What the devil is the matter with me? Why do I lust for a chit who’s done nothing but wreak havoc in my life?
His obsession with her was madness itself.
“Get on with it,” he clipped out.
“Thank you, your grace.” Dobbs, the other magistrate, was tall and thin, his papery-looking skin stretched tight over his bony features. He held a notebook and pencil in hand. “How would you describe your relationship with Lady Osgood?”
“Be more specific.”
“Would you say you were on good terms with the victim?” Dobbs rephrased.
For Christ’s sake. I’d just fucked her. Is that good enough terms for you?“Yes.”
“No trouble of any kind between you?”
“No.”
“You didn’t have an altercation with Lady Osgood at,”—Dobbs consulted his notebook, “Lady Buckley’s ball earlier that evening?”
Goddamn Emma Kent. This is all her fault.
Alaric’s fists clenched under the desk. “I did not. I will consider any rumors to the contrary slanderous—and take legal action against all who repeat such libel.”
“Understood, your grace.” Clearing his throat, Dixon said, “And there were no witnesses during the time you and Lady Osgood were, ahem, together at the cottage? No servants who might have noticed anything?”
“As I’ve said before, the purpose of the cottage is privacy. The staff leaves at dusk and does not return until noon.”
“Beg pardon, your grace. We were just confirming that there were no witnesses to the victim’s poisoning—or, ahem, yours,” Dobbs said.
Incensed by the speculative glances exchanged between the pair, Alaric said cuttingly, “You do not need witnesses. You have my word as a peer of the realm. Now have you made any progress on the missing maid or Silas Webb?”
“No, your grace.” Dixon wiped his brow. “That is, we’ve nothing new to report on Miss Hutchins. We have, however, searched Mr. Webb’s office.”
“And?”
“It appears he has vacated the premises—and rather hastily, I might add. He didn’t take much with him, and, according to the landlord, he left no forwarding address.”
“We’ll keep looking for him, of course,” Dobbs mumbled.
Capital. Now I can sleep at night.Disgusted, Alaric stood to signal the end of the interview.
The pair of blundering idiots scrambled to their feet.
“Thank you for your time, your grace—” Dixon began.
“Then do not continue to waste it,” he snapped.
After the magistrates’ departure, Alaric stood, hands shoved in his pockets, staring out the window at the immaculate green square surrounded by townhouses. Typically the sight calmed him, reminded him of how far he’d come. Once he’d only dreamed of such privilege; now, through a combination of fate and hard work, he had an ancient title, estates in England and Scotland, and the power and wealth to do anything he wanted.
So why did peacestillelude him?
Why was he always under siege? Why did everyone—his family, Laura, theton, even these magisterial lack wits—try to bring him down? What was so loathsome about him that he invited continual attack?
Bitterly, he wondered if contentment was destined to remain beyond his reach. Perhaps happiness was a mirage, the way Strathmore Castle had appeared like a refuge... and Laura had seemed like love. As he looked out into the empty green expanse, a pair of well-dressed children—a dark-haired boy and girl—entered his field of vision. They skipped ahead of their nanny, laughing as they ran past the gate into the park. A pair of happy, pink-cheeked imps.
Something in his chest throbbed. An old bruise that never healed.
Or a foolish longing that wouldn’t die.
