“Still, resentments left to fester often lead to violence in the end.”
Nathaniel clenched his jaw. “I did not shoot my brother, Mr. Tompkins. I was here, in the house, when they brought him in by wagon.”
“So your Mr. Hudson said.”
“You don’t believe him? Then ask my sister. Besides, do you not think Lewis’s valet would have recognized me, masked or not, had I been the man?”
“Recognized maybe. Reported? Not likely. Servants—and sisters for that matter—are so dashed loyal, I find. Makes ferreting out the truth, as well as other hidden... things, quite difficult.”
Nathaniel felt his temper rising but held his tongue.
“Any other ideas?” Tompkins asked, clearly humoring him.
“You have heard, I trust, of the thief who calls himself the Poet Pirate?”
“Indeed I have, sir. There is quite a reward offered for his capture.”
“I know.” Nathaniel said dryly. “I am the man who offers that reward.”
Tompkins appeared skeptical, nearly amused. “You don’t expect me to believe the Poet Pirate did this?”
“Why not? The man’s real name by the way is Abel Preston. He burnt my ship and stole from me—why not shoot my brother?”
He felt the man’s amused condescension. How desperate to throw off suspicion he must appear. He thought of mentioning Sterling Benton—how Lewis had provoked the man by threatening to elope with his moneyed stepdaughter. But he decided against it.
Tompkins shook his head. “I shall take it under advisement, sir. But while I’m here, I would like to speak to the valet and that housemaid you mentioned. What was her name?”
Nathaniel wished he had never mentioned her, but refusing to name her now would only make them both seem suspect. “Her name is Nora, though I doubt she can tell you any more than I have.” He frowned at the man. “I am surprised you did not speak to Lewis’s valet during your first call. As he is the only known witness to the events of that morning, I would have thought interviewing him your first priority.”
For the first time, the implacable man looked ill at ease. “I... take your point, sir. An oversight I shall redress promptly, if you would be so good as to arrange such an interview.”
“Very well, I shall send him in directly.” Nathaniel turned. Inwardly, he breathed a sigh of relief, hoping he had successfully diverted Mr. Tompkins’s attention from a certain housemaid. At the door, he turned back. “If you learn the identity of my brother’s assailant, I should very much like to know.”
The man’s eyes glinted. “I am sure you would, sir.”
His knowing smirk irritated Nathaniel, but he thought it wiser not to display the temper that had already made him a suspect in someone’s eyes.
Margaret came in the servants’ entrance with Fiona. The Irishwoman carried a basket of fresh laundry from the washhouse, while Margaret carried a bundle of chrysanthemums—the last of the season, Mr. Sackett had said.
“Nora.”
Margaret looked up. Connor stood there in the passage, his skin pale and glazed with sweat.
She stopped where she was. “What is it?”
“There’s a man wants to speak to you. In the morning room.”
“Who?”
“A Mr. Tompkins. He’s looking into Mr. Lewis’s... situation.”
Confusion snaked through her. “Does Mr. Upchurch know?”
He nodded. “He’s the one who sent for me. Tompkins said he wanted to speak with me first, then you.”
She knew Nathaniel was eager to learn the identity of the other man involved. But even so she was surprised he thought she had any information to offer.
She placed a hand on Connor’s arm. “I am sorry you had to go through that again.”
