Page 86 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

She laid her hand on top of his, and Sloane could not refrain from turning his hand to clasp hers. Sad or happy, Annabeth was the most beautiful person in the world to him. It had been hell being estranged from her the last couple of days. He’d been lonely and lusting, and far worse than that, a cold pain that was all too familiar had settled in his chest.

He had been careless. Foolish. He’d let down his guard even though he knew full well he shouldn’t. The thought of leaving Annabeth after they found her father’s killer ripped him in two. How could he go through that again? At least in the past, he’d had the constant danger to distract him. Now he had nothing.

But he didn’t have any choice in the matter. Annabeth had given up on him. And she was right. However little Sloane wanted to, it seemed that he always inflicted pain on her. Look at what he was doing right now—setting out to prove that a man who had been a steady, loving, supportive friend all her life had never been what he seemed.

Annabeth left her hand in Sloane’s for the rest of the ride.

Dedicated bachelor that he was, Russell had only a flat in the city, but it was a luxurious one, decorated with all the comfort and taste that one would expect from him.

Russell’s valet answered the door. Though he looked a little surprised by their appearance on the doorstep, he had no comment or question, just ushered them into the parlor and went to announce their presence.

A few minutes later, Russell came into the room, smiling. “Well, this is unexpected. But delightful, of course. Dear Annabeth. Mr. Rutherford.” He kissed Annabeth’s cheek and shook Sloane’s hand. His eyes were alight with curiosity, but he went through the social niceties of inquiring after Annabeth’s mother and grandmother.

“I confess I was a bit surprised to see that Lady Lockwood had returned to London so soon after she left,” Russell commented.

“As did you,” Sloane said, watching the man intently.

Russell didn’t seem nervous as he replied, “Goodness, yes. I have never understood why poets wax so enthusiastically about the bucolic life. How much entertainment can one get from gazing at trees? I find it deadly dull myself. It was different, of course, in the past, when Hunter was there.”

“It was my father we wanted to talk to you about,” Annabeth said, her voice tight.

“Indeed? Well, of course, my dear, what did you want to know?”

“We went to see Mr. Winfield’s valet.”

“Simpson?” Was it Sloane’s imagination or had Feringham stiffened a little at the mention of Simpson?

“Yes.” He kept his eyes on Russell, looking for any other indicators. “Mr. Winfield had a box that folded out into a desk.”

“Oh, yes, it was a lovely thing,” Russell said, smiling.

“My mother gave the desk to Simpson after Papa died,” Annabeth said. “We went to see—there was a paper inside...” She paused, and now Sloane was certain that there was a look of alarm in Feringham’s eyes. “It was about a race.”

“Oh, God.” Russell sagged back into the chair. “He did confess. I thought, after all this time, that he had not.”

“You drove the other curricle,” Annabeth said, her voice thick with tears.

“Yes. Yes.” Russell nodded. He looked away from her. “Please don’t hate me, Annabeth. Hunter and I—we didn’t mean to. It was a terrible accident. It scared us witless, and we drove on to my house. We couldn’t—we didn’t know what to do. I—it wouldn’t have been so bad for me. I have no family to embarrass. But you were just a baby, and Hunter couldn’t bear to bring such a scandal down on you and your mother. It haunted us, you know. Especially Hunter. He tried to make up for it, taking Simpson on, and he paid for the burial. But he still thought about it, even after all those years. He told me he wanted to make a clean breast of it, but he promised he wouldn’t say I was involved.”

“He didn’t,” Annabeth said bitterly. “He didn’t reveal who the other man was. We—we suspected. I hoped that it wasn’t you.”

“It was your reaction that told us,” Sloane said, his voice hard. He hated the crushed look on Annabeth’s face.

“I wish that it hadn’t been me. The thought of it is never far from my mind. Time hasn’t dulled the ache it caused. It was worse for Hunter. Years afterward, he’d talk about how Simpson was just a lad when it happened, and I could tell Hunter was thinking of you, Annabeth. The remorse he felt was palpable in those moments. After his death I wondered sometimes if, in fact, it was a mercy that he didn’t have to live with that horrible memory anymore. I wondered if I would be better off gone from this earth as well. But I was too much of a coward to do more than think it.”

Sloane wondered what Russell was playing at. Was he trying to make them think that Hunter had committed suicide? Or was this what he had been trying to convince himself of—that killing his best friend had been some kind of a noble act?

“Has it all been a lie?” Annabeth burst out. “All these years? Did you just pretend to be concerned about us so you could search for his confession?”

“No!” Russell looked shocked. “Annabeth, no, of course not. I love you. You’ve been—I’ve always felt as if you were the daughter I would never have. Surely you must know that.”

“I don’t know!” Annabeth cried, tears spilling down her face. “How could I? I don’t know you at all. How could you do such a thing? Papa was your dearest friend. How could you murder him?”

Russell’s jaw dropped, and the blood drained from his face. “Murder him! Hunter? What are you talking about? I could never—Hunter wasn’t murdered. He fell.” Russell shoved himself to the edge of his chair, leaning toward Sloane, his eyes pleading. “He fell.” When Sloane said nothing, Russell’s breath came faster, ragged. The shell of his cool, elegant demeanor was cracking.

Was this the moment of confession? When Russell would admit to what he had done and all this could finally be over?

For Annabeth’s sake and safety Sloane hoped so. She shouldn’t have to endure any more of these awful secrets coming to light. But the treacherous thought that that also meant their time together was over wouldn’t stop running through his mind. Clearly Sloane didn’t deserve her if he was thinking about himself and what he wanted when she was in so much pain. Annabeth had made the right decision in ending whatever they had been doing.