Turning the corner, he and Harry found the room. He took out his pistol and positioned himself in front of the door while Harry went to the side, his back to the wall, firearm drawn. Andrew knocked on the peeling wood. No reply—and no sound of scuffling from the other side.
A sense of foreboding prickled his nape.
“I don’t hear any noise inside,” Harry said in low tones. “Do you think he came and left?”
“Only one way to find out.” Taking a step back, Andrew slammed his boot into the door.
The flimsy barrier burst open, and he charged inside. At a glance, he saw a single room… and a man slumped over the table at its center. The fellow’s head was turned away from them, the tallow candle next to him sputtering, emitting smoky light. As Andrew approached, the smell of vomit grew stronger, and he saw rats feasting on a pool of detritus on the floor. A half-finished bottle of cognac sat on the table.
“Is he three sheets to the wind?” Harry kept his gun trained on the unmoving figure.
Going to the other side, Andrew saw the man’s unblinking gaze. To be certain, he removed his glove and touched the man’s neck. No pulse beneath the cooling skin.
“The bastard’s found another kind of oblivion,” he said grimly.
Reaching for his whistle, he signaled the end of the hunt.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Pacing in her father’s office, Rosie said, “Are you certain they will come, Papa?”
“I’m certain.” Papa stood by the window behind his desk, his keen gaze surveying the street below. “There’s still a quarter hour before the appointed time, so be patient.”
“You’ll try not to alienate Lady Charlotte and the Misses Fossey, won’t you? They’ve been so kind to me of late—”
“If they are innocent of the crime, then they’ll have no reason to be offended, dearest.” This came from Mama, who sat in one of the chairs that had been arranged to face the desk. She was dressed for battle in a stylish navy dress embellishedà la militaire. “At any rate, your safety is more important than theton’s approval.”
Rosie bit her lip. Her mother was right, of course. Yet her new friends were doing wonders for her reputation. Their glowing accounts filled the gossip rags: thebeau mondewas eating up the tragic tale of the Young Beautiful Widow, and she was the Plucked Rose no more. She’d begun to receive notes of condolence from ladies (even some sticklers) and bouquets from gentlemen (these she promptly dispatched to the rubbish bin).
Thetonwas now courting her; the acceptance she’d fought so long for was finally hers.
Now she just had to live long enough to enjoy it.
“What if no one confesses?” she said.
“We don’t expect anyone to,” Emma said from her chair by the desk. “But even alibis can provide clues.”
“We’ll sift the truth from the lies.” Mr. Lugo’s deep bass joined the conversation.
He was the final member of the group who would be conducting the interview. For propriety’s sake, Andrew couldn’t be present, and Mr. McLeod had left for Gretna to hunt for clues. For a lot had happened since the discovery of the dead cutthroat two nights ago.
Papa had brought in Dr. Abernathy, a brilliant Scottish physician, to examine the corpse. Yesterday afternoon, the doctor had presented his findings to the family and Andrew.
“I believe the cause of death was poisoning,” Dr. Abernathy had said in his strong burr. “The man was otherwise healthy, the wound on his shoulder nearly healed. Most telling, I found several dead rats by the pool of his vomitus. I tested some of the remaining cognac on other rats: all of them died.”
According to Dr. Abernathy, foxglove was the likely toxin as it was fast-acting, symptoms occurring within half an hour of administration. Foxglove often went undetected for it mimicked the signs of a heart ailment, accompanied by slurred speech and flushing of the skin. At the physician’s description, Rosie had had a sudden, jolting memory: the smell of vomit on Daltry’s breath, his garbled speech and red face on their wedding night. She’d attributed it to his drinking—but what if it he’d been poisoned?
What if Daltry had beenmurdered?
She recalled that he’d been absent for two hours before coming to her room. What if he’d met with the murderer then and been given the poisoned beverage? When she’d blurted her suspicions, the energy in the room had grown even darker.
“That makes sense,” Andrew had said, his jaw hard. “Whoever murdered Daltry did so expecting to get their hands on his money. When instead Primrose inherited everything, the murderer then tried to eliminate her as well.”
“We’re back to Daltry’s relatives,” Papa had said. “But which one—or ones?”
“Poison, as they say, is a woman’s weapon.” Em grimaced. “I can vouch for that personally.”
Strathaven’s arm circled his wife’s waist. “So we focus on the female suspects?”
