“For now. Forget I said that.”
Miss Lane had described the former trooper as protective, and Jack George was certainly not one to stand by and do nothing when a young woman was in danger. Especially a woman he cared about.
Frederick said, “I think this will be exceedingly difficult to prove. But I have an idea.”
Thomas glared at him. “Are you still determined to try to pin this on her? I know Marina gave you cause to distrust women, but now you are prejudiced against them, and suspect them all of foul play! I pity Miss Lane.” He abruptly rolled over, turning his back on him.
Frederick had rarely seen his brother so angry. Was there a trace of truth in his accusation?
He sighed and undressed for bed, already dreading the morrow and hoping his plan did not go awry.
23
The following morning, Frederick knocked softly on Miss Lane’s door. A few moments later, she opened it. She had already dressed, though her hair was still down around her shoulders like a curtain of rich honey-brown silk.
He dragged his gaze from it and went on to describe his plan, such as it was, in a low voice. He hoped and prayed it would work, and the true killer would be revealed.
A flash of nervous excitement lit her eyes as she gathered her hair. “I shall be out in two minutes.”
Thomas had angrily refused to take any part in the scheme, trumped-up or not, so Frederick alone assembled the other players, assigned them their roles, then waited with them for the opening act to begin.
On cue, Noah Brixton pounded on the door of number twelve. “Open up! It’s the constable!” Another barrage of knocking. “Mr. Mayhew is here with a key and we’ll not hesitate to use it.”
Roused by the noise, curious guests opened their doors and peered out.
“What’s going on?” someone called.
Miss Newport slowly opened her door, fully dressed and appearing supremely beautiful, and supremely poised. “What is it?” she asked with cool indifference.
She really was a skilled actress.
Mr. Brixton proclaimed, “Selina Newport, I am taking you into custody for the murder of Ambrose Oliver.”
Deadly calm, she replied, “I did not kill him.”
“That’s for the court to decide.”
She stilled, then said evenly, “Very well. Allow me to gather my things.” She retrieved her reticule and valise, and a few moments later, they paraded through the corridor toward the main stairs.
Mr. Brixton held her arm, and Frederick walked on her other side. Mr. Mayhew and Miss Lane trailed behind them, watching. Witnessing.
Mr. George came out of number four, drawn by the hubbub.
“Hey! What has happened? What are you doing? Where are you taking her?”
Brixton said, “Miss Newport is being arrested on suspicion of murder.”
“Murder?” Mr. George thundered. “What? No!”
Frederick nodded. “She was seen hiding a wicked-looking mace in the chapel’s baptismal font. A probable murder weapon, according to Dr. Fox. She was also seen dressed as a nun, running away from room three the morning Ambrose Oliver was killed. We are holding her over for trial.”
Selina Newport’s face, stoic till now, showed a ripple of fear. Even so, she lifted her chin and said resolutely, “Don’t worry about me. It’s all right.”
“Thunder and turf,” George muttered. “It’s not all right.”
“It was my fault,” she said.
“No, it dashed well wasn’t. It was his.”
