She leaned on him the entire way home, quietly weeping while he said nothing.For what could he say?The father she’d known had been so very different from the one who’d ordered Adrian to drown an unwanted litter of kittens when he was but ten years old.He bore no resemblance to the brute who’d whipped him whenever he’d cried or to the unforgiving authoritarian who’d raised him to be ruthless.
Gritting his teeth, he clenched one fist until his nails dug into his palms.He loathed himself for not rebelling sooner, for the real concern and dread he’d experienced on behalf of this man when he’d realized he was unwell.It had waned soon after, but that did not erase the fact that in a brief instant, he’d felt more for his father than what he’d deserved.
“What shall we do now?”Evie asked as they removed their outerwear a short while later and handed them to Elks, their butler.The older man was not quite fifty years old, yet his neatly combed hair was as white as the snug cravat adorning his neck.Soft features accompanied by a pair of warm brown eyes afforded him with a kind appearance that only a fool would misjudge as weakness.
“I recommend tea in the parlor.”There was much for them to discuss, most notably Evie’s future.Adrian’s fondest wish was to see her happily married, not for convenience as Papa would have wished, but to a man of her choosing.“I’ll just have a quick word with Cummings first.Shouldn’t take long.”
He dropped a kiss on Evie’s cheek and strode to the study where he was unsurprised to find his father’s secretary waiting.After years of service to the family, Cummings, like most of the senior staff, was more than an average servant.He’d been one of Papa’s closest confidants.
As expected, he stood upon Adrian’s arrival.
“Sir.May I offer my sincerest condolences once more?”
Adrian bristled.“That’s really not necessary.”
“The service was lovely,” Cummings pressed.He and the rest of the household had been in attendance until it was time for George Croft to be interred.
Choosing not to comment, Adrian hardened his gaze.It was time to defy his father once and for all.“There’s work to be done now, Cummings.For starters, I want the Croft files destroyed.”
4
April, 1818
Apprehension clung to Peter Kendrick’s shoulders as he climbed the steps of Number 21 Albemarle Street.The chief magistrate would not summon him to his private residence without good reason, and Peter very much feared that reason involved him having to stand to account for failing to catch the man who’d murdered Miss Fairchild, Lady Camille, and Miss Irvine.
Inhaling deeply, he drew back his shoulders and used the knocker.
“Yes?”asked the slender middle-aged man who answered his call.His aloof expression left no doubt in Peter’s mind that this was the butler, though it did surprise him a little that his superior could afford one.His own salary barely covered his monthly expenses.
“Chief Constable Peter Kendrick to see Sir Nigel Clemens,” Peter said, his voice so even and dry there would be no debating that he preferred to be anywhere else.
“Of course.Do come in.”The reed-like servant stepped aside, allowing Peter to enter a narrow foyer.“Your hat and gloves, sir?”
Peter handed him the items, then waited while the butler went to announce his arrival.Moments later, he was shown into the chief magistrate’s study.
Sir Nigel had always struck Peter as an imposing figure of a man with wide shoulders, thick salt and pepper hair, and sharp eyes.
“Chief Constable,” the magistrate said, his voice tight as he rose from behind his desk.“Thank you for coming.”
Peter answered the greeting with a firm nod while trying to gauge his superior’s mood.“Of course.”
Sir Nigel held his gaze.“Would you care for some tea or coffee?”
“Coffee would be welcome.”
The order was placed and then Sir Nigel motioned Peter to one of the chairs in front of his desk before returning to his own seat.He leaned forward, interlocking his fingers on top of the mahogany surface as he began to speak.
“Judging from your silence regarding the murderer responsible for the deaths of those three young ladies last year, I’ll assume you’re no closer to seizing him now than you were seven months ago.”
Peter shifted uneasily in his seat.A dressing down it was then.Not that he didn’t deserve it.He’d failed those women, failed their families, and failed the city as a whole.Hell, those crime scenes still kept him awake most nights.Despite every effort on Bow Street’s part, there had been no progress in finding the killer or identifying a motive for the murders.
All he could do was pray that there was a reason why he’d not managed to track down the villain.Hopefully, the bastard himself had met with a tragic end and no longer posed a threat.
Even as he thought it, an icy shiver slid down his spine.Unfortunately, such luck was rare.Nevertheless, he raised his chin.“Evidence was lacking.The two men I brought in for questioning were quickly let go.”
One had provided a compelling alibi.Sir Nigel himself had vouched for Lundquist.Peter hadn’t liked that one bit.Given the severity of the case, he’d considered it an abuse of power.Especially since the measurement Peter had taken of the footprint left at the crime scene matched the size of the marquess’s.
But what could he do?Not a lot, it would seem.Sir Nigel had simply reminded him that thousands of men shared that size.
