Page 81 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Christian shook his head. “He never had her. She’d gone home to get some books. The killer used her absence to create the possibility of his story being true.”

Grant interjected, “He knew exactly when to act.”

Connor swiped a hand over his face. “He was watching the house.” A harrowing thought. The cretin got what he deserved. But that left a mess pointing to Margaret. Again. “So, she killed him.” As Connor stated the condemning fact, a hollow ache opened up inside him.

Christian paled. “No, she didn’t kill him. She shot him in the shoulder, and he ran off.”

Connor went weak with relief. Margaret’s shot couldn’t have killed him. That explained the two different wounds. Who had shot him in the head?

Grant mused, “So she shot him, and he later fell into the river and drowned?”

“He was shot twice,” Connor told them. “Once in the shoulder, the other in the head. The second one must have happened later.”

Christian drew himself up, all brotherly protectiveness. “She’s been home surrounded by family since that moment. We haven’t let her out of our sight. Rachel even slept in her bedchambers with her last night.”

Connor put up a hand. “I’m not accusing her of killing him. But someone put that second bullet into his head.”

Thoughtfully, Grant said, “He was a hired thug. When he failed to kill Margaret, his employer deemed him a liability, executed him, and dumped his body.”

If so, then the real murderer, the one who orchestrated the attack on Lord Hennessy, had evaded justice. But not for long. Connor would find him.

Connor paced to the window and back. Since Margaret had seen the man who was now dead, not the one who’d hired him, there seemed no reason to kill her—but he might have a hidden motive. Regardless, Connor would not stand idly by while someone got away with murder. Literally. Especially if they posed a threat to his Meg.

He almost snorted. She wasn’t his Meg. She was Lady Margaret. When would he get that through his thick head?

Turning his mind back to the case, Connor reviewed the facts, looking for anything he might have missed. “How did he get the coach into an alley? For that matter, how did he get Lady Margaret into the coach?”

“He killed our driver and impersonated him,” Grant said with enough disgust that Connor took a second glance. “We later found him stripped of his outer clothing and stabbed to death.”

Quietly, Christian said, “The driver has been with our family since before I was born.” He dragged his fingers through his hair.

“My condolences,” Connor said. “Clearly, this man who killed without conscience got what he deserved. Unfortunately, his death leaves us with no leads about who hired him to kill. Or why.”

“Why what?” With every hair in its place and wearing a black mourning gown, Lady Margaret strode up to them, her eyes lively within her composed expression. Even lovelier than his memory had captured, Meg fixed her gaze on Connor. His mouth went dry.

Her eyebrows rose, and she said, in a perfectly neutral tone, “Why, Mr. Jackson. What brings you here?”

With that small reminder that he didn’t belong in her world, she’d put him back into his place—a place from which he wanted more and more to escape. Or to bring her into it with him.

Connor assumed a benign expression. At least, he hoped he did. “My lady—” Meg’s mouth pulled up on one side in amusement, “—the man who killed Hennessy is dead.”

She paled.

Connor quickly put her fears to rest. “You didn’t kill him. Someone else did.” How much should he tell her?

Without mincing words, Grant filled her in, giving more detail than Connor would have thought a gentleman would tell a gently bred lady, ending with, “The body the River Police pulled out is the man in your drawing—a hired thug who outlived his usefulness.”

She listened, still shaken, and glanced at Connor.

He nodded. “He’s no longer a threat to anyone.”

For a moment, her expression wavered between vulnerable disbelief, dismay, and finally, relief.

Quietly, he asked, “Are you unharmed?”

Her vulnerability vanished as she pulled on her practiced mask of decorum, a maneuver he suspected she’d used for years to shield herself from probing society gossips. She waved off his concern. “Oh, pish, don’t fuss. I had my gun. And a knife.”

Connor almost smiled at her courage, but the image of Meg being attacked couldn’t bear any humor. “You shouldn’t have gone anywhere alone.”