Gabriel stood up. His rage and impatience at last overriding the despondency. “That’s enough. If you are going to arrest me on murder charges and throw me in jail, do so. At least there I could get some rest. If not, this conversation is over.”
Both men stood toe to toe, defiant glances clashing in a duel of wills. As a duke, Aycliffe was unaccustomed to anyone defying him, but Gabriel would be damned if he would allow himself to be forced into surrendering information he had sworn never to divulge. Information that could damage his child and the woman he loved.
Aycliffe looked away first. “I’m not going to arrest you, damn it! But I can’t promise there won’t be an investigation and trial.”
“I’ll be at my estate if you need me.” With that, he strode from the room.
A WEEK HAD PASSED SINCEthat terrible night. She should feel better now. Safer. With Blackwell dead, there was no one to threaten her child. Her mind comprehended that, but not her heart.
Hannah had the baby’s crib moved to her room, placed right by her bed. Several times a night, she’d awake startled, her heartracing. Until her eyes rested on the sleeping form of her baby and the frantic rhythm calmed a bit.
She missed Gabriel more than ever. Everything had been such a whirlwind that fateful night; they had not had time to finish their conversation. When the constable arrived, Gabriel had dealt with the man and sorted out the removal of the body. Then he had ensconced himself with Aycliffe in the library. She had had to leave to feed her son and had fallen asleep from exhaustion and terror.
She had assumed that after he finished providing all the details of Blackwell’s misdeeds, he would seek her out and they could finish their conversation. She would tell him she wanted to marry him. Whenever he wished. She was his. Now and forever.
But he had not returned to her. When she had woken and inquired about Gabriel’s whereabouts, the butler had informed her that the earl had already departed for his estate. And so had the duke.
So she had written to Gabriel. A desperate letter full of longing, asking him to visit. His response had been as cold as the arctic wind. As impersonal as that of a stranger. He had expressed a hope that she and the baby were well. Regretted to inform her he could not visit at this time. And urged her to let him know if there was something he could do to help her.
That was it. No words of love. No feelings.
She had not dared write again. Instead, she wondered if she should visit him. But traveling in winter was difficult. Especially with a baby. And leaving Sammy behind was out of the question. Hannah was contemplating the logistics of a trip to Gabriel’s estate when she received an unexpected call.
“His Grace, the Duke of Aycliffe, is here to see you, Your Grace,” the butler announced in his solemn voice.
Aycliffe! Maybe he would be able to help her. Shed some light on what was going on with Blackwell’s case.
“Thank you. Please bring him to the morning room. I shall receive him here. And order tea.”
As a widow in mourning, custom dictated that she should not receive callers. Especially young eligible men. But to hell with propriety. She had the feeling the duke had not come for a polite call. She looked at the baby’s pram, where her son napped, and wondered if it would be better to have the nurse move him to another room, so as not to wake him with their conversation. But no sooner had the thought entered her mind than she dismissed the idea. She couldn’t bear to have him out of her sight.
A moment later, the duke walked in. He walked with the grace of a consummate athlete and cut a fine figure in his impeccably tailored clothing that showcased his honed body to the greatest advantage. He was handsome, no doubt, with his auburn hair, sharp jawline, and patrician features. No wonder the ladies of the Ton were always fawning over His Grace. Not her, though.
She was impervious to his charms. She much preferred a dark-haired earl with stormy gray eyes who used to look at her with adoration.
“Good morning, Aycliffe,” she greeted, sketching a slight curtsy.
The duke smiled and bowed. “Duchess. I am sorry to disturb you at this time of mourning.”
“It’s no bother, Your Grace. Please be seated. I assume you have an important reason for calling,” she said and took a seat on the sofa, next to the pram.
The duke took a seat opposite her. “I do, Your Grace. It’s regarding the unfortunate events that transpired here a week ago.”
She shuddered, remembering that night. And he took note. She suspected very little escaped him, although he liked to play the indolent rake.
“May I speak freely?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I’m afraid there’s an investigation afoot, and the case may come to trial.”
Hannah frowned. “I don’t understand. What is the purpose of the investigation? And who are you going to try? Blackwell is dead. What purpose could it serve to investigate his motives? Although I daresay they are more than evident by his actions.”
The duke studied her for a couple of heartbeats before speaking. “That is one version of the story. One that I’m inclined to believe. But not everyone is as convinced.”
“A version? You speak as if there were any other possibilities. As if the events were open to interpretation. That is the truth.”
“And yet, the story didn’t satisfy the Chief Constable. He is being overzealous and calling for an investigation. Unfortunately, the other two Justices of the Peace agree with him.”
