by Robyn DeHart
A murder? In Mayfair? It was madness, nothing more. And he would allow her to finish, then he would send her on her way and hope his acceptance of her story would pacify her.
One shiny tear escaped from her right eye and rolled down her now-pinkened cheek. “I just stood there. I couldn’t move, my dress had caught on the shrubs. And I couldn’t call out.” Her head shook. “I was immobilized by my own fear and now that poor girl is dead.”
“What is it that you would have me do?” he asked, unmoved by her show of emotion.
“I cannot very well go to the authorities. They would think me mad,” she said, earning a tight laugh.
“Indeed.”
“Go out there.” She turned to face him. “Find her body and make certain her family is notified. Then I can help you find who killed her.”
“Miss Danvers, I am not with the police, in case that has missed your astute observation. I am a duke. I am not in the business of tracking down killers.”
“But this was on your property, sir. It must be your duty to address such a crime. You cannot ignore it.”
“I will investigate matters. But suffice it to say that if there is a crime to be solved, we shall leave that to the fine gentlemen at Scotland Yard.”
Her hand reached out and grabbed onto his arm. “Thank you. If you establish the meeting I will gladly speak with the inspectors. With your support then they will be more likely to believe my account. I want to do whatever I can to bring justice to that poor girl.”
There was such earnestness in her features he found himself wanting to agree. But, of course, that would be impossible, he could not risk his family name by aligning himself with such a woman. “Let us see how things play out. I’ll have a footman walk you home.”
She nodded, then set down her teacup perfectly on the awaiting saucer.
***
Alex stood at the window until he could no longer see Miss Danvers or the footman that escorted her. The rain had slowed, but the ground was, no doubt, saturated from the earlier downpour. She’d be fortunate if she did not catch her death.
He’d never before felt any curiosity toward the woman who lived in the cottage. Until today, he’d never even seen her. But now he was tempted to investigate, to learn more. It would do no good. Her tale was nothing more than wild imaginings and he needn’t waste any more time on her.
He had to admit that despite her outlandish story, she hadn’t seemed mad. More than likely she’d heard something, a lovers’ quarrel perhaps, and had simply gotten spooked.
Alex called for and sent two servants to the alleyway where the girl had said the crime had transpired. When they returned with the news of no dead body, he’d know the truth of the matter and be able to send her a message to hopefully alleviate her fears.
Even if she had been telling the truth, Alex knew for certain that a blind woman could never assist in the apprehension of a killer. She couldn’t see; therefore she couldn’t have witnessed anything. It was an impossibility. She’d been quite certain, but clearly the girl was unbalanced just as his mother had suggested.
***
The footman had been instructed to escort Mia into her cottage, examining each room to ensure that she was alone. He had left now and she stood shivering in her bedroom, peeling off her still-damp clothes.
Lord Carrington was pacifying her. She had heard it in his voice, the controlled annoyance and rather blatant dismissal. He didn’t believe her. It was understandable, she would grant him that. How was he to trust that a woman with her limitations could have any legitimate information to offer in such a situation? But she knew what she’d heard, what she’d witnessed.
Stoking the fire, she reveled in the whoosh of heat resulting from her efforts. But no amount of warmth seemed to dispel the chills still scattered across her arms. She hated feeling this way, was unaccustomed to the fear. In the years since she’d come to live here, she’d learned to banish all sorts of fears. She’d learned to navigate this house by herself as well as this tiny corner of London. She had learned to do for herself whatever she needed and to do without everything else. She’d thought her independence made her strong. Instead it made her fear in this moment that much more shocking.
Knowing it was a futile exercise for herself, Mia went about lighting every lantern in the cottage. Perhaps if the little house were lit from every window, anyone outside would stay away. She dragged a chair from the small kitchen table to the front door and leaned it against the wooden entrance. It was a small measure and probably unnecessary, but she couldn’t shake the fear that clung to her like a heavy, wet coat.
Sleep would be impossible, she knew that, and didn’t even bother to crawl into bed. Instead she settled into the settee in the front room and called to Pocket, her tomcat. He immediately jumped onto her legs, turned a complete circle twice before nuzzling into her lap. Soon his rhythmic purrs filled the quiet space.
Somehow, Lord Carrington would discover the truth. He had to. Surely the girl’s body still lay in the alleyway, but Mia could not be certain since the footman had led her through the yards. She hadn’t argued because she didn’t want to be near the alley again, didn’t want to remember how she’d felt helpless as the girl had been brutalized. Mia didn’t want to be able to smell her lifeless body. But someone would find it and take care of the girl.
Then Lord Carrington would believe her. He would help her then. He’d have no choice.
Award-winning author Robyn DeHart is a favorite among readers and reviewers. She is a four-time Romantic Times Bookclub Reviewers’ Choice nominee, a three-time RomCon Reader’s Crown nominee and most recently is a finalist in the Booksellers’ Best. She’s been a member of RWA for sixteen years and is a popular writing instructor. Robyn lives in Texas with her adoring husband, two precocious little girls and two ridiculously spoiled cats.
