“By Edgar Bannister’s body.” He pressed his lips flat. “It appears the killer tore the paper from Bannister’s hand and destroyed the remainder.”
“And you waited for Eleanor to leave before making this request.” I didn’t need to phrase it as a question. I knew why he’d waited. I just didn’t know if I approved.
He turned his somber green eyes to me. “I hope Mrs. Lynton isn’t involved, but I can’t yet rule it out.”
I didn’t envy the man his position. I knew all too well what it was to make an impossible decision, one that could be seen as a betrayal.
I trudged to a cabinet in the corner of the room and opened the top drawer. I pulled out two thick folders and brought them to my desk. “The applications are filed alphabetically.” I quickly shuffled through the papers, pulling out the ones he’d requested.
Rollins laid his scrap of paper next to the forms. I had a standard list of questions with room below to answer. Lady Richford’s hand was bold and rounded. Mrs. Massey’s neat and tight. Miss Abbott’s scrawl was barely legible. I remembered the headache I’d suffered trying to read her words.
It was difficult to tell if Mrs. Lynton’s hand was a match to the few words Rollins had on his paper. It was by far the closest of the applications, but I couldn’t swear they were by the same hand. But I wasn’t a handwriting expert. I suspected this Simmons at Bow Street would be able to analyze the two samples better than I.
Mr. Rollins must have had the same idea. “Can I borrow these? I’ll bring them back.”
I tucked the applications back into their folders. “Why don’t you take all of them? See if any others are possible matches.”
“Thank you.” He tucked the torn scrap back in his notebook and slid it in his pocket. Picking up the folders, he turned for the door.
“What will you do if it is a match with Mrs. Lynton?” I asked.
He paused, his wide shoulders drawing tight beneath his jacket. He didn’t look back at me. “I’ll arrest her.”
I let him go without another word, praying that if Rollins found a match to his evidence, it wouldn’t be Mrs. Lynton.
Because if Rollins arrested Eleanor’s mother, I feared that neither the ardor nor zeal of young love would be strong enough to overcome it.
Chapter Thirty
Lady Mary
“His Grace TheDuke of Montague paid a call, milady.” Mr. Stavers’s hands shook slightly as he took her light walking cape. “He waited for nigh on an hour before a previous engagement called him away.”
I removed my cap and tossed it on the entry table. “Was he annoyed with my note telling him he was co-hosting my party?” Marcus was a dear boy, but even I knew I had been pushing the limits using his name without his express permission.
“I cannot say, milady.” The butler gave the door to the entry closet a shove, fighting against the bulge of outerwear that stuffed it full. He finally won the battle, and the latch clicked shut. “His Grace did say he’d learned who wrote that rubbish about you inThe Times. He asked that you call on him when you have the time.”
Blast the man. Why couldn’t he have told Stavers who the blackguard was? Or left me a note? I shoved my walking stick into the bucket by the door that held its brethren and turned for my library, knowing a fire would already be waiting for me there.
I knew why. He wanted to see me face to face, delve into why I and my club were being attacked, before deciding whether he should step in to help me. Whether I wanted his assistance or not.
I dropped into the chair next to my sideboard, reaching for the crystal decanter that rested there.
And I didn’t fully understand why I would be so against his aid.
“A late tea, milady?” Stavers hovered in the doorway, his watery gaze taking in the brandy I was pouring, the slump in my shoulders. “Or it will take but an hour for cook to put out a nice supper.”
“I’ll wait for supper.” I didn’t take a sip, just held the glass between my two palms and stared at the ceiling. A spider had taken up residence in the corner near me. It wasn’t moving, just sat there. Watching. Waiting. Perhaps it was dead.
Fabric rustled. Light footsteps drew near. “A tiring day?”
“Did Stavers send you?” I lifted my head and glared at Jane. Officially, she was my lady’s maid, but the woman had been with me so long the lines between friend, family, and servant had long since blurred.
Jane poured her own glass of brandy. “He’s worried about you. We all are. If you root around like a pig for truffles, you’re bound to come up dirty.”
A bark of laughter burst through my lips, surprising myself as well as Jane. “How very poetical of you. I’m afraid mud has already been brought to my doorstep.” To my club’s, at least. “You and Stavers need not concern yourselves.”
Jane eased into the chair opposite. The skin on her face looked sallow, the flickering light of the fire casting shadows in the deep grooves of her forehead. “When will you go see his Grace?”
