“You did that,” she realized belatedly.
“Yes, I—”
“Don’t do it again,” Adelia reprimanded gently before she could stop herself.
His expression was one of surprise. “Are you not looking to make a match?”
“No.” Her tone was soft but firm.
“Hm,” he said, staring hard at her until she looked away.
He turned his attention back to the single handkerchief clutched in his large hand. “You collected so many.”
“I believe you were going to tell me why you are looking for one in particular?”
“Sophia was…she was murdered,” the viscount finished at last.
Adelia gasped, her hand going to her mouth as she shook her head in disbelief. Then, she did the only thing she could think of—she reached out and placed both her hands atop one of his where it rested on his knee.
“How horrible! I am deeply sorry for your family.”
He didn’t look at her, and she had a feeling he was close to tears. Yet, when he raised his head and looked into her eyes, she saw fury, not sadness. It was as though an angry beast were lurking below the surface of the civilized man, and she felt his hand clench and unclench beneath hers until she drew away.
He tossed the last handkerchief back into the empty basket.
“My sister managed to grab a handkerchief at the time of her death.”
Adelia did not want to imagine that moment or hear any more details, but Lord Burnley continued speaking.
“She was lured to a disreputable room in the East End, I know not why nor how, and then killed. Strangled, to be precise. Lord Whitely and I found her—too late. So, you see, if I can find the handkerchief’s owner, I will have found her murderer.”
“I see.” She considered the cloth squares scattered across the settee. “But you didn’t tell me to take note of whose was whose.”
He blinked at her as realization dawned. “I’m an idiot,” he said fiercely. “You might have received it, tucked it between your…I mean, kept it safe, and given it to me today without knowing to whom it belonged. Thus, I would have had two and still not known the murderer’s identity.”
She nodded at the flaw in his plan.
“I didn’t tell you the design to look for because I didn’t want to put you in danger, although I suppose you wouldn’t have asked anyone for it specifically.”
“You said ‘two,’” she remarked. “You have the other one?”
“I do.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a white, crumpled square of fabric. Flicking it open, Lord Burnley held it out to her. She didn’t want to take hold of what might have belonged to a murderer, but she looked at it—and stifled her second gasp of the brief conversation.
Narrowing her eyes, her mouth dropping open, she couldn’t credit what she was seeing. Sewn into the lace on the corner was an overlay in the shape of a delicate anvil—the tool of metalworkers, including blacksmiths and coppersmiths. It was her father’s vain handkerchief design, a smithy’s anvil, though their family’s business had been coal mining for generations.
And while presently, she had a more feminine kerchief lodged up her sleeve, one of those which Lord Burnley sought was doubtlessly in her brother’s pocket at that very instant.
Her brother!If Lord Burnley discovered the owner of this handkerchief, he would jump to the wrong conclusion. For Adelia was absolutely positive of one thing—Thomas was not a murderer.
*
Owen watched LadyAdelia blanch noticeably, the blood draining from her face. There was no denying it.
“You’ve seen it before,” he asserted, feeling his heartbeat speed up. When she said nothing, he leaned forward.
“Tell me,” he demanded, unable to keep the urgency from his voice. Nor had he realized his hands now gripped her upper arms until he gave her a little shake to break the silence and bring her startled gaze up to his.
“No!” she denied, recoiling but unable to break his hold on her. At the same time, he heard her maid rise to her feet in the distant corner of the room.
