straight to hell.
Bloody damn.
"I don't believe Miss Whitney is all that happy to see me," Rathmore drawled as he closed the door and moved farther into the room.
Adam felt the pull of a smile. "She isn't convinced you're as trustworthy as I am. Must be something in those shifty brown eyes of yours."
Rathmore laughed. He turned his attention to Jillian, who stood straight-backed a few feet away. "Lord Blackwood has vowed to help you prove your innocence. He asked for my help as he once helped me, and I gladly agreed. It is really as simple as that."
"Then please, Your Grace, know that I had nothing to do with Lord Fenwick's murder. His lordship was very good to me and I would never have done anything to harm him. In fact, now that he is gone, I find myself in very difficult circumstances. That alone should prove my innocence, for I gained no benefit from his demise."
"It certainly speaks to the issue of motive," the duke agreed.
Jillian seemed to relax. She tucked a strand of dark copper hair back into the thick coil at the nape of her neck and Adam noted the weariness in her movements. Her face was pale, turning her eyes an even more striking shade of blue. Even tired and worried, she was lovely.
Adam felt the same pull of attraction he had felt from the moment he had spied her at the duck pond, and yet there was something else, something more than her fine features and delectable little body, that drew him. He wished to God he knew what it was.
He walked over to the sideboard, poured Clay a snifter of brandy and Jillian a sherry.
"Establishing a motive is the reason I asked you to come,” he said to Clay. "Jillian couldn't think of anyone who might want old Fenwick dead." He glanced at her and couldn't stop a smile. "Except for Barton Witherspoon, of course, who may have been sent into a homicidal fit when the late earl compared his daughter to a crane."
Clay laughed as he accepted the snifter of brandy. "Fenwick said Hermione Witherspoon looked like a crane?"
"An underfed crane, to be exact." Adam flicked a glance at Jillian, who did not look amused. "But we've agreed the notion is rather far-fetched, so perhaps you can help us come up with a more likely candidate." He handed the glass of sherry to Jillian, and they all sat down on the sofa and chairs in front of the hearth to begin their discussion in earnest.
"I'd like to begin by telling Miss Whitney that I knew Lord Fenwick for quite some years." Rathmore took a sip of his brandy. "Since the shooting, I've been trying to think of anyone who might have wanted him dead."
"And?" Adam prompted.
"Actually, a couple of people came to mind. Theodore Boswell, Lord Eldridge, is one of them."
"Eldridge?" Adam swirled the brandy in his glass. "How does the marquess fit in?"
"Eldridge and Fenwick were in business together. A West Indies trading venture the earl recommended. Unfortunately, the deal went sour. The company went broke, and since Eldridge had invested far more heavily than Fenwick, he lost nearly everything."
Jillian sat forward on the sofa. "Good heavens—I should have remembered. Mrs. Madigan, Lord Fenwick's housekeeper, told me a couple of weeks ago that Lord Eldridge came to the house in a violent temper. She said he threatened the earl, that he stood right there in the entry and said he would never forgive him for the damage he had done."
Adam scratched a note on the piece of paper he had set in front of him to have the runner he had hired, a man named Peter Fraser, check on Eldridge's whereabouts the night of the murder. Of course, the marquess could have paid someone to kill the earl, a more likely scenario and more difficult to prove, but there was always the hope that Eldridge might have wanted the satisfaction of killing the earl himself.
"All right, we've got Eldridge to consider. Who else?"
Clay sipped his brandy, set the glass back down on the marble-topped table. "His solicitor, Colin Norton, had reason to kill him."
"I thought
Bloody damn.
"I don't believe Miss Whitney is all that happy to see me," Rathmore drawled as he closed the door and moved farther into the room.
Adam felt the pull of a smile. "She isn't convinced you're as trustworthy as I am. Must be something in those shifty brown eyes of yours."
Rathmore laughed. He turned his attention to Jillian, who stood straight-backed a few feet away. "Lord Blackwood has vowed to help you prove your innocence. He asked for my help as he once helped me, and I gladly agreed. It is really as simple as that."
"Then please, Your Grace, know that I had nothing to do with Lord Fenwick's murder. His lordship was very good to me and I would never have done anything to harm him. In fact, now that he is gone, I find myself in very difficult circumstances. That alone should prove my innocence, for I gained no benefit from his demise."
"It certainly speaks to the issue of motive," the duke agreed.
Jillian seemed to relax. She tucked a strand of dark copper hair back into the thick coil at the nape of her neck and Adam noted the weariness in her movements. Her face was pale, turning her eyes an even more striking shade of blue. Even tired and worried, she was lovely.
Adam felt the same pull of attraction he had felt from the moment he had spied her at the duck pond, and yet there was something else, something more than her fine features and delectable little body, that drew him. He wished to God he knew what it was.
He walked over to the sideboard, poured Clay a snifter of brandy and Jillian a sherry.
"Establishing a motive is the reason I asked you to come,” he said to Clay. "Jillian couldn't think of anyone who might want old Fenwick dead." He glanced at her and couldn't stop a smile. "Except for Barton Witherspoon, of course, who may have been sent into a homicidal fit when the late earl compared his daughter to a crane."
Clay laughed as he accepted the snifter of brandy. "Fenwick said Hermione Witherspoon looked like a crane?"
"An underfed crane, to be exact." Adam flicked a glance at Jillian, who did not look amused. "But we've agreed the notion is rather far-fetched, so perhaps you can help us come up with a more likely candidate." He handed the glass of sherry to Jillian, and they all sat down on the sofa and chairs in front of the hearth to begin their discussion in earnest.
"I'd like to begin by telling Miss Whitney that I knew Lord Fenwick for quite some years." Rathmore took a sip of his brandy. "Since the shooting, I've been trying to think of anyone who might have wanted him dead."
"And?" Adam prompted.
"Actually, a couple of people came to mind. Theodore Boswell, Lord Eldridge, is one of them."
"Eldridge?" Adam swirled the brandy in his glass. "How does the marquess fit in?"
"Eldridge and Fenwick were in business together. A West Indies trading venture the earl recommended. Unfortunately, the deal went sour. The company went broke, and since Eldridge had invested far more heavily than Fenwick, he lost nearly everything."
Jillian sat forward on the sofa. "Good heavens—I should have remembered. Mrs. Madigan, Lord Fenwick's housekeeper, told me a couple of weeks ago that Lord Eldridge came to the house in a violent temper. She said he threatened the earl, that he stood right there in the entry and said he would never forgive him for the damage he had done."
Adam scratched a note on the piece of paper he had set in front of him to have the runner he had hired, a man named Peter Fraser, check on Eldridge's whereabouts the night of the murder. Of course, the marquess could have paid someone to kill the earl, a more likely scenario and more difficult to prove, but there was always the hope that Eldridge might have wanted the satisfaction of killing the earl himself.
"All right, we've got Eldridge to consider. Who else?"
Clay sipped his brandy, set the glass back down on the marble-topped table. "His solicitor, Colin Norton, had reason to kill him."
"I thought
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