by Ava Rose
“Yes.”
“I would not blame you if you truly did kill him. The man was trouble for everyone. I can tell you he had many enemies.”
He leaned back in his chair and picked up his glass once again.
Henry observed him. For all his reputation for being dark and dangerous, the Raven did not give off the air of a man who was lying.
“Are you certain you did not have him killed?” Lady Elizabeth asked.
“I think he is telling the truth,” Henry offered. His gut told him he was correct.
The Raven raised his glass as if in a toast. “If you don’t believe me, then perhaps you will believe your detective.”
She shrugged, and then raised her drink to her lips and took a generous swig, shutting her eyes briefly at the burn. That action was the only clue to her distressed state.
After a moment her composure returned. “If it wasn’t you, then do you have any information about the possible killer?”
“I am sorry, my lady, but I have nothing for you.”
She rose to her feet gracefully and inclined her head in a regal manner. “Thank you for your time, Sir.”
The Raven rose to his feet as well. “I wish you luck, Baroness.” He turned his gaze to Henry. “You too, Sir.”
The steward showed them out of The Barbican. When outside, Henry took her gloved hand and tucked it in the crook of his elbow. She did not resist and a warm feeling curled through him. “I will see you home myself,” he said as they began walking down the street.
“I do not need a bodyguard,” she responded.
“I know you are capable, but sometimes we need a little extra help.”
She was staring straight ahead when she said, “I don’t need your help, DeHavillend.”
“Nevertheless, I insist on giving it.”
Her huffed out breath carried annoyance.
“You are angry with me,” he stated.
“No.”
“Yes, you are.”
She stopped and turned to face him before releasing a sigh. “You are the least of my problems right now. I don’t have the time or luxury to be angry with you. I just lost my only lead.”
He closed his eyes at the broken look in her eyes. He wanted to pull her against him and comfort her, but was certain she would not allow it.
“I do believe you, Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured.
She continued walking. “You pity me,” she said. “That is why you claim to believe me now.”
“That’s not true. My interactions with you yesterday and today have given me a glimpse of who you truly are. I have been doing this a long time, and I know you are not a murderer.”
She did not dignify his statement with a response and it stung him somewhat. So much so, that he was forced to stop and turn her to face him. He placed his hands firmly on her shoulders to prevent her from escaping.
“Forgive me,” he said, hoping she could see that he was sincere. “It was not my intention to upset you. I was uncertain of your innocence and you are a high-born lady, a royal in fact. I did not want to have to cover up a crime if you were found guilty and your family demanded your image be kept clean. That goes against my sense of right or wrong.”
Her expression softened.
“Let me help you, Lady Elizabeth. Let me help you bring the truth to light.”
She released a shaky breath and nodded. He placed her hand back into the crook of his elbow, even more protectively this time, and found them a carriage to take her home.
***
DeHavillend walked her to the same side entrance she’d left from. The sun had gone down and his face was shadowed by the darkness, but she was still able to make out his features, especially those silvery eyes.
He had offered to help her, but she still was unsure about his motives. Was he doing this for his own personal gain? Money, perhaps? No, it couldn’t be that. He hailed from a very wealthy family and although his reason for giving up a life of luxury was beyond her understanding; she was certain he did not need money.
Glory? Perhaps he wanted to appear a hero. But everyone knew Detective DeHavillend did not work for glory. If anything, the police took all the credit whenever he worked with them.
In the end, she straight out asked. “What do you stand to gain from helping me?”
“I don’t know,” he said simply.
“There has to be a reason. You can’t just help me for nothing.”
He looked down at her for a long moment but didn’t say anything. There was something, she could tell, but he did not seem inclined to share.
“You can come inside and discuss the matter with my brother if you want to officially take on the case.”
He shook his head slowly. “I am not accepting a contract.”
“Why not?”
Again, he did not respond, and this time, Libby understood. “You want to leave things open so you can walk away at any time, don’t you?”
A flicker of something in his eyes told her that she was right and she momentarily reveled in the satisfaction it brought her.
“I will help you in any way I can and that is what matters.”
He was a rather strange man. She did not understand him one whit.
“Fine. What do you propose I do now that I am back right where I started?”
“You will stay put in your home, and I will scout for more information.”
Was he being serious? “Have you heard nothing I said earlier?” She wanted to smack him on the head with something so his senses could return to him…if he had any, to begin with.
He gave her a sly smile. “You will not stay home like some delicate flower lamenting your situation into a pretty lace handkerchief.”
She opened her mouth to say something but for the life of her, she did not know what, so she closed it.
“I see you have trouble letting go of your power so I am not asking you to stay home and do nothing. I am only asking you to stay home until I can find another lead.”
“And how long might that take?”
“I am uncertain.”
“All right,” she said.
His eyes narrowed. He was right to be suspicious. She had no intention of staying put while he hunted for information. But she had to make him believe otherwise. It was the only way she could get him to stop following her.
