CHAPTER17
The gentle patter of hastening footsteps and the low murmur of voices followed Jasper back into the parlour, where Miss Huntsbury awaited him. Guilt thickened his throat, and he tugged at the fabric of his curst tight collar.
Miss Huntsbury stood as he neared. “Has your business concluded?”
He nodded. “Lady Cartwright’s body has been removed, and the temporary staff are preparing for the inevitable fracas with Francis.”
“Good. We haven’t a moment to lose; we must return to Bow Street and summon the others. Lord knows what mischief in which Mr. Sinclair might find himself if we do not hurry.”
“Your Grace,” a footman—Sebastian—said from the door, his cheeks flushed and his gaze concerned. “I beg your pardon for the interruption, but Harris thought you would want to see this.”
Jasper accepted the proffered slip of vellum and scanned it. A low curse fell from his lips.
“There were more just like it among Lady Cartwright’s things, according to her staff, Your Grace,” the young man continued.
“That’s fine, Sebastian. Thank you for this.”
The lad bowed deeply and left on quiet feet as Jasper handed Miss Huntsbury the note.
She gasped softly. “This is a letter from?—”
“From Francis, yes.” Jasper turned around, his hands fisted on his hips and his pulse roaring in his ears. “He had instructed her to burn the missive after reading, but clearly she held some sort of attachment to the bastard.” He paced to the window. “But why kill her?”
Miss Huntsbury shook her head and pursed her lips. “Perhaps she had served her purpose and was no longer useful. And what better way to be rid of someone with whom he’d shared secrets than to create a problem foryou, Your Grace?”
Despite the awful circumstances, a small amount of relief loosened the knot in his chest. His shoulders fell, and the stiffness in his back eased. Her death was not directly his fault, then; she had formed an attachment to—and had likely been aiding—his cousin, and the hateful man had murdered her because he was done with her.
That knowledge, while immensely freeing, did not ease his responsibility. Francis remained a very real threat.
“Come.” Jasper offered Miss Huntsbury his arm. “To Bow Street.”
* * *
For the briefest of moments,shock, fear, and an aching pain froze Maria in place. Somewhere, a horse whinnied and snorted, breaking her from the moment.
Damnation.
She hadn’t the time to dither about whether or not the man had caused the accident; she must leave. Quickly. Voices rose up without, men shouting and cursing. Pulse racing, Maria pressed the latch of the door and shoved it open with acreak. The voices grew louder, and cold dread spread to her limbs.
Francis would not get her; she wouldn’t let him.
She grimaced, and cursed the tremble in her fingers as she stowed the parcel in her satchel. With stiff movements and her heart all but entirely in her throat, Maria hefted herself out of the equipage, straightening her coat and cravat.
The sky was filled with rolling clouds that seemed to darken with the repeated threat of rain, and she hastily retrieved her fallen hat from within the inoperative hack. A shiver travelled down her spine.
With one scan of her gaze, it was clear what had happened to the hack: one of the wheels had broken in half, leaving the entire thing nearly on its side. She knew better than to assume that Francis would have been able to impair her hack, but he could certainly have run them off the road.
Her stomach squeezed and her breath caught as she eyed the milling crowd. The driver and several other men were shouting at each other and gesturing wildly, but she saw no sign of Francis. Maria hadn’t the time to waste solving the small mystery or attempting to engage in discussion with her driver; she must make haste.
One of the carriage horses snuffed as she neared, and she muttered soft nonsense to it in an attempt to calm it. The poor things had been through a small trauma and were not trained to run with a rider on their back, but Maria was desperate.
With sure—if slightly trembling—movements, she unfastened one hesitant horse from its moorings. “Sorry, dearest,” she cooed. Her voice, while soothing for the animal, was heavy with trepidation. “I’m going to ride you today. I promise to give you as many apples as you desire once we’re through.”
Reaching inside her inner coat pocket, she withdrew several pound notes and put the outrageous sum on the driver’s seat.
More shouts rose up around her, and she chanced a glance over her shoulder. Then, she spotted him. Walking a mount through the growing crowd of spectators was Francis, his eyes narrowed menacingly and a smirk of satisfaction on his lips.
Her heart hiccoughed.
