Read Online The Peculiar Case of Lord Finsbury's Diamonds: A Casebook of Barnaby Adair Short Novel (The Casebook of Barnaby Adair) by Stephanie Laurens - Free Book Online
Authors: Stephanie Laurens
Tags: Historical Romance
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Mitchell’s murder.
Frederick saw welling concern dim the brightness of Gwen’s gaze.
A second ticked past, then she whispered, “How bad do you think it will be?”
He understood what she was asking; instinct suggested that he utter some glib reassurance, but he could only give her honesty. “I don’t know. I expect the intensity of the scandal will depend very much on who the guilty party is, and their motive.” He hesitated, then said, “Given no one here had ever met Mitchell before, and your father only knew him via White’s and through Mitchell himself, then surely the police must suspect someone other than those here—perhaps someone from Mitchell’s past who followed him on his return…” He broke off as he realized the problem with that scenario.
Frowning, Gwen put it into words. “How could anyone from outside have known where to find the foot-trap and hammer?” She glanced up and met his eyes. “They said the hammer was the one from the croquet shed, and, well, where else could the foot-trap have come from? Presumably it came from our barn or one of the outbuildings.”
“Perhaps…but perhaps that’s not the right question to ask—where those things came from. Perhaps the question that should be asked is: Could they have been easily found by anyone seeking something of the sort?” He paused, then followed that thought further. “What if someone who Mitchell met in London knew he would be coming here, walking up the path that afternoon? What if they came earlier and hunted around? The croquet shed is at the end of the lawn near the shrubbery—easy enough to see and search. And perhaps the foot-trap was just hanging on the barn wall?”
Frederick met Gwen’s gaze. “You understand, don’t you, that I can’t speak with your father about us—that I can’t ask for leave to address you, to ask for your hand—until all suspicion of murder has been lifted from me?”
And until all suspicion had been lifted from her father, and Agnes, too. Gwen nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“So until this murder is solved, we won’t be able to get on with our lives. I spoke with the local constable before he left—it seems the inspector and Mr. Adair won’t be returning until the day after tomorrow. The inspector is needed in London, it seems.” Frederick paused, then said, “I really can’t imagine any member of the house party—either a guest or one of your family—in the role of murderer. Can you?”
Gwen shook her head. “No. And that’s not just wishful thinking. I cannot see why anyone would kill a man they didn’t really know, especially not like that.”
“Precisely. So let’s assume that the murderer is not one of us, that he came from outside, from elsewhere in Mitchell’s life.” Frederick held Gwen’s gaze and felt a sense of impatient excitement—the same feeling he’d often had when adventuring—flare. “Perhaps if we can determine where the foot-trap came from—show that it would have been easy for anyone to have found and used—then we might help the police refocus on the real arena from which Mitchell’s murderer must hail from—his life away from here.”
Gwen’s eyes lit; a similar impatient tension thrummed through her fingers where they gripped his. “Yes—that’s an excellent idea.” For an instant, she held his gaze, then impulsively she stretched up and pressed her lips to his.
Frederick lost his breath. Stopped breathing altogether.
But when her lips remained on his, he couldn’t suppress the urge to, very gently, gather Gwen into his arms.
She came—shyly but not in any way reluctant.
He held her like spun glass, drew in a shuddering breath, and angled his head to refashion the kiss—to one of simple yearning.
Something they shared at a bone-deep level. He let his lips firm on hers, let them brush and say all he could not yet say in words.
And she answered.
Gwen stepped forward with no thought beyond her
Frederick saw welling concern dim the brightness of Gwen’s gaze.
A second ticked past, then she whispered, “How bad do you think it will be?”
He understood what she was asking; instinct suggested that he utter some glib reassurance, but he could only give her honesty. “I don’t know. I expect the intensity of the scandal will depend very much on who the guilty party is, and their motive.” He hesitated, then said, “Given no one here had ever met Mitchell before, and your father only knew him via White’s and through Mitchell himself, then surely the police must suspect someone other than those here—perhaps someone from Mitchell’s past who followed him on his return…” He broke off as he realized the problem with that scenario.
Frowning, Gwen put it into words. “How could anyone from outside have known where to find the foot-trap and hammer?” She glanced up and met his eyes. “They said the hammer was the one from the croquet shed, and, well, where else could the foot-trap have come from? Presumably it came from our barn or one of the outbuildings.”
“Perhaps…but perhaps that’s not the right question to ask—where those things came from. Perhaps the question that should be asked is: Could they have been easily found by anyone seeking something of the sort?” He paused, then followed that thought further. “What if someone who Mitchell met in London knew he would be coming here, walking up the path that afternoon? What if they came earlier and hunted around? The croquet shed is at the end of the lawn near the shrubbery—easy enough to see and search. And perhaps the foot-trap was just hanging on the barn wall?”
Frederick met Gwen’s gaze. “You understand, don’t you, that I can’t speak with your father about us—that I can’t ask for leave to address you, to ask for your hand—until all suspicion of murder has been lifted from me?”
And until all suspicion had been lifted from her father, and Agnes, too. Gwen nodded. “Yes, I know.”
“So until this murder is solved, we won’t be able to get on with our lives. I spoke with the local constable before he left—it seems the inspector and Mr. Adair won’t be returning until the day after tomorrow. The inspector is needed in London, it seems.” Frederick paused, then said, “I really can’t imagine any member of the house party—either a guest or one of your family—in the role of murderer. Can you?”
Gwen shook her head. “No. And that’s not just wishful thinking. I cannot see why anyone would kill a man they didn’t really know, especially not like that.”
“Precisely. So let’s assume that the murderer is not one of us, that he came from outside, from elsewhere in Mitchell’s life.” Frederick held Gwen’s gaze and felt a sense of impatient excitement—the same feeling he’d often had when adventuring—flare. “Perhaps if we can determine where the foot-trap came from—show that it would have been easy for anyone to have found and used—then we might help the police refocus on the real arena from which Mitchell’s murderer must hail from—his life away from here.”
Gwen’s eyes lit; a similar impatient tension thrummed through her fingers where they gripped his. “Yes—that’s an excellent idea.” For an instant, she held his gaze, then impulsively she stretched up and pressed her lips to his.
Frederick lost his breath. Stopped breathing altogether.
But when her lips remained on his, he couldn’t suppress the urge to, very gently, gather Gwen into his arms.
She came—shyly but not in any way reluctant.
He held her like spun glass, drew in a shuddering breath, and angled his head to refashion the kiss—to one of simple yearning.
Something they shared at a bone-deep level. He let his lips firm on hers, let them brush and say all he could not yet say in words.
And she answered.
Gwen stepped forward with no thought beyond her
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