Adelia’s eyes widened, and she stared at her brother, who shrugged.
“As usual, your viscount is jumping to the wrong conclusions.”
Her viscount?Owen’s gaze went to Adelia’s at the same time as she looked at him. He watched her cheeks turn a sweet shade of pink. She lowered her eyes as her brother continued.
“Miss Moore is to become my wife.”
*
Adelia hoped hersurprise didn’t appear on her face, and she managed to shut her mouth after saying simply, “Oh!”
But Lord Burnley’s shock was evident, and he offered a disparaging laugh.
“Is that so? You intend to make Miss Moore yourcountess?”
Smythe ignored him.
“I would like to see that,” Owen continued unkindly in a taunting voice.
Adelia could hardly imagine the scandal. The newspapers would be brutal. Thetonwould shun Miss Moore. Absolutely no one would accept her into their homes. Thomas and his new wife would have to endure utter isolation unless they could create a salon in their home on Hyde Park Street that drew visitors to them.
But Owen spoke again, “It’s no matter. Where you’re going, you will not be needing a wife.”
Adelia felt a frisson of terror dance along her spine. Owen intended to send her brother to jail, and she had to admit, the evidence was damning.
“He didn’t murder anyone,” she insisted, knowing she would be repeating that until proof arrived of his innocence.But what if it never came?
Suddenly, it occurred to her what she must do. Worrying about the scandal sheets’ reaction to her brother’s intent to marry beneath him was decidedly premature. First, she ought to be worried they might catch wind of this ridiculous accusation and ruin his reputation forever. Moreover, she must defend him as he had always done for her.
She looked at her brother, with the blood now crusted under his nose and his hair mussed, his silly bow tie sideways, and her heart ached for him. As soon as they were released from this nightmare, she intended to prove his innocence. If she could just figure out how.
Meanwhile, she began to work on the tight knots of the fabric binding her brother’s hands.
“What are you doing?” Owen demanded.
“Untying him. We are in a police station. You cannot possibly think he will overpower every officer here, as well as you, and escape.”
Owen glared, and she thought he would forbid her, but he remained silent. He also didn’t help, and it took her many minutes until she’d freed Thomas. He rubbed his wrists and sat back in his chair, crossing his arms, and keeping a steady gaze on Lord Burnley.
She had to admire her brother for his aplomb in the face of the night’s proceedings.
None of them wished to talk further. They waited silently until she heard footsteps, and the door opened. A slightly haggard man entered, already frowning at those awaiting him.
“What is the meaning of this?” The stranger, a detective by his manner of dress, directed his question to the viscount. “Taking justice into your own hands again, Lord Burnley?”
Slowly, Owen stood. “I have brought you my sister’s killer.”
Adelia cringed at the words, but he continued. “Lord Thomas Smythe is the owner of the handkerchief, and he has the same watermarked paper in his home as that which the note to my sister was written upon. Lastly, he had in his possession the very perfume she bought the day she was killed.”
Her brother rose to his feet under the weight of this damning evidence, and Adelia stood beside him, putting a trembling hand on his arm.
“Well, well,” said the stranger, his glance going between her and Thomas, taking their measure. After running a hand over the stubble on his chin and through his hair, which in truth looked as if he’d come straight from his bed, the man finally introduced himself.
“I am Detective Sergeant Garrard of the Metropolitan Police.” When his gaze flicked toward her again, she swallowed with nervousness.
“Who might you be, miss?” he asked.
“She is my sister,” Thomas spoke for her as he often did. “She has nothing to do with any of this,” he insisted.
