Where did you get the knife?”

She scrambled for an explanation. “It was in a drawer.”

“Where?”

“In a desk where I keep pens and quill knives and papers.”

Out of his pocket, he withdrew a knife with a simple wooden handle. “This is the knife we retrieved from the scene of the crime. Do you recognize it?”

Had there been a knife next to Hennessy’s body? Hadn’t the rodent-faced man held a knife when he threatened her? She couldn’t be sure. While some details of that night were sharply imprinted on her memory, others skittered away, vague and dim. Still, if they had found it, it must be the knife used to kill Hennessy.

“Yes. That’s it.”

He lifted a brow. “It’s a remarkably humble blade for a marquis. Or was it your personal weapon?”

“It is an old relic of Hennessey’s.”

He nodded, still looking over the knife. “And you’re sure this is it?”

“Yes. I stabbed him with that knife until he stopped struggling.”

White spots flared before her eyes, and the chill in her limbs settled deep into her chest. Would they take her to Newgate now, or might they allow her to remain in Cole’s custody until her trial?

Mr. Birnie put away the weapon and slid a piece of paper across the desk to her. “Would you be willing to write your confession and sign it?”

Grant growled, “Birnie, this has gone far enough.”

Margaret reached out with a trembling hand and pulled the paper closer. “Do you have a pen?” The white spots flared increasingly larger. She was signing her own death sentence.

“Mr. Birnie, this is highly irregular,” Cole said.

Birnie handed her a pen and paper. Margaret picked up the pen and began writing,

I confess—

“Lady Hennessy,” Mr. Birnie gave her a pained smile as he held up the knife, “this is not the murder weapon. It is my personal knife.”

Margaret grappled with what to say next.

Smiling apologetically, Mr. Birnie spread his hands. “No weapon was found at the scene of his death. And the coroner believes that the victim was killed by a left-handed person.” He gestured to her holding her pen in her right hand. “Clearly, you are not the murderer.” He glanced at Grant. “Both of you are innocent.”

Grant was safe.

She would not go to prison, or worse.