“He’s bleeding,” she pointed out, her eyes sending daggers of disappointment at Owen, which he had no choice but to ignore.
Suddenly, Miss Moore stepped forward and withdrew a handkerchief from her sleeve.
“You brute,” she admonished Owen with a flash of white linen.
He knew before he even saw it. Naturally, the damning evidence would appear now.Fate had turned in his favor at last!As the young woman dabbed at the blood trickling from Smythe’s nose, Owen spotted the anvil pattern on the handkerchief’s lace.
Chapter Seventeen
Owen looked hurriedlyaround. If both women fought him, as well as Smythe, who was shaking off the unexpected blow, he would have a devil of a time getting him all the way down the stairs and along the street to his carriage.
“Where did you get that handkerchief?” he asked the earl’s lover, his tone wooden, since he knew the answer.
While keeping Miss Moore talking, Owen spied a curtain sash.Perfect!
“It’s Thomas’s, of course,” she snapped. “Whose else would I have? Youarea madman! Whatever you think of me, I am not a strumpet.”
Owen could not care less if the attractive Miss Moore slept with every man in the East End and then some. He took two steps across the small bedsit and wrenched the curtain sash free. In another minute, he had the murderous earl’s hands firmly tied behind his back.
“Let’s go,” he urged, pushing Smythe in front of him. At that point, the young man began to struggle. Too late, with his hands bound, he had no choice but to go where Owen directed him.
Miss Moore protested again, but Adelia remained strangely silent, ever since the handkerchief had appeared.
Owen walked past Smythe’s lover, snatching the bloodied kerchief from her hand and shoving it into his pocket. He had the blackguard—and all the evidence. He now knew where Miss Moore lived, and she could corroborate, albeit unwillingly, that Smythe owned the handkerchief and had possessed the perfume. He also knew Adelia would not bear witness to either. She’d known all along whom that blasted handkerchief had belonged to, and that knowledge turned Owen’s heart to stone.
It was easier than he’d thought to herd Adelia and her brother toward his carriage. As they walked swiftly along, he realized why the multitude of hackneys were going up and down the dark street. Like Smythe, many of London’s gentlemen frequented the area. When they did, they didn’t want their own carriages parked in the dangerous area. They were free to revel in a few hours of gratification with an East End lover before heading home to the prim and proper side of London.
It took a little pushing to get the earl into the carriage, but with the driver’s help, Owen accomplished it. He turned to Adelia; her gaze refused to meet his as he helped her in.
When seated opposite brother and sister, Owen stared at Adelia’s ashen face. She didn’t even ask for Smythe to be unbound despite her brother leaning awkwardly forward, trying to keep his head up, unvanquished.
Owen watched her put her hand on the earl’s shoulder, then smooth his hair back from his forehead, waiting stoically for their arrival at the police station. She kept her eyes firmly averted from Owen’s side of the carriage.
However, presented with her perfidy, he could not keep silent. “All this time, you knew the handkerchief was your brother’s. Yet you led me on a merry dance, didn’t you?”
She shook her head.
“An anvil,” Owen murmured, drawing the bloody kerchief from his pocket.
“For a smith,” the earl bit out.
“And the handkerchief I saw you use at Teavey’s?” Owen demanded.
Smythe shrugged. “A new one.”
Was the man about to confess?He seemed to be giving up all his secrets.
“You destroyed your others when you learned I was looking for the one my sister clutched whenyoukilled her.”
“No!” Adelia answered for him as the young lord shook his head.
Owen stared at her. “I told you, and unsurprisingly, you told him. Isn’t that right?” he persisted.
“I did tell him,” Adelia said slowly, “but he didn’t destroy his handkerchiefs. I did. I burned them.”
“Because you knew he was guilty.” Owen’s rage nearly overwhelmed him. He pounded his fist on the leather seat beside him. He genuinely admired this woman—more than that! And she had played him for a fool. All his burgeoning affection toward her was for nothing.
“Because I knew he was innocent,” she corrected him in her usual soft voice.