“Good night, DeHavillend. And thank you for rescuing me earlier.” She had to give him credit where it was due. Those horse hooves had been very close indeed.
“My pleasure, Baroness. I will see you soon.”
She gave him one last glance and slipped into the house. Like a thief in the night, she removed her boots before slowly creeping up the stairs to her room.
What a day!
Libby moved to her window and slowly pulled the edges of the velvet drapes apart just a little. He would not be there, she was sure, but she wanted to check, nevertheless…just to sate her curiosity.
And sate it she did, for he stood on the street near the wrought iron fence looking up at her. Instead of ducking like she did last time, she opened the window and poked out her head.
He grinned and somehow, she found herself grinning back. It felt, for a moment, as if they were embarking together on an adventure.
“What are you still doing here?” she asked in a loud whisper.
He crossed the street and walked closer, stopping right beneath her two floors below.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be, DeHavillend?”
“There’s a whiskey snifter in the Algonquin with my name on it, but I rather like it here.”
Libby bit back another grin.
“Go home.”
“Who are you talking to?” Mary’s voice came from behind her.
Libby quickly pulled the shutters and stepped out from behind the curtain. “No one,” she yelped. “I…err…I was acting out a scene from a play.”
“What?” Her sister frowned.
“Romeo and Juliet. Remember when Juliet looked out from
her terrace at Romeo?” She kept her tone even.
“Right…” Mary said, looking somewhat puzzled. “I was heading down for dinner and I saw the light under your door.” Her eyes then did a slow assessment of Libby from her black toque down to her toes. “What are you wearing?”
Good heavens!
“I am rewriting Shakespeare’s play. Romeo is dead and Juliet is alive. She is his widow now.”
“Libby,” Mary said with great concern and walked over to her, taking her hands. “I know this is really hard for you, but the marriage will be annulled and you will be free.”
“What has this to do with my play?”
“Well, you are married and the man…I-I’m sorry.” Mary’s hands went up to cover her face.
Oh, Lord! Now her sister thought she was going mad and unable to tell if she was playing her real-life role as a widow.
“Mary,” she said softly as she pulled the girl’s hands from her face. “I am all right. I am just playing to take my mind off things.”
Her sister nodded. “That’s understandable, I suppose. We all need an outlet sometimes.”
“Precisely. Now, go. I’ll join you once I change.”
***
After dinner, Libby sat with Anna in the library. Her friend was staying with them because her mother was still abroad, and though Anna was used to running Wrexford House on her own, they all enjoyed her company. Especially Pen.
“How did it go with the Raven?” Anna whispered.
“He is not responsible.”
Anna gave her a dubious look. “Are you sure? Is that what he made you believe?”
“Well, Detective DeHavillend was there—”
“Detective DeHavillend?”
Libby ignored her surprised question and continued. “He believes—the detective, that is—he believes the Raven is telling the truth.”
Anna shook her head. “I am lost. You went there with the detective?”
“No, he followed me.” Libby deliberately left out the bit where she was attacked and thrown in front of a carriage. Her family was worried enough as it was.
“For a man who wants nothing to do with this case, he certainly does hang around you a lot.” There was a sliver of irony in Anna’s tone which caused Libby to suspect she knew something.
She raised an enquiring brow, and Anna gestured at the window. The library window, that happened to be directly beneath Libby’s bedroom. “I saw him out there earlier.”
Libby rolled her eyes in a show of indifference. “I can’t seem to get him to stop following me.”
“What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know, Anna. I am back where I started.”
“I can’t think of anything, either,” her friend admitted.
“We could always leave town,” she said with a rueful smile. “You know, start over.”
Anna reached over on the sofa they were sharing to give her hand a pat. “We’ll find a way out of this.”
She hoped Anna was right.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Barbican
Henry lowered himself into a dark leather chair beside the sofa he had sat on with Lady Elizabeth earlier that day. It was now nearing midnight, and he should be home trying to get some much-needed sleep. Instead, he was back here at The Barbican in another audience with the Raven.
“You never rest, DeHavillend, do you?”
“Not when there is a murderer on the loose.”
The Raven smiled noncommittally. “So, what can I do for you?”
“I believe you know more than you let on, today.”
“I told you I have nothing.”
Henry reached into his coat pocket and retrieved a folded paper. He slid it across the table to the man opposite. It was a neat copy of one of the statements in the murder case.
After leaving the Armstrong-Leeds House, he went back to the police station, locked himself in Montgomery’s office, and perused the entire contents of the case file. He was searching for anything he might have missed, and he did find something.
He waited for the other man to finish reading the contents of the paper before he spoke. “That shows that Mr. Hart was here just hours before his death.”
“An officer from the police department has already questioned me. It is all here in this record.”
