The code would be served.
But if the investigator’s ethical code demands the apprehension, imprisonment, and consignment to death of a naive young girl led astray by a despicable villain with no kindness or integrity, then is that code actually ethical? What claim to integrity and righteousness can it make? In proving her guilt, am I not just continuing the work Mr. Keast began, overseeing the destruction of Miss Eleanor Holcroft in his absence? If I expose these secrets, how will I be able to sleep at night, knowing I am responsible for her misery and torment?
Surely, Bea would agree.
She would not allow an arbitrary rule to hold dominion over her morality.
Sometimes justice is injustice.
A confounding notion, to be sure, and yet a strange fact of life.
I will pursue the matter no further.
At once, the worst of my nausea passes and I realize my relief at not knowing one way or the other. I have a strong sense of Eleanor’s guilt, but without definitive proof it will always remain a mystery.
It is better this way.
Now I do not have to sit across from her at the dinner table, fully cognizant of the wrenching tragedy and violence of her life. I canthinkI know, but that is another beast entirely.
It is a relief—a huge relief.
And if there is a child?
I will know nothing about it.
The Holcrofts are wily dealers with money and power.
They can make an awkward situation disappear.
As for the demands of my vocation, I would have satisfied them by proving the girl’s guilt before standing strong againstthe inevitable desolation and heartbreak of living a highly moralistic life. But it is one thing to sacrifice my future to ensure a ruthless murderer is held to account, for there is honor in choosing the sanctity and safety of society over one’s personal happiness; it isquiteanother to immiserate myself to punish a wayward miss or possibly the victim of violence.
Thankfully, Sebastian will never know how close I came to condemning his sister or that I even harbored suspicions. It is a good thing I did not embroil the servants in my pursuit. He will continue to believe the fiction of the impoverished widow, pressing the constable to search the surrounding villages and ultimately abandoning the pursuit when it fails to produce a viable suspect.
I am sorry for the ignominy of your end, Mr. Keast, but we all reap what we sow. If you had simply made the effort to be a better person, things would have turned out differently.
Remarkably, my stomach feels fine.
The queasiness is gone.
Relieved by the turn of events, I spin on my heels to leave.
And there he is, Sebastian, leaning against the door.
Chapter Eight
Igrin.
Whydo I grin?
I have no idea!
It is my first line of defense, the habit that has been ingrained in me since childhood, when Mama would say with alarming regularity, “A lady smiles, and a young lady smiles prettily.”
I, a young lady caught in an improper situation, smile prettily.
Obviously, I know it is facile.
An appealing curve of the lips is not the cure-all Vera Hyde-Clare believes it to be, but itisa response, and whenever you are caught prying in your beau’s youngest sister’s bedchamber seconds after deciding you are not going to prove she is a murderer, it is better to respond than not to respond.
