Page 23 of The Lady Confesses
Joss laughed. “If I’d done it, his body wouldn’t have been left on the sidewalk to be discovered by others. He’d have just vanished in the night.”
“Vanished. Right. If I hear anything, I will send word to you,” Jack offered. “What does it mean when you say that you have a ‘relationship’ with her?”
“It means just that. I won’t say more,” Joss said.
Jack nodded. “I see. So that’s the way of it, then. Another mighty oak has been felled.”
Joss ignored the teasing. Mostly because he wasn’t hypocritical enough to deny the truth when it was spoken—even if he didn’t like it. “Find out what you can. People talk to you.”
“You mean I ply them with liquor and they confess their secrets because they presume I’m not a threat.”
Joss shrugged, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. Jack wasn’t a violent man by choice, but that didn’t mean he was incapable of it. In truth, he was one of the most dangerous men Joss had ever known—mostly because everyone around him thought him too refined to be a threat. But underestimating him was a mistake most people only made once. “Just pass any intel along.”
“I will, but it’ll put you in my debt,” Jack warned. “And at some point or other, I will collect.”
Joss considered it. Then gave a curt nod.
“Is she worth it?” Jack asked.
“Ten times over,” Joss replied without hesitation before hoisting himself out of the miserably tiny chair and making for the door. By the time he had Ernsdale’s murderer, he’d owe his very soul to someone. Assuming that Hettie hadn’t claimed it already.
Chapter Nineteen
The only goodthing about widowhood was that no one expected her to parade herself about in society. It was a relief not to have to put on a show, to keep up the pretense of being a grieving wife to a husband that she couldn’t muster much feeling for one way or another.
“Will you be dining alone tonight, madame, or will you have guests?”
From the way the butler sneered when he said guests, she could only surmise that he meant her sister and Vincent, whom he clearly felt was inappropriate. “No guests. And no need for a big fuss. A simple tray in my rooms will suffice.”
He dipped his head in a slight bow. There was no outward insolence, but it was quite clear to Hettie that her position in the household was precarious. The servants knew that she was on the way out—or thought they knew. Being with child would complicate matters for everyone. To what degree, she could not yet say. But she knew that Simon would take some sort of action when he discovered it.
Climbing the stairs to her room, she slipped inside and settled herself on a small settee that was flanked by the fireplace on one side and the window on the other. Before her was a small table where she often wrote letters, read her books, and, when the occasion called for it, took her meals. That had been a more frequent event prior to her kidnapping.
It was truly a strange turn of events that the moment where she had faced the most danger, where she had been utterly terrified, had given her more power in her relationship with Arthur than she’d ever had prior. His lack of action on her behalf was scandalous enough, that a rescue had to be mounted by the notorious Hound of Whitehall—well, even if Arthur hadn’t met an unfortunate demise, it was quite likely she’d be spending the evening alone in her own home.
Well, it was still her home. At least until Arthur’s affairs were settled.
A moment later, her maid knocked softly. “Enter,” Hettie called. When the door opened, Foster was there with a tray for her dinner, which she promptly deposited on the table before her.
“There you go, my lady. Is there anything else you need before you retire for the night?”
Hettie looked at the tray. It was roast lamb in a heavy sauce. The very thought of it turned her stomach. She was quickly learning that morning sickness did not only strike in the mornings. “I am not very hungry, Foster. Leave the bread, but take everything else away. And have some tea sent up.”
Foster looked up, her expression troubled. “My lady, I don’t mean to speak out of turn. But you need to eat. It isn’t good for you or for the baby.” The last words were whispered, despite the fact that they were the only ones in the room.
Hettie stilled. “Who knows? Who in this house knows, Foster?”
“Right now, it’s just me. When I begun to notice that you hadn’t had your courses, I took over all your laundry. Wouldn’t let the other girls touch it cause I said they ruined your clothes before. I was very mean to them, but I didn’t know what else to do. I was afraid he’d kill you if he knew.”
It wasn’t an unfounded concern. He might have. But someone killed him first. It would only make her appear more guilty if it came out that the child wasn’t Arthur’s. “It’s all a muddle, Foster. And I do not know how to unmuddle it all.”
“You can’t,” the maid said. She broke protocol by sitting on the settee next to Hettie. And Hettie welcomed it. She needed the comfort of having someone else in that house who understood what was happening. “There’s too many folks that know it can’t be his. And with the kidnapping, there’s questions as to who the father might be. And it doesn’t matter what you say to anyone, they’re going to choose their own truth... and it’ll be the one what benefits them most.”
There was no denying the wisdom of those words. It was something that Hettie had learned the hard way. “Do whatever you must to keep the secret a bit longer. I know it will come out eventually, but I’d prefer it to be on my own terms. Simon is... well, he’s greedy and grasping. And dangerous. Whether this child is Arthur’s by blood, it is by law. And that makes me and my child a threat to him.”
There was no chance to say more. A strange sound at the window halted their conversation. Turning to identify the source, she was stunned to see an all-too-familiar face at her window. Her third story window, at that!
“Good heavens! Foster, let him in before he falls to his death.”
