Did she truly believe it possible he had killed the mysterious Mrs. Ainsley? Elysande could admit to herself, if no one else, that she did not. Nothing in his demeanor had ever suggested he was inclined toward violence. He had been polite. Charming, even. Although their interactions had been limited, he had never given her cause to doubt his honor or to fear him. If he had, she never would have agreed to the match. Not even for Izzy’s sake, regardless of how much she loved her sister and wanted to see her happy.
“Tell me why I should not believe it,” she countered, voice trembling with the complexity of her feelings.
“Because I was not there when it happened, for one thing.” His tone was vehement, and as he took another drink of the succor he sought, she noted his hand shook ever so slightly. “I was with Barlowe and dozens of others at the Black Souls when Mrs. Ainsley must have gone to my rooms. She was not invited, and nor was she welcome, Elysande.”
She wanted to believe him. His expression was unguarded. He had never given her a reason to doubt him until Mr. Barlowe had arrived with the distressing news of Mrs. Ainsley’s murder.
She stared at him, wishing she could read his heart and his mind. “Does Scotland Yard believe you killed her?”
A bitter smile curved his lips. “I have yet to be arrested.”
It was hardly testament to his innocence.
She shook her head, more confused than ever, on the verge of helpless tears. “What am I meant to think?”
“You are meant to think whatever you like.” He raised his glass to her in a mock salute. “If you choose to believe the worst of me, I cannot stop you. Nor can I fault you for it. If I had possessed an inkling anything like this would happen upon my return to London, I would have stayed in Buckinghamshire.” He paused, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Hell. Who am I fooling? I still would have come. Reginald Croydon needs to be recaptured so he can spend the rest of his life rotting in prison.”
Through the terse letters Hudson had sent to her from London over the course of the last month, Elysande knew Croydon continued to evade capture. She also knew it was a source of continued frustration for her husband. The reminder of his single-minded determination to help find the man and bring him to justice was timely.
Everything she knew about him suggested her husband was a good man.
Instinctively, she understood that.
But still…a woman. In his bed. A former lover. And murdered, at that.
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to calm her wildly flitting thoughts and emotions, before opening them once more. “Why was she in your rooms, in your bed?”
“Damned if I know.” He sighed, the sound weary. “She was a guest at Barlowe’s dinner, and she made it clear she would be amenable to…resuming our acquaintance. I told her I was not interested and that I am a married man. After dinner, a group of gentlemen departed, myself amongst them, for the Black Souls club. I had no notion Mrs. Ainsley intended to go to my rooms. She was certainly not welcome there.”
There was something about his demeanor. A rawness in his voice. His stare clung to hers, unwavering. She wanted to believe him. Heaven help her, she did.
“How was she able to find her way into your rooms?” she asked next, still trying to remain objective.
To thoroughly examine all the evidence before she made her decision, one way or the other.
He tossed the remainder of his drink down his throat. “The landlord allowed her to go inside and wait for me. She had been there before and apparently recalled where to go. Over dinner, we had been chatting about how much more comfortable I found my old lodgings than this town house. I had no notion she would seek me out there. I have been faithful to our marriage vows, Elysande. This, I promise you.”
She was surprised by how much his words mattered. By how strong the emotions were surging through her. “I believe you.”
His broad shoulders relaxed slightly. “Thank you. I can well understand how great of a shock all this must have been. I would have come to you myself, but I was being questioned. Barlowe was a polite enough emissary, I trust?”
“He was the perfect gentleman,” she reassured her husband, for his friend had been a calming, comforting presence at her side from the moment of his unexpected arrival until the second he had left her at the door to the salon.
“I am not certainBarloweandgentlemanbelong in the same sentence, but I am grateful to him just the same.” Hudson’s voice was wry.
For the first time since the news had fallen upon her in the fashion of an avalanche careening down a mountainside, she forgot about her own anger, fears, and doubts. Instead, she thought about her husband. How shocking it must have been for him as well.
“What do you think truly happened that night?” she asked, some of her ire waning.
“I have no notion. I have suspicions, of course.”
“Suspicions,” she repeated, wanting to know more.
He was being so vague, and she needed specifics. Details and facts. Something which would point her in the right direction.
He poured another measure of liquid into his glass. “It is possible someone—even the hack who drove her there—saw a woman alone in the night and chose to take advantage. If she resisted or attempted to otherwise raise the alarm by calling for help, it is possible her murderer attacked her to keep her silent.”
What a grim and terrible business this was. Elysande found herself deeply grateful for the life she had led thus far. She had known nothing of the evil dangers lurking beneath the surface of the polished world around her.
