“Has it not occurred to you that you may have hindered Bow Street’s investigation by getting involved?”It sounded like Harlowe believed what Adrian told him.Samantha found no hint of suspicion in any part of his manner.
“I don’t believe they would ever have caught him.”Adrian stood, the conversation as far as he was concerned apparently at an end.He took Samantha’s hand and, bowing, raised it to his lips.“I’ll call on you tomorrow afternoon to see how you’re doing and to confirm the time and location of our nuptials.”
“I look forward to it already.”
He smiled, the warmth in his eyes snaring her for a few seconds until he turned away, his long strides taking him from the room as he made his departure.
“You should have told me what you were up to,” Harlowe informed her as soon as they were alone.“Instead, you deceived me.”
“A necessity for the sake of authenticity.Your response to my indiscretion with Marsdale was real.It lent credence to the act.”
“For all the good it did.”Harlowe stood and crossed to the fireplace.He stared at the flames.A log snapped.“At least he’s serious about getting married.As his wife, you’ll have full access.More than you would have as his mistress.”
The only thing of importance to Samantha was her ability to thwart potential attacks against the man who’d become her future.To Harlowe she said, “If there’s proof of Croft’s criminal dealings, I’ll find it.You have my word.”
42
Satisfaction was draped across Adrian’s shoulders like a cloak woven from pure pleasure as he climbed the front steps of Croft House later.Samantha would soon be his.She’d agreed to become his wife.
But first…
He entered his home and shut the door on the outside world.The foyer was cast in shadow, the longcase clock next to the stairs filling the stillness with sharp ticks.A broad-shouldered figure appeared in the parlor doorway, his tall frame silhouetted against the dim light behind him.
“I’ve locked him in the basement room,” Murry said while Adrian pulled off his gloves and removed his hat.Nothing more needed saying.There was no questioning which room Murry referred to since it had been used for similar purposes in the past, including his own punishments growing up.
“And the files?”
“I located Stanton’s.It’s on top of your desk in the study.”
Adrian flipped it open as soon as he found it, scanning the pages until the notes started to mention the viscount’s children.Four sons in total.Owen, Randolph, Philip, and Clive.The heir, the barrister, the physician, and…the disappointment.
According to the information compiled on Stanton and his family, Clive had been encouraged to join the clergy, only to fail his examination with the bishop due to his lacking knowledge of Latin and scripture.He’d had a brief stint in the army after, but had found the training too difficult, the discipline too demanding.
After that, he’d appealed to the foreign secretary, the Marquess of Londonderry, who’d managed to acquire a position for him as an aide to Henry Goulburn, the undersecretary at the War and Colonial Office.
Adrian flipped the page and read what followed.Remarks made by Clive during last year’s Season suggested low self-esteem on his part, along with the need for his father’s approval.
“Would you like a glass of brandy before we head down there?”Murry asked when Adrian finished reading.
“No.”He straightened.“Just grab the oil lamp.”
The valet lit the way and Adrian followed into the hallway, past the library, then down the servants’ stairs.The soles of his boots scraped the tiled floor as he stepped off the bottom step.
They turned left, away from the store rooms, the butler’s pantry, and the kitchen, and toward the room that still made his heart lurch in ways nothing else could.
This was where nightmares were made.The scars crisscrossing his back had been dealt here by his own father.
Dank and miserable, the space had introduced him to pain and to death.It had molded him into the man he’d become, enabled him to mete out punishments under his father’s rule.
Now, with his father gone and Evie’s killer confined to this place, the responsibility of ensuring justice was served fell squarely on him.He would determine what happened to Newton.There would be no one else for him to pass the blame onto.He was in charge and the weight of that knowledge made every cell in his body pulse with alertness.
They reached the arched door leading in.Crafted from a knotted dark wood, it was held in place by thick iron hinges.The large key protruding from the keyhole kept it securely locked.
Murry turned it and pushed the door open so Adrian could enter.
He stepped across the threshold and a chill crept through his bones.How long had it been since he’d last set foot here?He couldn’t recall, but he’d be damn glad if tonight was the last time he did so.
Murry followed him in, the light from the oil lamp filling the space and bringing their prisoner into view.He sat in a wooden chair, his forearms bound to the armrests, ankles tied to the chair legs, hatred burning in his eyes.A length of white fabric, an old cravat perhaps, had been used to gag him, though it failed to stifle his grunts of protest.
