“My lord, you have a visitor,” Mrs Boswell replied.
He marched to the door, unlocked it and flung it open. Doubtless he was about to remind his housekeeper to follow orders, but she was not alone.
The man in the doorway needed no introduction. MrDaventry, illegitimate son of a duke and favoured by the Home Secretary, was one of the most powerful men in London. His agents solved more crimes than the men at Bow Street. Handsome, dark-haired, and possessed of a calm authority that could unnerve the wicked, he was Lucifer with an angel’s heart.
“Forgive the interruption.” Mr Daventry’s mouth quirked upon finding them together in a locked room, but he entered without hesitation. “I’m afraid the matter couldn’t wait.”
“Did your man report an intruder at World’s End?”
“Not exactly an intruder.”
Something in the remark surely unnerved Gabriel because he dismissed Mrs Boswell and abruptly closed the study door. “Explain.”
Mr Daventry’s gaze flicked past him to Olivia. “I’m here for Miss Woolf.”
Her pulse lurched. “For me?”
“Lady Rothley,” her husband corrected, the subtle note of possession impossible to miss. “We were married less than an hour ago.”
The agent’s dark eyes moved between them. “I see. That helps matters rather than complicates them. And can you confirm her whereabouts since she was last seen leaving her cottage?”
“I am here, sir,” Olivia said, “and can speak for myself.”
“Yes, but someone must vouch for your whereabouts, Lady Rothley. Someone willing to testify in court.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “In court?” Had someone seen her with the valise and wished to accuse her of grave robbing?
Gabriel went still, the shift in his demeanour chilling the air. “What the devil do you mean? She took ill and has spentthe last two days in bed. Gentry and Mrs Boswell will vouch for her.”
“And there’s no chance she might have left in the night and returned without your knowledge?”
The question struck the fear of God into her. This was what she’d dreaded. The fraternity had found a way to incriminate her for their crimes. It wouldn’t matter what proof she uncovered in the valise. No one would believe an accused spy.
“Not unless she’s a sprite,” Gabriel snapped. “I’ve scarcely left her side, save to wash and change my clothes.”
Yes, he had read to her by candlelight. It hadn’t been a dream. The deep timbre of his voice had lulled her back to sleep.
Mr Daventry’s sigh proved most unnerving. The man was known to be cool amid the gravest of challenges. “Even so, I’m obliged to escort Lady Rothley to Bow Street to take a statement.”
“Like hell you will.” Gabriel’s nostrils flared. “You’ll not haul my wife through the streets like a common criminal. I demand to know what she’s accused of.”
Spying. Stealing from a grave. Burglary of a tomb.
He drew a slow breath. “Murder.”
“Murder?” She stumbled back, and Gabriel’s hand shot out to steady her. Even so, she felt the tremor that betrayed him. “Who am I supposed to have killed?”
Mr Daventry paused. “Justin Lovelace.”
Chapter Eight
The room tilted. The walls pressed close. For a heartbeat, Gabriel couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Then he shook his head, certain he’d misheard. There had to be some mistake.
He fixed Daventry with a stare that would give Medusa pause. “Explain yourself. And make it quick.”
“The man found dead in the cottage at World’s End carried a letter in his coat pocket addressed to Justin Lovelace.” Daventry’s tone was that of a barrister before the bench, though his gaze softened as it settled on Olivia. “The note’s romantic tenor, and the fact it bears your given name, suggest an intimate connection.”
She didn’t gawp at Daventry but steadied herself against Gabriel’s forearm, her frightened eyes meeting his. “I don’t know Justin Lovelace. And I swear I have never been intimate with a man.” The words rasped in her throat. “I haven’t left this house since the night you rescued me from that fiend. This must be the work of the fraternity.”
