Page 42 of House of Thorns
Nicholas arched a surprised brow. Just how much had he spoken aloud?
“Odd, Mr. Timms?”
“Strikes me odd how he went after Henrietta with such a vengeance that night,” Mr. Timms answered. “Had to be more than pure jealousy, I’d say. Seemed in a wee bit of a rush to make his move on the night of the card game.”
“Aye.”
“What feelings did he show, when she died so unexpectedly?”
Nicholas arched a thoughtful brow. Randall certainly hadn’t appeared hurt. “Angry. Furious.”
“Was she an heiress?” Mr. Timms glanced up. “Pardon my bluntness, my lord.”
“Lord Kendrick was very well to do. At that time, anyway.” He’d turned into quite the gambler after his daughter’s untimely end. Who could blame the man?
“Right.” Mr. Timms folded the parchment and tucked it into his waistcoat. “I’ll report the moment I have news, my lord.”
“Very well.” Nicholas rose and shook his hand.
After the man left, he returned to his chair.
Indeed, Mr. Timms had brought up an interesting point. He hadn’t thought Lord Randall in need of money. The man lived in luxury, or, at least, appeared to do so. If he were poor, why the interest in Olivia? The lass clearly stood on the brink of poverty. Granted, she was the Duke of Lennox’s granddaughter, but a disowned, disinherited one, and judging by the Duke’s behavior, that wasn’t changing any time soon.
What business did Lord Randall have pursuing her? Unless…
Nicholas leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Unless, it was happening again. Were they both falling for the same woman?
There was a difference, though.Thislass was fierce and smart. She wasn’t the kind to fall prey to Lord Randall’s flattery…surely?
Concerned, he expelled a breath and rose uneasily to his feet, recalling again the heartbreak on her face when she’d discovered herself robbed.
If only she would let him help her. The roof obviously displeased her, but he held no regrets. At least, she was safe and dry, and as for her most pressing issue of the concert? Mr. Pitt, he’d taken care of. But the opera singer, Louisa?
His lip quirked as an idea flashed across his mind.
He was very well acquainted with one of the famous—if not the most famous—opera singers on the continent. One Florinda Marie de Bussonne, the Lark of Paris.
He chuckled.
Louisa Hamilton closer resembled the squawking of a chicken compared to Florinda’s golden, dulcet notes.
If Olivia needed to fill the opera hall, at least, in that, he could oblige.
