Page 72 of An Imperfect Scoundrel
“Do I regret stealing from people?” He laid back on the pillow and closed his eyes.
“Killing people.”
“I didn’t kill Mr. Parker. We discussed this.”
“But you did kill someone.”
He sighed, his eyes opening. “Someone you know, I presume. A distant cousin? A neighbor?”
“My brother’s closest friend.”
“That is quite specific. What was his name?”
“My brother or the man you killed?”
“The man.”
“Mr. Charles Ashmore.”
Silence followed her words.
She glanced at Captain Shaw. His gaze, locked on the rafter directly above his head, did not waver. The only indication he’d heard the name was the visible clench in his jaw.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CEDRIC
“How do you know Mr. Ashmore?” Cedric asked after a full five minutes had passed.
It wasn’t possible this woman knew Charles Ashmore. He didn’t remember her, and despite the short hair, he would have recalled meeting someone as lovely as Alana Dubois during his time in Wilshire.
“I told you he was a friend of my brother’s.”
He rolled toward her. “Aidan?”
“Patrick.”
Ballocks! That name he did know, and the man’s hair was quite similar in color to the shade he was staring at.
“Patrick Flannery?”
“You know my brother?” she asked, her eyebrows raising in surprise.
“I did in a different lifetime.” A flash of pain shot through Cedric’s heart, vanishing as quickly as it appeared. He flipped onto his back again.
He and Patrick Flannery had been close friends as boys, much to the dismay of Cedric’s father, who ascribed to the prejudice against the Flannery family. It was perhaps the main reason Cedric pursued the friendship. However, an excuse to punish his father turned into a genuine friendship.
“He was devastated when news of Mr. Ashmore’s death reached us. Patrick still refuses to speak his name.” She leaned on Cedric’s chest, resting her chin on her hands, and stared at his face. “Why did you kill him?”
“He outlived his purpose.” Cedric pushed her off, sat up, and slid from the mattress. Hooking his trousers from the floor, he yanked them up his legs.
A tear sliding down her cheek, she turned away, rolling toward the wall.
Sinking down beside her, he slid his hand through her short hair and brushed a strand away from her face. One finger stroked down her cheek, collecting the teardrop, and he lifted his hand, studying the moisture.
“I was unaware you were attached to Mr. Ashmore,” he said, his voice soft. “Did you nurture feelings for the man?”
“His death affected my brother in a way you cannot possibly understand,” she snapped, rolling over.
