“Who were her suitors?” Hereford asked.
Cassie listed the men.
The viscount arched an eyebrow. “Not to be rude, but those men would have been quite the conquest for….”
“For a woman with my family’s connections?” She blew out a breath. Being the younger son of a baron, her father had always worried that his status wasn’t lofty enough to obtain the type of husbands he wanted for his daughters.
Cassie wished their status in society was even lower. So low that even with Lydia’s many attractions she would never have engaged the notice of a member of Society.
“Lydia was quite beautiful.” She smiled wistfully. “People didn’t believe we were sisters.”
The room grew silent at that.
Hereford dug a coin from his pocket and flipped it into the air. “I was in London five years ago,” he said lightly. “I’m surprised I didn’t hear about your sister.”
“Her death was well hushed up.” Excepting in Cassie’s and her parents’ memories, how quickly had Lydia been forgotten? How unimportant had her life been deemed to be? Cassie’s heart clenched.
Verity dragged her case folder across the desk and flipped it open. He turned through the pages. “This mark on her neck. How accurate a representation is it?”
Cassie rubbed her arms. “I copied it faithfully from the sketch Bow Street had. How accurate theirs is, I don’t know.”
Hurst peered over his shoulder. “It’s like a tiny crescent moon.”
“How was she choked?” Hereford’s eyes followed the path of his coin flipping through the air. “From behind, like Miss Moore here?”
“No.” Charles shot her a glance. “Judging from the bruising, the killer was face to face with her, both hands wrapped around her throat. The bruises match finger marks.”
Face to face. If only the killer had attacked her in the same manner, she might have been able to describe the man.
“And the tiny crescent moon mark?” Hereford’s hand was in constant motion, flipping and catching his coin. “Where is it located on her neck?”
Cassie indicated on her own throat. “About here.”
Charles gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him. He tugged on her scarf. “May I?”
She nodded.
Carefully, he slid it from her neck, his eyes darkening as they did whenever he caught sight of her bruises. “If the killer held Miss Lydia Moore like this”—gently, he wrapped his fingers about her throat—“then the mark would fall…about where his right, fourth finger lie.”
The coin fell to a rest in Hereford’s palm. “He wore a ring.”
“He wore a ring,” Charles agreed grimly. “A signet ring I’d bet. Although the face of it would have had to have been on the underside of his finger in order to leave the mark.” He let his hands linger on her neck, gliding his thumbs up and down over her skin.
Her heartbeat quickened. Just that small touch was enough to remind her of the way he could make her body feel. And it was so much nicer to concentrate on the little tremors he set off in her frame instead of thinking of how her sister had died.
Verity turned the piece of paper on its side. “It looks more like a rabbit’s ear to me. Anyone we know have a rabbit in his crest?”
“You think someone is going to have a bloody bunny on his seal?” Hurst scoffed. “It’s definitely a moon.”
Verity pulled his shoulders back. “You’re blind. It’s—”
“Not important at the moment.” Charles eased his hands from her neck. His eyes went hard. “Can Hurst and Verity assist me in my investigation?” he asked Wil.
Our investigation, she thought, but wisely kept her mouth shut. She needed to choose her battles.
The manager nodded. “As long as it doesn’t interfere with what they’re currently working on.”
“Agreed.” Charles faced his fellow agents. “Walter, will you visit Bow Street? See if they can tell us anything more about Miss Lydia’s death. Also ask if there have been any other similar murders where the victim was choked.”
