Page 107 of Not a Fine Gentleman

The one who’d been speaking glanced meaningfully at the others. “They’re hired bully boys, paid to rough up anyone who came asking for my lord.”

Connor nearly shook the footman. “Quickly, man, where did the Finches go?”

“I dunno.” The unlucky servant who’d been left behind shrank from them. “They took the carriage and their trunks.”

Grant asked, “Is there a second carriage going later? One with the valet and lady’s maid?”

“No, sir. They all went in the same carriage.”

Connor wouldn’t have known to ask that question since he didn’t live in that world. Not that it mattered since there was no second carriage for them to follow.

“When did they leave?” Connor asked.

“A few hours ago.”

A few hours ago. If Connor hadn’t stopped to save Meg from the mob, he would have arrived in time to arrest Finch. If he’d ignored the mob, a murderer would now be in custody, but a lady—Meg—might have been killed.

He couldn’t regret the decision he’d made, but knowing he’d been so close made him want to punch a hole through a wall.

Grant and Connor questioned the bullies further but learned nothing. Apparently, Finch had been careful to cover his tracks.

He’d gotten away with murder.

After taking the ramshackle bunch to the upper room of the Brown Bear, the holding place where prisoners were kept until they could be processed, Connor conferred with Grant.

His friend sported a swollen, cut lip and a black eye. “You look like you went a few rounds of fisticuffs,” Grant jested.

Connor tried to smile, but it hurt his lip too much. “Nothing that fancy. Just good old-fashioned street fighting, except, you know, in a nob’s great hall.”

Thoughtfully, Grant dabbed at a trickle of blood at his mouth. “This kind of work is best left to bachelors with a death wish.”

Connor stared at the uncharacteristic sentiment from the man who’d once lived for the thrill of the hunt and relished a good fight. He quipped, “Forgive me, I don’t believe we’ve met. You look a great deal like someone I know, but clearly, you aren’t him.”

Grant gave him a dark smile. “Having a wife changes things. I have a responsibility to her. I cannot account as to why, but she wants me to come home to her every night. It would be irresponsible—selfish, even—to deliberately put myself in danger and risk leaving her alone.”

The truth in Grant’s words smote him clear through.

All this time, Connor had been more concerned with his and Meg’s different classes, and with the possibility that she might only want to use him, that he’d completely missed another barrier. He would be irresponsible and selfish to consider a union with Meg while he worked such a dangerous job. A life without her, without color or song or joy, stared back at him in bleak emptiness.

“Jocelyn wants to return to the country as soon as possible.” Grant continued, “So this is the last case I’ll be helping Bow Street solve.” A soft smile stole over Grant, one that Connor had never seen, and he said in hushed awe, “She’s going to have a baby.”

Connor fought his way through his fog of doubts and discouragement, and managed to say, “Congratulations.”

Grant shook his head as he let out a huff of laughter. “I can’t picture myself as a father. I’ll be appalling. But Jocelyn… she’ll be a wonderful mother.”

“I’m sure you’ll both be very happy.”

Grant was right about this line of work not being fit for a family man. Of course, Grant had an alternative. As a wealthy gentleman, he had no true need to work. On the other hand, Connor had few options—a soldier or a lawman. Both were hazardous. During his career as a Bow Street constable, he’d nearly been killed dozens of times— beaten, stabbed, shot. Then he must consider all the late nights that would keep him away from his wife, and the times he chased fugitives, sometimes for days.

It was true, this line of work was unfit for a family man.

Therefore, Connor was unfit—not only for a lady, but for a wife.