Scarlett’s breath caught. “Do you mean little Henry–”
“I don’t know.” Her hands dropped away from her face and buried themselves within the folds of her skirt. “But I suspect… I suspect it may be possible. The dates work and Henry has blond hair. No one in my family does, nor in Ezra’s. Oh Scarlett.” Tears ran down her cheeks in rivulets as she tilted her head back and stared blindly up at the ceiling. “What am I going to do?”
Chapter Nine
“I have something that might take that scowl off your face.” Entering Owen’s office without bothering to knock – the only man who could do so and live to tell about it later – Grant walked to his Captain’s desk and held out a small leather pouch.
“What the bloody hell is that?” Owen asked, dark brows pinching over the bridge of his nose as he leaned forward, his shadow rippling across the far wall.
It was well past midnight, but a Runner’s work was never done, especially when most of the criminals they hunted prowled the streets of London between the hours of dusk and dawn. He’d only just returned from a murder down by the docks. Some poor bloke had ended up belly down in the Thames with a knife sticking out of his back. It was the third floater that had been fished out the river this week alone.
Sometimes Owen felt as if Bow Street was actually making a difference and then there were other times, like tonight, when he feared there was no end in sight to London’s depravity.
“Open it and see,” Grant invited with a grin. “Go on. You’ll like it. I promise.”
Owen picked up the pouch. “Where have you been?” he asked, taking note of Grant’s unusually disheveled appearance. Of all the runners Grant was always the most impeccably dressed, but not tonight. Tonight his coat was ripped and there was mud – at least, Owen hoped it was mud – splattered across his shirt.
“I had a lead on the thief that’s been pinching those townhouses. Managed to track the chit all the way past Blackfriars Bridge, but then she managed to disappear into Dickens Square.”
A dark labyrinth of alleys and twisted streets, Dickens Square was a veritable fortress of wickedness. Like a rabbit disappearing into a thicket of brambles, it was where a criminal went if they wanted to escape the clutches of the law.
Owen’s eyebrows rose. “She?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Turns out our little jewel thief is a woman.” Now it was Grant who scowled. “A red-haired vixen with a penchant for knives.” He glanced down at his coat. Upon closer examination Owen realized it had not been ripped, as he’d originally assumed, but rather sliced.
“Nearly stuck you, did she?”
“What she did was ruin a perfectly fine jacket. Go on then,” Grant said with an irritable jerk of his chin. “Open that up.”
Loosening the drawstring, Owen flipped the pouch over and gave it a shake. When a single earring fell into his palm he pinched it between his thumb and pointer finger and held it up to the oil lamp in the middle of his desk. A large, square cut sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds caught the light. “This is worth a pretty penny. Where the devil did you find it?”
“Well that’s the interesting part. It was given to me this afternoon when I went to check on a body. By Thomas Guthridge.”
That got Owen’s attention. Guthridge was the undertaker who had prepared Sherwood for burial. Sitting up straighter in his chair, he examined the earring more closely, turning it back and forth. Unfortunately, there were no identifying marks that he could see. “Did he say where he found it?”
“He did indeed.” Grant’s expression turned smug. “Says he discovered that little beauty when he was undressing Sherwood. Thinks it must have gotten caught on his clothing.”
Owen’s hand closed reflexively around the sapphire earring. While it did not prove anything on its own, it was yet another piece of evidence that Sherwood’s death was more than what it seemed. If he could somehow find a way to link the green hair ribbon and the sapphire earring back to Scarlett…
“Interesting,” he murmured. “Very interesting.”
Grant lifted a brow. “I told you that you’d like it.”
“A room has been readied for the children at the end of the hall. It is directly across from yours as you requested. All of your trunks have been brought up and the maids are in the process of unpacking. Is there anything else you need?”
“No,” Felicity said with a weary, albeit grateful smile. “You’ve done more than enough.”
“It is the least I can do.” Three weeks had passed since Rodger’s funeral and Scarlett – along with Felicity and her two children – had just completed the long, arduous journey from London to Surrey. They’d arrived a full month before the end of the Season, but given that Scarlett was in mourning and Felicity was in hiding following her humiliating divorce trial no one had objected to them fleeing the city.
In fact, no one had even seemed to notice they’d left.
“I am going for a walk around the grounds.” After four consecutive days trapped within the cramped confines of a carriage with three other adults and two squalling children, Scarlett desperately needed to stretch her legs. “Would you care to join me?”
“No, thank you. I had best help the nanny settle Henry and Anne into their room. They’re quite exhausted.”
That makes three of us, Scarlett thought silently.
“Very well. I will see you at dinner, then?”
“Yes. I do hope you enjoy your walk. It is a lovely day.” If Felicity’s smile was stiffer than usual, both women did their best to look the other way.
Despite their reconciliation there was still an edge of formality to their friendship that had never been there before. Scarlett hated that they felt more like strangers than the sisters they had once been, but there was nothing she could do but let time bring them back together. Felicity needed time to heal from Ezra’s abrupt abandonment and she… well, she needed time to figure out what the devil she was going to do now that her husband was dead.
