The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(81)
“It’s information we’re after,” Andrew said.
Her eyes shuttered. “Ain’t got none o’ that.”
First rule of the rookery: no one knew anything.
“We’re looking for a man. Big fellow, rides a bald-faced chestnut. Has an injured shoulder.” Andrew removed a bag of coins, dangling it, letting the clink of guineas get her attention. “This goes to the first person who points us in the right direction.”
Second rule (which trumped the first): anything was available for a price.
She licked her lips, her gaze scanning the empty corridor. “I might know ’im. But ye didn’t ’ear it from me—agreed?”
“Agreed.”
Glancing around once more, she said in a low voice, “Cove in the first room ’round the corner ’as a bandage on ’is shoulder. Been wearin’ it fer ’bout a week.”
The timing fit with the attack on Rosie.
Pulse quickening, Andrew said, “Have you seen him tonight?”
The woman nodded. “Came in ’bout an hour ago, carrying a bottle o’ spirits. It weren’t rotgut but the fine stuff the nobs like. Cove must ’ave nicked it. Reckon wif posh drink like that, ’e’s still in there toasting ’imself.”
“Thank you.” He handed her the coin bag.
As he and Harry set off, he heard the woman gasp behind them. The twenty pounds he’d given her was more than she’d make in a year of selling her wares.
Turning the corner, he and Harry found the room. He took out his pistol and positioned himself in front of the door while Harry went to the side, his back to the wall, firearm drawn. Andrew knocked on the peeling wood. No reply—and no sound of scuffling from the other side.
A sense of foreboding prickled his nape.
“I don’t hear any noise inside,” Harry said in low tones. “Do you think he came and left?”
“Only one way to find out.” Taking a step back, Andrew slammed his boot into the door.
The flimsy barrier burst open, and he charged inside. At a glance, he saw a single room… and a man slumped over the table at its center. The fellow’s head was turned away from them, the tallow candle next to him sputtering, emitting smoky light. As Andrew approached, the smell of vomit grew stronger, and he saw rats feasting on a pool of detritus on the floor. A half-finished bottle of cognac sat on the table.
“Is he three sheets to the wind?” Harry kept his gun trained on the unmoving figure.
Going to the other side, Andrew saw the man’s unblinking gaze. To be certain, he removed his glove and touched the man’s neck. No pulse beneath the cooling skin.
“The bastard’s found another kind of oblivion,” he said grimly.
Reaching for his whistle, he signaled the end of the hunt.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Pacing in her father’s office, Rosie said, “Are you certain they will come, Papa?”
“I’m certain.” Papa stood by the window behind his desk, his keen gaze surveying the street below. “There’s still a quarter hour before the appointed time, so be patient.”
“You’ll try not to alienate Lady Charlotte and the Misses Fossey, won’t you? They’ve been so kind to me of late—”
“If they are innocent of the crime, then they’ll have no reason to be offended, dearest.” This came from Mama, who sat in one of the chairs that had been arranged to face the desk. She was dressed for battle in a stylish navy dress embellished à la militaire. “At any rate, your safety is more important than the ton’s approval.”
Rosie bit her lip. Her mother was right, of course. Yet her new friends were doing wonders for her reputation. Their glowing accounts filled the gossip rags: the beau monde was eating up the tragic tale of the Young Beautiful Widow, and she was the Plucked Rose no more. She’d begun to receive notes of condolence from ladies (even some sticklers) and bouquets from gentlemen (these she promptly dispatched to the rubbish bin).
The ton was now courting her; the acceptance she’d fought so long for was finally hers.
Now she just had to live long enough to enjoy it.
“What if no one confesses?” she said.
“We don’t expect anyone to,” Emma said from her chair by the desk. “But even alibis can provide clues.”
“We’ll sift the truth from the lies.” Mr. Lugo’s deep bass joined the conversation.
He was the final member of the group who would be conducting the interview. For propriety’s sake, Andrew couldn’t be present, and Mr. McLeod had left for Gretna to hunt for clues. For a lot had happened since the discovery of the dead cutthroat two nights ago.
Papa had brought in Dr. Abernathy, a brilliant Scottish physician, to examine the corpse. Yesterday afternoon, the doctor had presented his findings to the family and Andrew.
“I believe the cause of death was poisoning,” Dr. Abernathy had said in his strong burr. “The man was otherwise healthy, the wound on his shoulder nearly healed. Most telling, I found several dead rats by the pool of his vomitus. I tested some of the remaining cognac on other rats: all of them died.”
According to Dr. Abernathy, foxglove was the likely toxin as it was fast-acting, symptoms occurring within half an hour of administration. Foxglove often went undetected for it mimicked the signs of a heart ailment, accompanied by slurred speech and flushing of the skin. At the physician’s description, Rosie had had a sudden, jolting memory: the smell of vomit on Daltry’s breath, his garbled speech and red face on their wedding night. She’d attributed it to his drinking—but what if it he’d been poisoned?