Annabelle had not chosen her words at all wisely. Her cheeks blazed with pulsing heat. Her coloring likely rivaled Sterling’s. Even the tips of her ears burned.
“Oh, dear. Oh my dear, dear girl,” Lady Caroline said, moving to take her hands between both of her own.
Relief washed through her.
Then, the woman who would have been her sister by marriage if not for Gaston’s death proffered a gentle smile. “You are most certainly getting married.”
With a snort of laughter that held no trace of humor, Sterling spun around and stalked to the window, facing out.
“But…”
“Now, now, Annabelle, no use trying to stuff the feathers back into the pillow,” Caroline said. “Out of curiosity, might you explain what brought you here in the first place?” As she spoke, she led Annabelle to the armchair she’d vacated moments ago.
Sterling turned to face them, his gaze sharp.
As Lady Caroline took the adjacent armchair, Annabelle reached for her abandoned brandy snifter and downed the remainder of the contents.
Then she fixed Caroline with a steady eye. “I came here seeking answers—about Gaston’s death.”
Caroline’s reassuring expression turned instantly alarmed. “Here? Why on earth would you come here? For that matter, how did you know where to find my brother?”
Annabelle cocked her head. Funny how that question seemed preeminent to both brother and sister.
Sterling cleared his throat. “Perhaps this conversation should wait ’til you have had a chance to get settled in, Caroline.”
“No, I think not,” his sister said, never taking her gaze off Annabelle.
“I guessed his whereabouts based upon a conversation I overheard between you and Gaston.”
Caroline only stared.
“You may or may not be aware your brother escorted my brother home the night of his death.”
One of Caroline’s hands fluttered to her throat. “Where did you hear that?”
“From Gaston’s neighbor, later confirmed by Scotland Yard.” Albeit with reluctance.
“I see. I still do not understand what brought you here.” The poor woman looked on the verge of fainting.
Remorse flickered through Annabelle. Caroline had been Gaston’s betrothed at the time of his death. Talking about that night was likely stirring up old grief.
She had no wish to hurt the woman. She had always liked her—as opposed to her disapproving older brother. She looked toward him now.
He watched her with a decidedly mulish expression, as if he stood ready to pounce at the least provocation. As if he prepared to defend his sister from an assault by Annabelle.
For some reason, the notion that he saw himself on opposing sides from her, after everything, hurt, which made absolutely no sense. After all, she had arrived a combatant. They were not friends in spite of the marriage license he’d shoved her way only a short time ago.
She tore her gaze away from him. “Suffice it to say, Lord Randall’s presence at my brother’s apartments on the very night of his death struck me as nothing short of suspicious, considering his low opinion of my brother. From the start, he made no secret of his dislike for Gaston.” Nor her.
Caroline ducked her head. “No. No, I don’t suppose he did.”
“Thus, I set out hoping to convince him to return to London with me for questioning.”
Her head came up. “Questioning? By whom? Never say Scotland Yard wishes to—”
“No,” Sterling cut in. “Annabelle alone has qualms over Gaston’s untimely death. Isn’t that right, Lady Annabelle?”
Without looking his way, she felt his hard stare locked on her.
