Page 21

He reached blindly for the banister, fingers curling around the carved wood as his knees buckled beneath him. Hopes and ambitions flashed through his mind in a painful cascade, like scenes from a tragedy unfolding at Covent Garden.

He could not bear for it to end like this.

He wanted to find a good woman, one who stirred his mind and spirit, and wed her. He wanted to raise children and be the kind of father who read stories and took them walking in the woods, as his mother had once done with him. He wanted to live a life that meant something more than the idle round of social calls and gaming tables.

He wanted to begin his life, not end it.

His breath grew shallow, chest rising and falling with growing desperation. And just as his internal despair crested like a wave crashing upon rock, the illusion shattered.

Michaels interrupted, his steps heavy on the floorboards as he crossed the hall. Brendan barely registered the knock that had preceded the interruption, but his stomach turned as the butler moved to open the front door with his usual blend of disdain and formality.

Heaven help me … is that the coroner?

But instead of the dreaded figure of authority, Brendan saw the broad shoulders and familiar profiles of Halmesbury and Richard entering the house. Relief hit him with such force that he almost staggered. Color returned to the world in a painful rush. The low murmur of voices, the groan of the door hinges, the brightness of the day streaming through the open entry—all of it struck him at once, too loud and too vivid.

The duke stood near the open doorway, sunlight spilling in behind him like a halo. Brendan squinted up at him, still dazed. The duke’s lips were moving, but it took Brendan a few moments to comprehend the words.

“Are you well?” Halmesbury asked again, concern etched between his brows.

Brendan shook his head. “Briggs … is waiting for the coroner to make an arrest.”

Halmesbury’s expression darkened. He stepped into the hall without hesitation. “Saunton, see to Briggs. Ridley needs a drink.”

Without waiting for Brendan to protest, the duke gripped his arm and guided him into the library. Brendan sank into the worn armchair near the hearth—the same chair he had occupied since the study had been sealed, a silent sentry to his unraveling life.

“I just sent a footman to find you,” he muttered. “We need to find an alternate suspect, Halmesbury!”

“I agree,” the duke said grimly, striding to the sideboard and pouring a stiff measure of brandy. “That is why Richard and I are here. We realized we wasted too much time lamenting yesterday when we should have acted. This Grimes is worse than we feared. My men say he is more interested in power than in justice. We cannot rely on him to handle this fairly.”

Brendan nodded, accepting the glass from Halmesbury with a trembling hand. He tossed back the brandy in one gulp, the burn sharp in his throat but welcome. The shock began to loosen its hold, allowing clarity to return like sunlight piercing fog.

“We need to put as many men on this as we can. I did not do this, I swear it.”

The duke settled into the chair beside him, exhaling slowly. “I know you did not do this, and we will do whatever is required to prove it. Annabel and I will not allow such a travesty of justice to proceed, not while this weasel of a coroner pursues his ambitions over his duties. Beyond investigating the murder itself, I have instructed my men to begin looking into Grimes. The man stinks of self-interest. If we can uncover any past dealings, political alignments, questionable alliances, we may be able to discredit him entirely.”

Brendan cleared his throat, the movement rough and dry. “Am I to be taken to the Tower or to … Newgate?”

The duke frowned. “I have not heard that is their intent, but I shall press for you to be taken to the Tower. A matter of this import will not be settled in a lower court. The Lords will insist upon handling it themselves. You may not be confirmed as baron, but your status as the legitimate heir is widely known.”

“Even with the rumors about my parentage?” Brendan’s voice was low, hoarse with fatigue.

“It does not signify. The law acknowledges you as Josiah Ridley’s son. He was wed to your mother at the time of your birth. That makes you legitimate in the eyes of the peerage and the law. The prosecution might raise the matter as motive, but it will not alter your claim.”

Brendan nodded, his throat tightening. He sank back into the deep embrace of the armchair and let his head rest against the worn velvet cushion. The ache behind his eyes pulsed with fatigue, but for the first time in hours, his breath slowed. Thank heaven for Halmesbury. The duke would overturn every rock in the kingdom before allowing him to be condemned without cause. And Richard—brash, loyal Richard—would see no sleep until this nightmare ended.

They would find a way. He must believe it.

He would not hang for a crime he did not commit.

Lily was the smallest member of the Abbott family, a fact she often used to her advantage. Her diminutive size made it easy to disappear into the background, provided she kept her mouth shut.

But this was no ordinary morning.

“Lily Beatrice Anne Abbott!”

Her heart plummeted. Mama had discovered her absence.

“Where have you been, young lady?”