“This isn’t a lark,” he said sternly. “A woman is dead. You need to take more care. Trailing after a murder suspect is not a task to be taken lightly.”
“Am I the murder suspect in question?” a voice said at Eleanor’s right side.
Mr. Rollins straightened, putting space between himself and Eleanor. She tensed. She didn’t know which was worse: Bannister finding her improperly close to Mr. Rollins or him finding out she had been following him.
She cleared her throat. “Mr. Bannister, how nice to see you.”
He smirked. “Come now, Ellie, we know each other better than surnames. I have seen your underdrawers, after all.”
Something that sounded very like a growl emanated from Mr. Rollins.
Her cheeks heated. “I was eight!” She smoothed her palms down the abdomen of her gown. “I was climbing a large oak tree,” she told the Runner. “And he was a perverse child who stood underneath me to try to steal a glimpse.”
“You were more droll as a child.” Bannister cocked his shoulder against the tree trunk and crossed his arms. “I fear as you’ve grown older you’ve become much duller. It must have been those years you were forced to actually work for your food. That humiliation must be such a burden to overcome. If it ever can be.”
It was good that her father had recovered his fortune so that the gloves she wore now were of a fine Italian silk, not the threadbare cotton ones of before. Now, when she dug her nails into her palm, all she felt was a slight pressure, no pinch. “Yes, there was a time I earned my wages. I didn’t have to go begging to mummy for a farthing.” She’d never been able to enjoy her wages. They had always gone to the family’s support. But shewouldn’t give the sapskull the pleasure of knowing how hard life had been.
Anger flashed in his eyes but was quickly gone. “Those days are over. Father and I will come to an agreement. He would never let his son face deprivation.”
She ignored the assessing glance of Mr. Rollins. He seemed all too content to let one of his suspects argue with the daughter of another, waiting to see if any sensational tidbits were revealed. “Where were you from half past eleven to half past midnight when your mother was killed?” If she’d had any qualms about so directly insulting the man before, they were now gone.
His smirk deepened. “I was with a lady friend. We left Carpenter’s and took a stroll across Waterloo Bridge. You do remember what it’s like to dally in the moonlight with a man, don’t you?”
It had only been a minor annoyance, that evening at Lady Hurst’s dinner party, the way Bannister had maneuvered her away from her friends and attempted liberties in the darkened cove of a folly. Now she wished she had raised an alarm, blackened his name. Or at least given him a good whatfor right in the bollocks.
“If I was ever in the company of a man under the moonlight, the attention was most unwanted and very short-lived.”
Mr. Rollins crossed his arms over his chest, his disapproving look seeming to encompass both her and Bannister. “Why did you not tell me of this woman when last we spoke? You said you were with your friends all night.”
Bannister shrugged. “She was very friendly, and I was back at Carpenter’s in under an hour.”
“What is the name of this woman?” Rollins asked.
“She didn’t give it; I didn’t ask.”
“A most convenient story.” Eleanor tried to imagine this man whom she’d played with as a child strangling his mother. Her mind didn’t want to acknowledge the possibility. “Without her, the only people who can attest to your whereabouts are your friends, who lost sight of you for nearly an hour. More than enough time to get to The Minerva Club and back.”
The amusement drained from Bannister’s face, replaced with fury. “Watch your tongue before somebody cuts it out. Everyone knows my disagreements with my mother, but I will not tolerate the slander that I killed her. Your newfound family wealth won’t protect you.”
“Protect me from whom?” His switch from calm disdain to rage took only a moment. Now Eleanor’s mind could envision him becoming physically violent much more readily. “The man who strangled his own mother?”
Quick as a viper, he struck out, grabbing her arm, his grip bruising. He tugged, and she stumbled into his body. “We tolerate you because your father was respected for regaining his fortune. That doesn’t mean we like you. With one word, I can make all of society turn their backs on you and your mother, treat you like the outcasts you should have remained.”
Mr. Rollins took the wrist that held her. Bannister yelped and released her arm. Rollins dropped the wrist and grabbed Bannister’s throat instead, propelling him around the tree until they were out of sight behind the broad trunk.
Eleanor stepped to the side, rubbing her arm.
“Stay there,” Mr. Rollins said, his gaze flicking to hers. It wasn’t a request.
She shifted back, putting the tree between them again. There were a few curious glances sent their way, so she leaned against the tree, trying to look unconcerned and hoping to hear whatever Rollins had to say to Bannister. Only a few indistinct murmurs met her ears.
Bannister certainly had the temper to kill. But if he were to sneak into the club, he would have had to leave his friends, the woman he’d left the coffeehouse with, changed back into women’s garb, and then raced the ten or so blocks to find his mother. Or raced to the club and then changed in a back alley? Either way, if he were dressed as a woman, where did that cravat come from?
Lady Richford could have let her son into the club through the back door, but that hardly seemed likely. If she’d wanted a private conversation with him, having it at home would have made much more sense.
If Bannister had brought the cravat with him in a reticule or such, that would mean he had planned his actions. Eleanor could believe he would commit an act of violence once his blood had been heated, but she had a hard time believing he could plot to kill his mother.
But she’d been wrong about people before.
