Nathaniel’s eyes flashed upward, catching the young man’s face in the mirror. “Yes?”
“There is something. I don’t like to speak out of turn....”
“Go on.”
“You asked if I knew of anybody who had something against your brother.”
“Yes?”
“I wonder, sir. How well acquainted are you with Mr. Saxby?”
Nathaniel felt his pulse begin to accelerate. “Fairly well. But don’t let that hinder you.”
“It’s only... I do know those two gentlemen argued over a certain lady. A lady they both admired.”
“Miss Lyons?”
“I... believe so, sir. Though one tries not to attend to every detail of personal conversations.”
“Of course. Did you hear Saxby threaten Lewis?”
“I wouldn’t say threaten exactly. But he did warn him to stay away from her.”
“I see. Are you suggesting the man at Penenden Heath might have been Mr. Saxby?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, sir. It isn’t my place. I just thought I should mention it.”
“But you said you didn’t recognize his second. You have met Mr. Saxby’s valet, I trust, while he’s been here?”
“I have, sir. And no, he wasn’t the second. I didn’t recognize the man.”
“What did the second look like?”
Connor shrugged. “Average looking. Slight. Dark hair. Maybe twenty or a few years older.”
No one came to mind. “And the masked man—what you could see of him?”
“He was well-dressed, sir. A gentleman—that I did notice. Medium build. Brown hair. Perhaps five and thirty years of age.”
Nathaniel considered. Such a description might fit Saxby. Perhaps even Preston, though he was closer to forty. But it wasn’t enough to act upon. Nathaniel asked, “Are there other women... other jealous suitors or offended fathers I should know about?”
The young man reddened. “I couldn’t say, sir.”
“Couldn’t or won’t?”
“I don’t like to speak ill of Mr. Lewis. Not when he’s laid low.”
“I’m not asking you to gossip, Connor. Only to tell me anything that might help me identify the man who shot my brother.” A thought struck Nathaniel. “Can I ask yousomething? The masked man—would you recognize his voice should you hear it again?”
The valet hesitated, frowning. “His voice...? I don’t know.”
“He didn’t happen to speak in a certain, say... accent... perhaps an upper crust accent, or poetical speech?” He didn’t like to lead Connor but didn’t know how else to pull the information from him. He wanted to know. If Preston had shot his brother, Nathaniel would not rest until he had found him and demanded satisfaction of his own.
“Poetical, you say?” In the mirror, Connor’s face puckered. “You’re not suggesting that Poet Pirate might have done it?”
“The thought did cross my mind.”
Connor hesitated, considering. “They say he looks and dresses every inch the gentleman, don’t they?”
