Page 70 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 18

Connor followed Grant into a sitting room and made a point of striding with confidence instead of trudging like a whipped dog. Fatigue hovered around the edges of his consciousness and tugged at his muscles. The last few nights loitering at seedy taverns and prowling alleys by the waterfront in the hopes he might catch a glimpse of the man in Margaret’s drawing had taken its toll.

Inside a sitting room twice the size of Connor’s bachelor’s rooms, a dying fire glowed, putting out little heat. Or maybe the cold in Connor’s core could not be warmed. Despite his inner chill, sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. Had he lost Grant’s respect—his friendship—for allowing doubt to be cast on Grant’s innocence? Worse, he’d stood idly by while Birnie had badgered Meg into confessing to a crime she didn’t commit.

An ornate brass clock at least a hundred years old ticked on the mantle. Connor rested a hand on the back of a Chippendale chair. The white brocade upholstery probably cost more than Connor’s annual wages.

Raised amid this splendor, Meg—Lady Margaret—no doubt viewed it all as an unremarkable and expected part of her world. He could never give this to her any more than he could give her the moon.

The Amesburys came from an ancient and noble lineage, one of the most powerful and influential families in England. Connor’s behavior all along should have reflected deference. Instead, he’d taken Grant’s friendship for granted. He shouldn’t have made the mistake of thinking he belonged anywhere near Grant’s sister.

Connor removed his hand from the expensive furniture lest he soil it with his low class. Grant turned. Connor waited for the blow.

“Stop looking at me like I’m going to hit you,” Grant said.

Connor eyed Grant. Could he really be unconcerned by that grueling episode in the study?

Grant’s lips twitched into something that might have been a smile—closer than he usually gave. Married life must be treating him well. “You have no control over Birnie nor his methods. And it worked; our names are cleared. I want to talk to you about something else.”

With effort, Connor managed not to reveal an unmanly display of relief. However, Grant’s understanding did little to assuage his own guilt that he’d stood idly by while Birnie bullied the Amesbury family until Meg confessed to a murder she didn’t commit. At least they’d both been exonerated.

Connor inclined his head. “I’m listening.”

“We need to find the real killer before he tries to silence Margaret.”

Those very thoughts had battered Connor from the moment they returned to London. “I’ve made inquiries, lurked around the waterfront, but…” He shook his head.

Grant held out several drawings of the killer climbing out of the window in Margaret’s art style. “Here.” Grimly, he added, “She’s still drawing them. Give them to anyone you think might help us look for him,” Grant said.

Connor’s heart cracked. Despite her outward show of strength, she was still a vulnerable woman. “I already put one up at Bow Street and have another that I’ve been showing to my street contacts.”

Grant sat. “I gave a few to the Earl of Averston. One of his reformed servants may know the man from their previous life on the streets.”

“My street contacts have seen him, but not lately. No one knows where he lives.”

Grant studied him. Did he see Connor’s frantic desperation? “We’ll find him.”

“I won’t stop until we do,” Connor promised. “You, however, don’t need to expend your time and energy searching. Your wife needs you at home with her.”

Grant’s expression transformed. Yes, marriage had been good for him. He deserved it. He lifted his shoulder in a brief shrug. “She understands me.”

They discussed the details of the crime, what Connor had tried, and what other options remained.

Lighter of heart now that he knew he hadn’t lost a friend, Connor bade Grant a good day and headed to the front door. In the middle of the great hall, he found Meg—Lady Margaret—pacing and glancing out of the windows.

He went to her. “What’s amiss, my lady?” He addressed her formally to remind him of the gulf between their classes, but it failed to tamp down his growing awareness of her as a woman.

She gestured at her surroundings. “I feel caged in. I suppose I ought to consider Tarrington House home. I have nowhere else to do.”

“Did the terms of your marriage settlement provide a dower house for you?”

She let out a humorless laugh. “It does. Out of curiosity, I visited it once years ago. It’s a decrepit wreck in the middle of a moor miles from any village. I like a bit of isolation now and then, but even I would get lonely there, not to mention the sum of money it would take to get it livable. My father would never have agreed to that if he’d seen it.”

Imagine, to have offered such an abode to his bride! Perhaps Hennessy assumed she would never need it. Still, he clearly never had any regard for the sweet young girl he’d pledged to marry—not even in the beginning.

Connor grumbled, “Your late husband was a scabby hedge-bird.”

Puzzled amusement curved her lips. “If that means he was a scoundrel, I won’t disagree with you. Perhaps I ought to contact my solicitor about going over the marriage contract. There may be terms in there of which I am not aware. My brother-in-law certainly won’t offer anything due me unless I demand it, the cretin.”