The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(78)
“We are merely discussing facts.” Emma’s eyes had a shrewd gleam. “If you know about the attack from another source—for instance, your stepson, who my brother has also interviewed—then you need only say so. While my brother asked Mr. James to keep the details private, it wouldn’t be a crime if your stepson shared them with you.”
“Why would Alastair share a private matter with me?” Mrs. James’ gaze shifted left and right. “As I said, my assumptions were guesses, nothing more. I had nothing to do with the attack on Lady Daltry. Good day.”
She swept out, leaving the room in silence.
“Well, that was awkward.” Miss Eloisa tittered. “The lady doth protest, as they say. You don’t suppose Aunt Antonia is involved in any way?”
“Hush, Eloisa,” Lady Charlotte said, a handkerchief knotted in her hands. “Now is not the time for your wit. This is a serious matter, and we must put our heads together to help Rosie.”
“But, Aunt Charlotte… aren’t we suspects too?” Miss Sybil said timorously.
“Oh, dear.” The dowager’s gaze went to Rosie. “I suppose you are right.”
Rosie didn’t want to lose the newly won goodwill. Besides, now that the ladies had warmed toward her, she thought they were rather nice. And they were her new relations, after all.
She glanced at Em, who lifted her chin slightly as if to say, We’ll follow your lead.
Rosie made her decision. “We mean no insult, Lady Charlotte. We’re merely trying to get to the bottom of this situation.”
“I quite understand,” the dowager said. “And I wish to help.”
“In that case, can you think of anything that might point us to a particular suspect?”
Lady Charlotte clenched her handkerchief, her expression torn.
“I’ll say it since no one else will. Peter has the most to gain,” Eloisa declared. “He’s forever short of funds, and now with the estate on his hands, he’s sunk unless he gets the inheritance.”
“That’s unfair,” Sybil protested. “Peter is no murderer. He’s a kind and gentle man.”
“You’re far too charitable.” Snorting, Eloisa turned to Rosie. “Peter has cried on all of our shoulders, and Sybil’s the only one who feels sorry for him. Then again, she’s a soft touch for hopeless cases.”
Her older sister flushed. “I am not.”
“All your life, you’ve collected strays. Remember our old butler? You were forever making those herbal poultices for his bad leg.” Eloisa rolled her eyes. “Then there’s your spinster friend Miss What’s-Her-Name, who constantly summons you to her deathbed. Peter is more of the same.”
“He is not.” Sybil bit her lip. “Besides, if anyone needs money, it’s Alastair. Remember how he showed up that time, deep in his cups, demanding that Aunt Charlotte lend him funds?”
“Girls, that is enough,” the dowager said. “These are members of our family you’re casting aspersions at. Family is everything; haven’t I taught you that?”
Sybil looked chastened, Eloisa sulky.
Sensing that the interview had come to an end, Rosie didn’t want to push her luck.
“Thank you for your time.” On impulse, she added, “And on the topic of family, if I can be of assistance in any way, please let me know. I’m certain my late husband would want his generosity to be shared with his kin.”
That was a lie, of course. Just because Daltry had been a tight-fisted miser with his relatives, however, didn’t mean that she had to be.
The lines on Lady Charlotte’s face eased. Her eyes warmed. “How kind of you. Your support is appreciated, my dear.”
“And if there’s anything that we can do for you,” Miss Eloisa chimed in, “please let us know.”
“Anything at all,” Miss Sybil said diffidently.
It was an opening that Rosie hadn’t expected. Yet the three seemed in earnest, and she knew she couldn’t let the opportunity pass her by.
“Since you asked,” she said with thudding hope, “I do have a favor to ask.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Two nights later, Andrew found himself in the not altogether comfortable position of riding in a carriage with his lover’s father and uncle, both of whom were armed to the gills. He’d just arrived at Kent’s office for a briefing when the news arrived that the mudlarks had located the shooter’s hideout. He’d insisted on accompanying the mission as had Harry Kent, who’d happened to be at his brother’s office. Now Kent’s partners were in a carriage behind them, their small caravan winding through the dark, twisting streets of St. Giles.
The older Kent looked out one window, his gloved fingers drumming on his knee whilst the younger looked out the other. Conversation during the ride had been stilted. The one thing Andrew had in common with the other two—Primrose—was a topic he didn’t want to delve too deeply into. For reasons he couldn’t quite fathom, the Kents were tolerating his presence in Primrose’s life, and he didn’t want to push his luck.
Andrew knew Primrose deserved better than him; he also knew that every moment they spent together made it more difficult for him to contemplate ever letting her go. With their every encounter, he discovered more to adore: her passion, theatrics… even the fact that she could be, on occasion, a wee bit daft. And, Christ, when she opened to him like a flower, exposing her vulnerable core—there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for her.