Page 80 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 22

Connor halted at the crossroads. One way led to Tarrington House and Lady Margaret, the other to Bow Street and his duty. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted to smash through their social barriers. The image of a laughing Meg covered with flour, darting around the kitchen, and letting out full, husky laughs, superimposed itself over his vision. He’d never imagined that a woman so high on the instep and born with a silver spoon in her mouth, could cavort in the kitchen with such abandon.

He chuckled. It had taken a great deal of strength not to drag her into his arms and prove to her just how much not a gentleman he could be. Of course, if Connor had attempted to take such liberties, the chef would have thrown something harder at him than flour. Like a frying pan.

Connor would be wise to avoid unnecessary contact with her. He must solve the crime and be content with that.

Just inside the door of the Bow Street office, he nearly collided with a member of the River Police. Connor nodded and moved to the side to let the man pass.

The river patrolman took a second glance at him. “Aren’t you Jackson? You put up that drawing of a murder suspect?” He pointed to the sketch of Hennessy’s killer that Connor had tacked to the wall near the door.

Connor halted. “I am. Do you recognize him?”

“I fished a body out of the Thames last night that bears a striking resemblance. Difficult to be sure since he was so bloated.”

“He’s dead?” Connor rubbed his chin. How had the murderer ended up a corpse in the river?

“Shot—once in the shoulder and once in the head.”

Murdered. Someone had murdered the murderer. Well, wasn’t that poetic justice? Which begged the question: Who had killed him and why?

“The body’s at the icehouse at the Red Dragon Inn if you want to go look,” the patrolman said. “Coroner was just there.”

The inn must have been the closest building to where they found the corpse. “I do. Thank you.”

In the Red Dragon Inn, it only took a glance to recognize the corpse, despite his swollen and distorted features and the hole in the side of his head, as the same rat-faced man who’d been hunting Meg. On a whim, Connor took a look at the man’s feet. Indeed, they were wider and longer than Connor’s. This man had likely made the large prints in the ground outside the Hennessys’ window. That was enough to convince Connor—this man was Lord Hennessy’s killer.

Who’d killed the killer?

Odd, but the gunshot hole in his shoulder looked smaller than the one on side of his head. Was it possible two different guns were used? Two gunmen, to be sure they got him?

Almost without realizing it, he headed to Tarrington House. Connor didn’t have to wait long inside the foyer before Grant and Christian came to him. Despite nearly identical builds, they bore little resemblance. Golden blond, and with almost pretty features and sky-blue eyes, Christian epitomized the perfect English gentleman, as did his impeccable clothing. Grant was his perfect foil with hair so dark it was almost black, and sharp, hard features. Since his marriage, he’d traded his usual garb for a more current style but clearly preferred more severe colors and simple styles. On the street, no one would have mistaken them for brothers. Today, they wore equally grim expressions.

“Jackson,” Grant said.

Connor focused on Grant. “The River Police fished out a body. It’s Hennessy’s killer.”

“He’s dead?” Grant asked with an unusual amount of alarm.

“How?” Christian demanded, even more alarmed.

Connor blinked at their reactions. Weren’t they happy he was dead? “Shot.”

Grant and Christian exchanged anxious glances.

“What has happened?” Connor asked.

“Yesterday, he sent a message to Margaret telling her that he had Rachel and threatened to kill her if Margaret didn’t meet him—alone. He drove her to an alley and tried to stab her.”

Connor blanched. “Is she hurt?”

“Only shaken. She shot him before he could truly harm her.”

“She shot him?” Connor put his hand on the wall. The first time he’d shot and killed a man had nearly destroyed him. How he’d managed to stay sane committing such horrific acts during war, he’d never know. Meg must be suffering, knowing she’d taken a life.

More importantly, could he protect her? Self-defense wasn’t always an effective plea.

“Was Lady Rachel hurt?” Connor managed.