It was true that a police officer had visited The Barbican to investigate after word had reached them about Mr. Hart’s attendance here just hours before his death. Interesting that the Raven had not mentioned that earlier, nor had he provided any relevant information to the investigation.
“I am not the police.” Henry leaned back in his seat, wishing he had chosen to go home instead. It had been a rather long and eventful day and his thoughts swirled in useless circles.
The Raven studied him carefully.
“I am not the police,” Henry repeated, and after a moment, the other man seemed to relent.
“Very well. I assume I can rely on your discretion?”
At Henry’s nod, the Raven continued. “Nolan Hart owed me a great deal of money and I summoned him to discuss the matter.”
“Let me hazard a guess. You threatened him.”
The Raven shrugged. “I am a businessman, DeHavillend. And I have a reputation to uphold.”
It was making more sense now. “You did not send an assassin after him but someone used the threat you made to put word out that you did. The lead Baroness Esk followed.”
The Raven raised his glass as if in a toast. “It would seem so.”
“Would you have sent someone after him?” Henry asked.
The man stroked his chin as if in deep thought. “If I had, I would not have allowed it to be so...” He wrinkled his nose before finishing. “Gruesome. Or final. Makes it much more difficult to recover a debt if the man is dead, don’t you agree? A threat? Perhaps. But murder? No. Not useful at all.”
That made a wicked kind of sense. Henry had no cause to doubt the man, but he was going in circles with this case. Right now, he was lost as to how to proceed. He rubbed his eyes.
“Twisted case, yes?”
Henry let out a small frustrated laugh. “Indeed. Thank you for the information,” he said, and then rose to leave.
“You have not touched your whiskey,” his host remarked.
Henry looked down at the finger of liquid in the glass. “I am far too tired.”
With that, he left The Barbican and headed home.
***
The following morning
Armstrong-Leeds House
The butler showed Henry to a drawing room where Lady Elizabeth was waiting. One look at her had his thoughts scattering all over again and the impulse to get close to her returned, overwhelming him.
The pale yellow and white day dress she was wearing lent her an air of innocence while keeping her green-amber eyes sharp and very lovely. Her lustrous dark hair was not piled atop her head in the usual fashion. Instead, she had styled it in a loose knot at her nape with soft curly locks falling over her shoulder and some framing her face. Her bruises were hardly visible now and he was glad that she seemed to be healing nicely.
The first time he had seen those bruises, anger had coursed through him. Any man who would raise his hand to a woman was a beast. Lady Elizabeth was a slight woman with delicate features, but he had quickly learned that her will was stronger than steel.
“DeHavillend,” she greeted him in the same abrupt manner as his male associates.
If he were not investigating her case, he would have crossed the room to where she sat, given her a courtly bow, then taken her hand and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles. He could still do that, if he wished, but it felt improper in the circumstances.
“Henry,” he said. “Please call me Henry. I believe we are past the point of formal address.”
She pursed her lips, drawing his gaze to them; soft and full and pretty. “I suppose you are right. You may call me Elizabeth, if you wish, although I would much prefer Libby.”
He smiled at her, feeling a sudden closeness despite the space between them. “Do all your friends call you Libby?”
“Just those I am closest to.”
He sat in a chair adjacent to her and regarded her carefully. “Do you consider me a close friend, then?”
“We are hardly friends, but I do believe you are someone I can trust.”
“Trust,” he said, measuring the word on his tongue. “You feel you can trust me, but we are not friends.”
She shook her dark head.
Henry held out his hand to her. “Can we not have both friendship and trust?”
She hesitated for a long time before finally accepting his hand. He had intended the contact to be a brief handshake—one of acquaintances becoming friends—but he grasped her fingers and let the sensation flow through him, warm and tender and unexpected.
He was treading a dangerous path, he knew, but it was too late now. Libby—he quite liked how the name sounded in his mind—did things to him that he could not understand. It was time he stopped fighting against the effect.
“You have something for me?” Her soft voice broke into his musing.
“Oh. Yes, I do.” He released her and shifted in his chair. “I went back to The Barbican to meet with the Raven late last night.”
Her brows drew together. “Why?”
“I re-checked the case file at the police department and found out that the last place Mr. Hart visited before his death was The Barbican.” Her eyes widened hopefully as she straightened in her seat. “Apparently, he owed the Raven quite a bit of money and he had been summoned to either pay or confirm arrangements to do so forthwith.”
“It seems the owner of The Barbican has a motive, too.”
“Yes, but it turns out he didn’t do it.”
She seemed disappointed and Henry understood why. She had hoped something else would arise that would take the blame off her.
“How does this information help us?”
“It is true that the Raven threatened him and someone must have heard. Who gave you the information about the hit?”
Her expression quickly shuttered. “A friend.”
“A friend?”
“I can’t tell you who, Henry. Surely, you must understand my reason. I can’t endanger them.”
