Henry drew a sharp breath and lowered his pistol. “Carlton Guthrie.”
Viola stared at the man before her. He’d risen when she’d appeared in the doorway, which meant he was not completely lacking in manners, even if he had broken into their home. His emerald green eyes sparkled in the golden glare of an oil lamp that stood on the table beside the chair in which he’d been sitting. They were intelligent eyes—the sort of eyes that saw everything and quickly analyzed the facts. If he’d been honest in his account of Olivia Jones’s murder, Viola believed he provided Henry with very precise information.
She dropped her gaze to where Rex and Newton were napping. Both animals had obviously been pacified by something. The bowl next to where Newton slept had been licked completely clean. Traitors.
“How did you get in?” Henry asked.
Guthrie pursed his lips, drawing attention to the mustache right above them. It was ugly, Viola decided; too bristly and wide to be considered remotely flattering. It seemed to divide his face into two unequal parts and hid his upper lip completely from view.
“It goes without saying that I picked the lock,” Guthrie said. “Oh, don’t look so surprised, Lowell.”
“I ought to fetch the authorities and have you arrested,” Henry said, while Viola decided that upon closer inspection, Guthrie couldn’t be over forty. Indeed, she suspected he might only be in his mid-thirties, which was quite a bit younger than he appeared at first sight.
It was all because of that horrid mustache. “You really ought to shave that off,” she said without thinking.
“What?” Both men asked as they turned their eyes on her.
“The mustache,” she explained. “It doesn’t suit you.”
“Per’aps that’s me intention,” Guthrie drawled.
“I wonder if the chief magistrate is still awake,” Henry said.
“Forget the magistrate, man, and ask yerself why I went to the trouble of waitin’ fer ye to return home? If I’d come to rob ye I would ’ave been in an’ out faster than a randy lad ’avin’ ’is first tup.”
“Guthrie.” Henry’s voice sliced the air in warning.
“Beg yer pardon, Mrs. Lowell. Me tongue’s been tarnished by the gutter over the years. I ’ope ye’ll forgive me.” When she nodded, he glanced at Henry. “I’ve information that ought to be of some interest to ye.”
“About Olivia Jones?” Henry entered the room, approached Guthrie and plucked his glass from his hand. Intrigued by the odd turn the evening had taken, Viola went to sit on a nearby sofa.
Guthrie sank back into his armchair and watched Henry refill his tumbler. “No.” Henry poured another measure for himself. “This is about St. Agatha’s Hospital.”
“What about it?” Viola asked before Henry could manage to do so.
“Ye care about it a great deal, do ye not?” Guthrie’s head was slightly tilted. He was studying her, assessing her, taking her measure with his emerald green eyes.
“Of course. I acquired the building, saw to the renovations, hired the staff... I ran the place methodically for two years, always ensuring that patients were given the best possible care even though they received it for free.”
“Ye provided an incredible service fer the City of London. Before ye came along, many of those ye’ve helped would ’ave kept on sufferin’, or worse. So I thank ye, Mrs. Lowell, fer takin’ care o’ the less fortunate.”
Viola bowed her head to hide the emotion stirring her heart. “Thank you, Mr. Guthrie. It is kind of you to say so.”
He was quiet for a moment and when Viola looked back up, she saw that Henry had returned Guthrie’s tumbler to him and that he was having a drink. Henry took the vacant seat beside her on the sofa. “When I saw you last, you mentioned Tremaine’s intention to sell the hospital if he acquired it. Is that why you’re here?”
Guthrie narrowed his gaze. “In a manner o’ speaking.”
His eyes warmed and his lips drew into the sort of smile that convinced Viola he wasn’t accustomed to looking happy. It was strained and looked rather awkward. “I’ve purchased St. Agatha’s meself with the intention of ’avin’ it returned to the rightful owner, which incidentally ’appens to be ye, Mrs. Lowell.”
Viola’s mouth fell open, and for a second all she could do was stare at the man sitting before her. “But why?” It was the first question that came to mind—a product of her complete and utter shock. “You don’t even know me.”
“I must confess I’m as stunned as my wife,” Henry said. “One doesn’t spend thousands of pounds on a building only to give it away to a stranger.”
“’Ere’s the thing of it though... Mrs. Lowell is not a stranger. She is yer wife, Mr. Lowell, and Florian’s employer too.” Guthrie took another sip of his drink and smacked his lips together. “I despise injustice. Ye’ve proven yer worth since ye opened St. Agatha’s two years ago, Mrs. Lowell. London needs ye. There’s no doubt in me mind about that.”
Viola could scarcely believe it. Her luck had turned in the most unexpected way possible. “Thank you, Mr. Guthrie.” Her eyes misted with emotion and she struggled to stop her tears of joy from falling.
“Me pleasure.” Guthrie’s voice had softened to a gentler tone. He sat forward in his chair and reached inside his jacket to retrieve a folded bundle of papers. “I ’ad me solicitor prepare these. All ye need to do is sign an’ St. Agatha’s is yers once again.”
