“You believe you are innocent of this crime?” Merrick said after a pause.
“Yes,” Sinjin said firmly. “I’ve never hit a woman. I never would.”
“Money can provide independence, but it is the truth that sets one free.” Merrick’s bespectacled gaze did not waver. “If I were in your shoes, I would not rest until I had the liberty that only peace of mind can bring.”
Gratitude and relief rolled through Sinjin. One person, at least, didn’t reject the possibility of his innocence. “I see. Thank you for your input, Merrick.”
“You are welcome, my lord. And money is never without its uses,” the man of business had said in brisk tones. “Shall I look into retaining the services of the Bow Street Runners on your behalf?”
It had been an excellent suggestion, and Sinjin had decided that he would hire the Runners himself. He’d been on his way to Bow Street when some impulse had directed him to Nicoletta’s residence instead. Which brought him to his present vigil. The door of Number 12 remained stubbornly closed. People and carriages passed by. A lady on the other side of the street snagged his attention, drawing him closer to the window. Her face was concealed by a large bonnet, but something about her triggered thoughts… of Polly Kent.
Anger still simmered at the chit’s unjust accusations, her damned assumptions about him. Yet, oddly enough, as time had passed, it was her assessment ofherselfthat niggled at him more.I know what I am. A plain, fat, and peculiar wallflower.Was she cracked? Had she never consulted a looking glass? A part of him wanted to shake her, make her see the truth.
Another part of him wanted to hunt Brockhurst down. He’d thought the bastard cowardly back then; now, he wanted to call the tosser out. His fierce protectiveness was as novel as it was alarming: he’d never felt that way about a woman. Ever.
So why in blazes did he experience it toward Polly, who had made it clear that she wanted naught to do with him? Part termagant, part kitten, she was wholly a confusing, complicated chit—and a temptation he could ill afford. The Fates had done him a favor by putting her out of his reach.
His gaze sharpened as he followed the journey of the mysterious lady who’d triggered his unwelcome thoughts, who’d now rounded the corner onto Castle Street. Damn, she reminded him of Polly. She had a curvaceous figure that her frumpy brown dress couldn’t hide, and the determined set of her shoulders was unnervingly familiar. The hairs prickled on his nape when she headed up the steps to Number 12.
The door opened, and a servant appeared, obviously inquiring as to the visitor’s purpose. The lady replied, and, as she did so, her head tilted to one side, revealing a clear glimpse of her profile.
Sinjin’s blood turned to ice as he watched Polly Kent traipse into his enemy’s domain.
~~~
“Didn’t you lot come by earlier this week?” the maid said as she led the way down a tastefully decorated hallway.
“I’m, um, here to conduct the follow up,” Polly extemporized, her heart thumping.
Thankfully, the maid didn’t ask any further questions, her aura corroborating her indifference. She left Polly to wait in a small parlor and said her mistress would be in shortly. The instant the door closed behind her, Polly jumped up and paced around the room. She didn’t know what she was looking for, but any clues concerning the mysterious Nicoletta French might prove useful.
The parlor was elegantly appointed, with buttermilk damask covering the walls and an Aegean blue Aubusson upon the floor. The furnishings were upholstered in brushed saffron velvet. Finding nothing of note in the seating area, Polly spied a secretaire in the far corner and hurried over to investigate.
A filigree tray of writing implements, a crystal inkwell, and a book rested on the blotter. Casting a nervous glance at the door, Polly picked up the volume and flipped through it. A comedic play—her brows lifted—and a rather risqué one at that. She was about to replace the book when a scrap drifted from between the pages, fluttering into the shadows beneath the desk. Simultaneously, footsteps approached in the hallway.
Panicked, she put the book down, dropped onto her hands and knees. She had to stretch to reach the fallen paper, her fingers closing around it just as the footsteps reached the parlor. Without a second to spare, she hastily stuffed the scrap into the hidden pocket of her skirts and dashed toward the sitting area. Her bottom collided with a chair cushion just as the door opened.
“Apologies for keeping you waiting, Miss Kent, but I wasn’t expecting visitors.” An ebony-haired beauty glided toward her. “I’m Nicoletta French. What can I do for you?”
Polly couldn’t help but stare. Tall and statuesque, Miss French wore a rose silk walking dress that looked sewn onto her hourglass figure. Her skin seemed too pale for her dark hair, creating a dramatic look, and her hazel eyes had a feline cast. Polly saw no lingering evidence of the assault on the other’s face, which was subtly enhanced with paint.
Even more than Miss French’s looks, Polly noticed the other’s aura: the woman shimmered with confidence… and not a little conceit.
Swallowing, Polly said, “I’m here to follow up with some questions concerning the Earl of Revelstoke. On, um, behalf of my brother.” She sent a silent apology to Ambrose.
Miss French seated herself. “I said all I had to say to your brother.”
“It won’t take but a moment,” Polly said quickly.
“I don’t like to speak of the incident.” A quiver entered Miss French’s voice, and she shuddered. Both gestures struck Polly as odd given that there was no sign of fear in the other’s aura. Just that eerie, unwavering self-assurance.
“I’m certain it must be difficult,” she began tentatively.
“Difficult?You have no idea what I suffer.” Moisture gathered in Miss French’s eyes, trickling over her high cheekbones. She dabbed at the tears with a handkerchief before saying with a sniffle, “It haunts me nightly in my dreams. The last thing I want is to relive it during the day as well.”
Polly’s nape tingled. Not because of the other’s tears but because Miss French’s glow remained utterly unchanged despite her apparent distress. If anything, her confidence grew stronger… as if she were enjoying the performance she was giving.
“I have only one detail to clear up, and then I’ll be on my way,” Polly said.
