Page 56 of My Rogue, My Ruin
Feelings. Bloody goddamnedfeelings.
Swearing beneath his breath, he dressed himself and went downstairs. The inquiry agent was already waiting in the foyer. Heed announced several of the guests from the dinner party were also ensconced in the front salon. “And my sister?” Archer asked.
“No word yet, my lord, but your message should have been delivered several hours ago.”
Archer nodded. He had wanted to tell Eloise in person, but he knew gossip traveled fast, and he did not want her to hear it from someone else. One of the grooms had ridden through the night to deliver Archer’s handwritten note and return with her response. He wondered how Eloise had taken the news. She’d lost two mothers, and though the duke had hardly been a father to her, he was the only one she had ever known. Emotionally fragile as she was, Archer wanted her by his side in London and not in Essex where she would be alone with her grief.
Dismissing Heed and nodding abruptly to the inquiry agent, a high-ranking officer from Bow Street, Archer turned and led him to the library, set deeper in the house. The man was short and thin with a heavy black mustache. His small, beady eyes seemed to take in everything about him. He carried a small bound book and a pencil. The man inspected him once they arrived in the library, and Archer immediately felt as if he were being weighed and measured. His eyes narrowed, and the man bowed his head discreetly.
“Thank you for your time, Your Grace,” the agent said in a nasal voice that rankled his nerves. “I am Mr. Thomson.”
It didn’t matter that Archer felt an immediate dislike for the man—if he were indeed as good as Bow Street claimed him to be at tracking and apprehending criminals, he would find the duke’s killer, and that would be that.
Archer gestured to a large table that had been set up for the agent’s use. “Mr. Thomson. I trust this should suit your needs.”
“Yes, this should do well, thank you.”
Archer sat in silence as the man proceeded to call in and interrogate each of the guests in attendance. As Archer had expected, Lady Rochester could barely speak when she was called upon to enter the library for questioning. Her haggard face pointed to a sleepless night spent crying, and Lord Rochester looked worse than she did.
“Tell me in detail what you saw,” Mr. Thomson said.
She swallowed hard, dabbing a handkerchief to red-rimmed eyes. “I…I was on my way to the retiring room when I heard a thud and someone grunting. I walked toward the sound and found the duke lying on the carpet. He wasn’t moving.” Her voice broke. “There was so much blood. He didn’t look like he was breathing.”
“Did you see anyone else?”
“No, the hallways were deserted,” she sobbed. “I called for help.”
Mr. Thomson asked several more questions, ones that didn’t seem relevant to the crime, Archer thought, like the length of Lady Rochester’s association with the duke. He wrote furiously in his little book, taking copious notes as Lady Rochester spoke. After the Rochesters, Mr. Thomson moved through the rest of the party one by one until at last he came to the Dinsmores. The subject of the expected proposal cropped up almost immediately. Archer eyed Mr. Thomson, surprised the man had already known the gossip.
“Lord and Lady Dinsmore, I have it that the duke was about to offer for your daughter,” he said with a glance at Brynn who sat beside her parents. Archer could see that she, too, was unnaturally pale, dark shadows lining her eyes as if she had not slept, either. She clutched a handkerchief in her hand, her fingers tightening as her eyes met Mr. Thomson’s.
“Yes, we anticipated an offer,” Lady Dinsmore said, her voice tight.
“But no offer was made.”
“No.”
He looked to Lady Briannon. “How long have you known the duke?”
“Our estates in Essex are joined.” Her voice trembled as she answered. “So, I suppose, all my life.”
“But you did not wish to be married to the duke.” It was not a question. Archer’s gaze flew to the man’s. Where had he heard of Brynn’s feelings on the matter at such short notice? Prattling servants, of course. Anyone could be persuaded to reveal secrets at the right cost.
Brynn cleared her throat, her chin tilting upward. “As you indicated, I had no official offer to consider. My wishes were therefore irrelevant.”
“Should there have been an offer made, would you have accepted?” Mr. Thomson asked, his pencil hovering above his notebook.
Archer shifted in his seat. He saw the color rising on the apples of Brynn’s cheeks and on the tips of her ears. The flare of her mother’s nostrils were difficult to miss as well. No doubt the countess was incensed by the inquiry agent’s brazen question.
Brynn, however, kept her head high. “I cannot say. I suspect I would have considered the offer and then giventhe dukemy answer.”
Mr. Thomson nodded sagely and wrote something in his notepad. “And where were you last evening when the duke was discovered in his study by Lady Rochester?”
Brynn’s eyes did not flicker to Archer’s. If she had been waiting for him in his mother’s sitting room, she would not have an alibi.
“In the ladies’ salon,” she answered evenly.
“That is correct. We were seated across from Lady Hamilton when we heard that wretched scream,” Lady Dinsmore put in.