The law did not look kindly upon widows. It was only a matter of time before everything she and Rodger had owned – their carriages, Rodger’s collection of fancy thoroughbreds, their townhouse in London and their country estate in Surrey – would either be given to the closest male heir or returned to the king if no such heir could be found. Never mind that Rodger had kept their properties from falling into ruin with the money from her dowry.
Forgoing a bonnet, Scarlett whisked a shawl over her shoulders and stomped outside. It was a bright, beautiful spring day but the clear blue skies did little to raise her spirits. Walking to the middle of the circular stone drive she turned around and looked back up at the manor, a wistful sigh escaping from her lips as she studied the familiar columns and jutting terraces and sprawling gardens that were just beginning to bloom.
Of all the things she was about to lose, she would miss this estate the most. She regretted that she had not spent more time here amidst the rolling hills and quiet solitude. Soon it would all be gone and there was nothing she could do. Oh, no doubt she would be given a small settlement. Even if Rodger’s will – which still had yet to be found – hadn’t taken her needs into accord it was customary that the widow of a peer be given something in the way of compensation.
She supposed she could always go running back to her parents. They would take her in without question, but the idea of living beneath her mother’s thumb yet again was enough to set her teeth on edge. She would rather be a pauper than a puppet dancing on strings that someone else controlled.
If only she’d reached such a realization before she decided to marry Rodger! It would certainly have saved her a tremendous amount of trouble, not to mention heartache. But what was the use in imagining what could have been? It served no one, least of all herself.
Striking out across the lawn Scarlett veered right when she reached the stables and headed down a small hill to the pond. A pair of ducks swam lazily through the water, their paddling feet stirring up a rippling current in their wake
. They lifted their heads when Scarlett approached but after a few quacks and a few flaps of their wings they settled down and meandered over to a collection of bristly cat-tails.
Walking around the far edge of the pond, she slipped off her shawl and spread it on the grass beneath the shade of a towering oak. Since she could not remember the last time she had sat outside with her bare feet pressed to the earth she kicked off her shoes, stripped off her stockings, and proceeded to do precisely that. On a long, contended sigh she stretched her legs out, leaned back against the rough bark of the oak, and closed her eyes.
She had been in gilded ball rooms and sumptuous theatre boxes and pretty parlors for so long that she’d forgotten what it felt like to simply be out in nature with the sun on her face and dirt between her toes. As she sat on the ground with a faint breeze lifting the curls off the nape of her neck and the twitter of birdsong sweetening the air, she was afforded a rare glimpse at what her life might have been like had she chosen Owen.
It wouldn’t have been fancy, and it wouldn’t have always been pretty, and it certainly wouldn’t have been filled with elaborate balls and fancy dresses and dinner parties. But oh, how happy she would have been! How happy they would have been.
“Well done, Scarlett,” she said aloud as she opened her eyes and looked up through the leafy branches at the sky above. How close it seemed, and yet when one tried to grasp a handful of the blue it was always just out of reach. Not unlike the dream she’d once had of running away with Owen and living happily-ever-after. “Well done.”
Chapter Ten
Over the next three days Scarlett and Felicity managed to fall into a routine of sorts. They had breakfast in the solarium while Henry and Anne were being tended to by their nanny, conversing on such titillating topics as the weather and how quickly the daffodils were blooming. Then Scarlett would go for her morning ride – something she hadn’t done in years – while Felicity did whatever it was one did with children. They spent the rest of the day in separate wings of the house, occasionally coming together to play a game of cards or have a cup of tea in the parlor. For supper everyone, including Ruth and the nanny – a young woman with bright red hair and a rolling Irish accent to match – ate in the dining room. Afterwards Felicity went upstairs to put the children to bed and Scarlett read in the library, often falling asleep with a book still open on her lap.
And so their lives went until, on the sixth day, a visitor came to call.
Scarlett was just about to depart for her daily ride when he arrived without warning or even so much as a calling card. She hear the deep rumble of his voice before she saw him and would have retreated back up the stairs if only to give herself time to prepare, but by then it was too late. The footman had already opened the door and if drawn by a magnet Owen’s gaze shot across the foyer and up the staircase to where Scarlett stood frozen on the middle step, one foot hovering in mid-air.
The scene was so reminiscent of when she’d walked in to find Felicity standing on the very same staircase that she felt a wave of déjà vu and had to shake her head twice to clear it before she managed to croak, “What – what are you doing here, Captain Steel?”
“I came to see you.”
Scarlett knew it was folly, but she could not but feel a stirring of hope deep inside of her chest. “Me?” Her hand gripped the railing with so much force that her nails inadvertently dug a furrow of crescent moons in the wood. “Whatever for?”
Any secret desire that Owen had traveled all the way to Surrey because he’d suddenly realized he could not live without her was crushed in the blink of an eye when he growled, “You are a suspect in your husband’s murder. I’ve come to question you.”
If Scarlett had not been clinging so forcefully to the railing she surely would have tumbled down the stairs top over tea kettle, so great was her surprise. What on earth was Owen talking about? She was a suspect? In her husband’s murder? But Rodger had not been murdered, he’d fallen off his horse!
