Adrian tilted his head. The way he said it…
That same icy shiver he’d known when he’d heard of his sister’s death traced the length of his spine. He took the glass Orendel held and went to refill it. “Which one?”
“Eleanor. She…” A series of raspy breaths followed before the earl managed to say, “She was murdered last night.”
Adrian froze, his fingers gripping the cut crystal tumbler, the decanter forgotten as another vision from another crime scene flashed before his eyes. Mouth dry, he flexed his muscles against the unbidden memory, shook himself free from the web it cast over his mind, and poured Orendel’s drink.
“My sincerest condolences, my lord.” He handed the glass to the earl and invited him to sit. “Having been in your situation, I sympathize with you.”
Orendel drank, his hand shaking so violently now that he spilled the brandy, causing the liquid to slide down his chin. He wiped it away, brows dipping above mournful eyes. A strenuous breath scratched the air. “I’m still coming to terms with the tragedy of it and…my God, Croft… She was brutalized in ways you cannot imagine.”
Tears welled in Orendel’s eyes and when he spokenext, his voice was a choppy whine of pure sorrow. “What sort of monster would do this?”
Adrian couldn’t imagine. He knew very little of Lady Eleanor, had no idea what sort of person she’d been or why anyone might want to harm her. As for his own sister, Evie, the killer had made a tragic mistake, believing her guilty of something she’d had no part in.
A knock at the door was a welcome distraction. One of his maids entered with a tray which she placed on the desk. She poured Adrian’s coffee, added a splash of milk, and departed.
Orendel, slumped in his chair, the glass between his hands, seemed to have lost himself in some internal musing. Adrian sipped his coffee, set the cup aside with a soft clink, and asked him bluntly, “Why have you come here?”
Orendel raised his gaze, desperation straining his features. “I want your help.”
“In what capacity?”
“Whoever did this…I don’t want to leave their fate in Bow Street’s hands.”
This was something Adrian understood. “You don’t trust them to catch the villain?”
“It’s…it’s not that.” A shudder went through the earl’s shoulders. He seemed to struggle with his composure, gulping down air until he’d managed to calm himself enough to say, “I want the person who did this delivered to me.”
Adrian didn’t move a muscle. He kept his expression neutral, forced himself to remain completely still whileallowing Orendel’s implication to settle. Taking a moment to think, he reached for his cup and gave himself the time to enjoy another sip of his coffee while figuring out the correct response.
Choosing to err on the side of caution, he finally told him, “Your desire to mete out your own justice is understandable, but it’s not a matter I’m able to help you achieve. Whatever my reputation may be, I’ll not be party to torture or murder, which is what I presume you have in mind.”
Orendel stared across the desk at him, his gaze suddenly sharp and shockingly clear. “The rumors about you say otherwise. In fact, it’s believed that Newton did not hang himself from St. Bartholomew’s church tower, but that he was put there by you.”
“A falsehood,” Adrian lied, refusing to give away anything that might convict him of murder when Newton had gotten what he’d deserved. “According to the papers, a confession was found on his person. Clearly, he took his own life out of guilt.”
“I don’t believe that. Neither does anyone else, though you may rest assured there will be no further investigation into the matter. Everyone is too relieved by Newton’s death to worry about how it happened. Especially since there is, from what I gather, no evidence of your involvement other than Mr. Nigel Lawrence’s claim that you managed to catch Newton the night before his body was found. Seems unlikely to me that you’d let your sister’s murderer slip through your fingers.”
Adrian held Orendel’s hard gaze while fighting the increased strain in his muscles. He wanted to leap from his chair, grab the earl by his throat, insist he retract every word. Of course Lawrence would prove a problem. Adrian had known it as soon as he’d mentioned catching Newton in Lawrence’s presence.
“You’re wrong. Newton managed to give me the slip before I could hand him over to Chief Constable Kendrick.”
Orendel seemed to consider this with increasing degrees of futility until something sparked in his eyes – a flash of hope that put Adrian on edge. “Even if that’s the truth, you managed to figure out he was the culprit. You trapped him, which is more than Bow Street was able to do. So I’d still like to place my faith in your hands. At the very least, help me identify the killer. I’ll pay you handsomely, Croft. Just name your price.”
It was a tempting offer, not because of the money, but because he believed in Orendel’s right to enact his own justice. A pity that it would be much too risky for him to accept. The amount of trust he’d have to place in the earl, a man he barely knew, was far too great. Only trouble lay in that direction.
Besides, aiding a quest for vengeance would not lead away from the criminal life he still hoped to put behind him.
He shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t get involved with your plans for revenge.”
Orendel winced. He dropped his gaze, his bodyslumped in the chair. “Given what happened to you, I was certain you’d understand my position.”
“I do, I just—”
“He cut out her eyes,” Orendel cried, his body jerking as though in protest, causing his drink to slosh over the side of his glass and onto his trousers. “Left her naked with fifty stab wounds. The blood…” He shook his head, tears streaming down his hollow cheeks.
Adrian could only stare at him as the horror of what had transpired speared him. No one should suffer such heartless brutality. Of course Orendel wanted the murderer caught. Adrian understood precisely what he was going through. When he’d seen Evie’s body, he’d known he had to look her killer in the eye while damning the bastard to hell.
