Henry’s first thought was for his mother.Has something happened to her?
“You’d better show him in, right away.”
“Yes, my lord.” Bales retreated.
Seconds later, Hobsworth swept into the dining room, his burgundy morning coat billowing up behind him and his walking stick puncturing rather than tapping the floor. Despite the chilly weather, beads of sweat glistened on his forehead under his top hat.
Henry stood up. “What’s going on, Hobs? Is it my mother?”
Hobsworth removed his hat and hung it absentmindedly on a chair. “Lady Stokeford is fine,” he said, reaching into his pocket and fishing out his handkerchief to mop his forehead.
Henry eyed his friend. He’d never seen the usually jovial Hobsworth in such a state.
“It’s…it’suhm…” Hobsworth seemed to choke on his words. He wetted his lips and massaged his throat.
“Sit down. I’ll pour you a drink.” Henry stood and approached the sturdy walnut cabinet that housed the crystal decanter of whiskey and matching glasses. He poured the drink and set it down on the table.
“It’s whiskey, not brandy.”
His friend didn’t seem to care and drained the glass in one long swallow. “Thank you,” he said, putting his hand on his chest and breathing as if he’d drunk an elixir.
“Now,” Henry clapped his hands, “tell me what is so urgent.”
Hobsworth ran a hand over his mouth as if he wanted to stave off the words a few seconds longer. “You’ve been identified as a suspect in the murder of Annabel Leonard.”
He spoke so fast that Henry had to pause to digest his words; they were ridiculous. He threw back his head and laughed. “You’re hilarious, Hobs. Is Stokeford Manor so boring that you came all this way for entertainment?”
Hobsworth stared blankly at Henry. Beads of sweat reappeared on his forehead, and Henry could see his fear was genuine. Hobsworth had never been a good trickster. He was hopeless at telling lies—so it didn’t make sense that he would come all the way to Sevenoaks with such an outlandish tale if it wasn’t true. Henry let the smile fall from his face.
“Someone’s playing a trick on you, Hobs. Is it the earl? Is he trying to scare you into keeping your distance from me?”
“This isn’t a joke.” Hobsworth leaned forward and grasped Henry’s arm.
Henry forced a smile despite the lump of fear that formed in his stomach. “Come on now, Hobs. Have you gone mad? What reason would anyone have to accuse me?”
“I told you not to make an enemy of Craventhorp.”
“I don’t understand. Craventhorp cannot simply point a finger and accuse me of murder without proof—witnesses—that sort of thing.”
“They have witnesses.”
“What?” The air left Henry’s lungs, and his question came out in a whisper.
“Craventhorp and Leonard have built a case against you.” He tugged at his collar. “They have three witnesses who claim they saw you with the Leonard woman and many more who saw you attack Craventhorp twice the night of Lady Dawley’s ball.”
Henry shrank back into his seat. “Three witnesses say they saw me with Annabel Leonard? This is ludicrous. It’s impossible. I don’t know her—unless they saw her run into me in the garden.”
“Immediately before you lunged at Craventhorp in a drunken state and attempted to strangle him?”
“I agree it looks bad, and I suppose people could’ve wrongly assumed that we were fighting over the young lady—that I was jealous.”
“Exactly,” Hobsworth said.
“Well, then I’ll have to explain it to the police.”
“Yes, that’s why I’m here.” Hobsworth nodded and lowered his gaze. His pale face had become a blotch of red.
“What do you mean?”
