He turned at the greeting, the book about a fallen woman who rehabilitates herself clutched in his hand.
The elder Lord D’Anville met his eyes. Owen couldn’t find it in him to say the niceties. No day was a good day at present, which was why he could not imagine returning to London’s ballrooms or dining rooms without feeling physically ill.
In the end, he nodded slightly.
“I was sorry to hear about the death of your sister,” the older gentleman said directly, making Owen feel exposed. He didn’t want a stranger discussing Sophia when she was no longer there to speak for herself. Yet, that was the very reason he had come.
“Did you know my sister?”
“Not at all,” the man said, appearing surprised at the question.
What had Owen expected? An instant confession?It was unlikely Sophia would have had interaction with the father anyway.
“You have a son, do you not?”
“I do.” D’Anville was starting to frown, probably unused to being questioned in his own home.
“I must speak with him,” Owen said curtly.
“I am not positive he is at home,” D’Anville responded cautiously. “May I ask what this is about?”
“His friendship with my sister.” The detective had been correct about the privilege of privacy regarding the manner of her death—her gruesome murder hadn’t been splashed across the papers for people’s entertainment. What’s more, if the D’Anvilles knew nothing except Sophia had died, with causes left unstated, then they should be entirely open and forthcoming.
The man hesitated. “I don’t believe they had a friendship. I have never heard him mention her.”
“Nevertheless, I wish to speak to him.” Owen knew his tone had hardened, but he couldn’t help it.
“Very well.” D’Anville rang the bell and, when the butler appeared, ordered him to summon this son.
“It will be but a moment,” he said.
“So, he is home, and you knew it,” Owen surmised, causing the father’s mouth to draw into a line.
“One can never be too careful,” the older man said. “Would you care for a drink?”
“No,” Owen snapped, unable to dredge up the barest civility to thank him.
“You may sit,” his lordship offered, footsteps in the hall heralded the younger D’Anville’s entrance.
Owen took his measure at once, a soft young man, overweight, pampered, not at all someone who would interest his sister romantically. Sophia had once pointed out a renowned pugilist in the newspaper, muscular and fit, and had said he was most appealing. This man was the opposite.
However, that could mean spurned attention, unrequited love, and heated emotions.
“Good day,” the younger D’Anville said, sounding precisely like his father.
Again, Owen nodded in return. “Did you know my sister, Lady Sophia Burnley?”
“I did,” D’Anville said, surprising Owen.
Also, surprising his father, for the elder D’Anville exclaimed, “Did you?”
“When did you see her last?” Owen fired at him.
The younger man frowned. “Why?”
“Because I have asked you.” Owen was unable to keep the menace from his tone.
Young D’Anville paled. “At a ball, I suppose.”
