“Which ball?”
The young man swallowed, looked to his father, and shrugged. “Maybe two weeks ago.”
Owen tried to recall a ball of two weeks earlier. He usually escorted Sophia.
“Which one? The Cragmores? The Pelhams? What did she wear? What did you talk about? With whom did she dance?”
D’Anville took a step back from this barrage of questions, and his father said, “Now, now. What’s all this about?”
“My sister met with foul play. I am trying to determine if your son had anything to do with it.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said the older D’Anville.
“Is it?” Owen asked. He turned to the younger man. “Parlez-vous Francais?” Possibly Sophia enjoyed this potato’s company because he could converse in French with her.
“No,” he said.
“Then who was reading this?” Owen spat out the words while holding Rousseau’s novel in front of him, seeing young D’Anville growing flushed around his fleshy jowls.
“That belongs to my wife,” the father answered. “Not that it is any of your business what any of us read in this house. I want you to leave at once.”
“When I get some answers from your son. If he knew my sister, he might know something that can help me.”
“I cannot help,” the younger man said.
Instantly, Owen saw red.Was D’Anville playing a game with him?
In a flash, he had him by the throat and was pushing him backward until his head slammed into the wall.
“You can help me, and you will,” Owen growled, while the elder D’Anville started to yell. Undoubtedly, he was pressing the infernal bell for help.
“I lied,” the young man wheezed. The younger D’Anville was very red and having trouble speaking.
“Let him go!” came the father’s voice behind him.
Suddenly, the butler was in the room, too, and laying hands on Owen’s shoulders.
He shrugged the servant off, not relinquishing his tight hold on D’Anville. “What did you lie about?”
“Knowing her.” The younger man reached up, gripping both of Owen’s wrists, trying to pry them away. “Please! I didn’t know her.”
Feeling the butler tugging at his shoulder and seeing young D’Anville, red and sweaty, pleading for the chance to breathe, Owen released him and backed away.
“Get out!” the elder D’Anville yelled. “I am reporting you to the police.”
Owen rolled his eyes. He couldn’t think of any threat that held any weight with him. The worst had already happened to his family.
“Do you have a handkerchief?” he demanded.
Young D’Anville’s eyes widened. He nodded.
“My lord,” the butler said, “you must come with me.”
Ignoring him, Owen kept his eyes trained on the man in front of him. “Do you have one on you?”
Again, D’Anville nodded.
“Let me see it at once.”
