Page 16 of The Lady Confesses
“Fuck,” he muttered. “Bloody fucking hell.”
*
Hettie stared atthe man before her with a kind of shock that defied reason. “I’m sorry. But... what did you say?”
“Your husband, madame, Arthur Dagliesh, Lord Ernsdale, is dead,” Inspector Maurice Bates answered coolly.
Hettie rose. She wasn’t sure why or even where she intended to go, but in the face of such news, it hardly seemed like she should simply sit calmly. Immediately, she realized the error of her decision. The room began to swim alarmingly, and her vision began to dim. Just as suddenly, she found herself once more plunked into the chair she’d recently vacated.
“Do not faint, madame. We haven’t the time if we are to catch those responsible for your husband’s demise.”
“Responsible?” She parroted the inspector’s word. “Are you suggesting that my husband’s death was... it was murder?”
“Stating, Lady Ernsdale, without question,” the investigator said, his tone very firm and his expression grim. “He was stabbed and left to bleed out into the street.”
Hettie couldn’t speak. It wasn’t grief. Shock, yes? Most assuredly. While she certainly hated that he’d met such a terrible and violent end, she did not feel any grief at the prospect of his loss. In truth, lurking beneath the shock, relief was floodingthrough her. Relief and the promise of freedom. “Footpads? Was it a robbery?”
The investigator stared at her for a moment, his gaze assessing. “No, madame. As a general rule, footpads in Mayfair are a rare occurrence... and footpads do not typically stab a man in the back with a needle-like blade. It was a high quality rapier, well forged.”
“Then you think he was intentionally targeted,” she surmised.
“Indeed. And I must ask, Lady Ernsdale, if you have any notion who might want your husband dead.” He looked up then, his gaze leveled on her with distinct hostility. “Other than you, of course.”
He wasn’t there to inform her of her husband’s death at all, Hettie realized. He was there to gauge whether or not she was already aware of it. “I did not want my husband dead, inspector. My husband and I were not a love match, most assuredly. We certainly had our disagreements at times, but I had made my peace with our marriage, however it came to pass.”
“Until you were abducted by ruffians and he refused to pay the ransom to get you back... or did you think I was unaware?”
Hettie shook her head. “No, inspector. To my great humiliation, everyone is aware of Arthur’s miserly response to my abduction. Luckily, I was not dependent solely on him for my safe rescue. But I’m certain you know that, just as you know who was ultimately responsible for my rescue. Doeshehave any notion that you are standing in my parlor and accusing me of murder?”
“He does not... but then I don’t answer to him, just like he don’t answer to me. Not every Runner is in the Hound’s pocket, madame, nor are we all cowed by the behemoth who worked for him.”
There was an animosity there, Hettie thought. The inspector harbored a grudge. Against Vincent Carrow or against Joss Ettinger? It ultimately didn’t matter. He would use her as a tool to wage war against a man who had very few weaknesses. It was a complicated situation and becoming more so by the minute.
“If there is nothing else, Inspector, I should like you to leave. I am very tired, and the news has been quite upsetting. I’ll bid you good day, sir,” Hettie said, uttering each word with icy politeness. “I will expect, that if there are further questions, they will be asked by someone else who does not share your bias. Whatever your past interactions are with my sister’s husband, or those in his employ, they have no place in your investigation into the untimely death of my own husband.”
Hettie rose from her seat and tugged at the bell pull near the door. “Milford will show you out,” she added as the butler entered the room. Without waiting for them to depart, she sailed out of the room and made for her chambers upstairs.
Once inside her room, she leaned back against the door and let out a shaky breath. She was in a great deal of trouble. And the only way to get out of that trouble was to determine who was actually responsible for Arthur’s death. She needed an investigator. A private inquiry agent whom she could trust.
One name came to mind, and though she might want desperately to dismiss it, she could not. She would need to enlist the aid of Mr. Ettinger.
Chapter Fourteen
Joss fought backa yawn. It had been a sleepless night, consumed with thoughts of a certain woman who was now a widow. And her newly eligible status eliminated one obstacle, but certainly not all of them.
Looking around, he took stock. His office occupied one of the two rooms he had rented above an apothecary’s shop in Cheapside. The shingle hanging outside read simply “Private Inquiries.” Business was not booming, but he had more than enough to keep him busy and to keep the rent paid. And he was doing it without any aid from Vincent Carrow, a fact that he was quite proud of.
As he settled deeper into the creaking leather chair behind his desk, he perched his booted feet atop it and considered all the things he’d seen the previous evening. But nothing at the forefront of his mind had anything to do with his actual paying client and whatever it was that his pretty young wife was up to. No. On Joss’s mind was the death of Lord Ernsdale, and more particularly, the widowed state of Henrietta Dagliesh.
Unbidden to his mind came the image of her—naked, her body gilded by the dim light of that simple box stove. It was a memory that tormented him often. And he strongly suspected that it would do so for the remainder of his days.
As if his thoughts had summoned her, the door to his office opened, the small bell hanging above it tinkling lightly.Silhouetted in the doorway, wearing a green dress with a matching pelisse and bonnet, she looked every inch the wealthy and titled lady that she was.
“No,” he said. The word came out immediately and without thought. It hung in the air for a moment and then settled over them like a thick fog, unpleasant and unwelcome.
“No? You do not even know why I am here,” she said, ignoring his protest and stepping into his office regardless. The door closed behind her with a kind of finality that told him she had no intention of leaving until she’d said her piece. Part of him was grateful for her tenacity. She wasn’t for the likes of him, no matter how much he might have wished otherwise. But having a moment longer just to look at her—to drink in the sight of her—soothed his soul.
Clearing his throat and shaking his head to banish such asinine romantic notions, he said with cold detachment, “Fine. Tell me why you’re here so that I can give you my well-informed refusal and send you on your way.”