“Is there somewhere more private we can go?” Owen’s cold gaze raked her from top to bottom, skimming dispassionately down her form-fitting riding habit before returning to her shocked face. “Unless you would prefer to make your confession in the foyer. It makes no difference to me.”
“The parlor,” she managed to choke out. “We can go in the parlor.” Lifting her chin she descended the staircase and glided past him with small, measured steps that helped to disguise how fast her pulse was racing. Waiting until Owen had followed her into the parlor she closed the door with a quiet click and turned to face him.
“Now what nonsense is this about Rodger being murdered?” Glaring up at him, she tilted her head back and pinned her hands to her slender hips; a haughty queen staring down one of her subjects. Never mind that this ‘subject’ was easily twice her size and looked more like a dark prince with his thick ebony hair and piercing blue eyes than a lowly vassal. “You said he was foxed and fell of his horse and broke his neck.”
Owen’s mouth twisted in a humorless smile. Like the last time he’d paid her a visit he was dressed in a form-fitting tailcoat that accentuated his broad shoulders and fawn colored breeches that clung to his muscular thighs, leaving little to the imagination. His dark hair was uncovered and windswept, a thick tendril hanging low over his brow. “I never said he was foxed. Those were your words, I believe.”
“Because it does not take a genius to assume he had been drinking.” Her eyes rolled. “Rodger was always drinking.”
“Is that why you killed him?” Picking up a small glass swan from a mahogany drum table Owen absently traced the delicate neck with his thumb. “Because he was a drunkard?”
“Oh for heavens – I did not kill my husband!”
“Why was he in the theatre district?”
“How am I supposed to know that?” she said evasively. “I wasn’t there with him, was I?”
“This will go easier for you if you don’t lie,” Owen said as he pinched the swan’s neck between his pointer finger and thumb. Scarlett’s own throat tightened in response.
“I am not lying.” Except she was, and they both knew it. But how could she admit – to Owen of all people – that her husband had died on the way home from visiting his mistress? The only thing more humiliating would be if he’d died in Miss Deveraux’s bed like Lady Pratt’s husband had last year. “What even makes you think he was murdered? Was he robbed?”
Owen gave a curt shake of his head. “No.”
“Well, was his horse stolen?”
“No.”
“Was he beaten?”
“No.”
Scarlett threw her hands up in exasperation. “Then why do you think he was killed on purpose?”
“The girth on his saddle was cut.” Owen carefully set the glass swan back down on the table. “Which caused his saddle to slide, which caused him to fall.”
“And you think I had something to do with it?” She barely managed to contain her snort. “I have never tacked a horse in my entire life. I wouldn’t know how to cut through a girth, let alone have gone skulking about the theatre district by myself to do it.”
He studied her without expression. “Desperate people do desperate things, Lady Sherwood. Or maybe you just hired someone to do it for you. Either way, I know you were involved.”
This time she did snort. “That is a preposterous notion.”
“Is it?” The thick carpet muffled Owen’s footsteps as he crossed the parlor. Scarlett folded her arms across her chest and held her ground, her glittering gray eyes daring him to come closer. She knew he wouldn’t touch her. Not when he held her in such obvious contempt. But he did come near enough for her to smell his scent; an achingly familiar mix of sandalwood and evergreen that instantly brought her back to a time when Owen had gazed at her with love instead of loathing.
The unexpected tears that burned the corners of her eyes caught her off guard. Sucking in a sharp breath she turned her head to the side, feigning a sudden interest in a paintin
g above the fireplace.
“I would like for you to leave now.” She was proud that her voice did not tremble, but she knew it was only a matter of minutes – mayhap even seconds – before her composure crumbled. And that she would not allow Owen to see. She couldn’t. Her damned pride would not allow it.
Have you thought about me at all over the years? The question burned the tip of her tongue but she swallowed it back, knowing she’d given up the right to ask it when she’d given up on them and any future they might have had together.
“I have more questions.”
“But I do not have any answers.”
“You never did.” The sudden gruffness in his voice indicated Owen was no longer referring to Rodger’s death and Scarlett sucked in a painful breath. She wanted to reach out to him. Wanted to close the distance between them and wrap her arms around his neck. Wanted to feel the solid weight of his chest beneath her cheek and his thudding heartbeat in her ear. Wanted desperately to remember what it felt like to be loved and desired.
But her fear of rejection was too strong, and her pride too was great, and so instead of walking towards him she stepped further away.
“Leave,” she repeated as she reached blindly behind her and opened the door. “Now.”
To her immense relief he did as she requested, walking so close to her that if she’d had the courage she could have reached out and brushed his arm. He stopped in the doorway.
“You haven’t proven your innocence.”
Scarlett’s mouth thinned. “And you haven’t proven my guilt. Good day, Captain.”
Owen had enough self-control not to slam the parlor door, but the front door was not so lucky. The violent sound it made as it slammed shut echoed through the entire house. But instead of making Scarlett flinch, it filled her with the faintest stirrings of hope.
Perhaps he is not completely immune to me after all, she thought as she sank down onto the nearest chair and buried her face in her hands. Or at least not as much as he pretends.
A Dangerous Seduction Page 10
