Chapter 12

12

T he hackney Samantha had hired blended easily with the other carriages parked on Portman Square. Eager for the extra coin she'd promised, the driver had maneuvered the vehicle into a spot with an excellent view of Mr. Croft's home.

Despite suggesting to Kendrick that she delay all attempts at infiltrating his life out of respect for his most recent loss, the chief constable had denied her request. She re-read the note she'd received from him, delivered by Isak just moments before.

"Is it bad news then?" Isak asked, most likely noting her frown.

After meeting with him that morning as planned, she'd given him his first task. He'd completed it with success, though she didn't agree with the answer he'd brought her.

"A difference of opinion," she answered.

According to Kendrick, Mr. Croft was racked by grief and anger, both of which would surely cloud his judgement. He'd be more vulnerable now, Kendrick reasoned, and perhaps more willing to place his trust in a woman who offered him sympathy.

A movement beyond the window drew her attention. It seemed the Croft carriage had just been brought round. The front door opened in the next instant and Mr. Croft appeared, as tall, handsome, and foreboding as when she'd last seen him.

"Stay here," Samantha told Isak, handing him a warm mutton pie to reward him for a job well done. She watched as he sank his teeth into the flaky crust. "Keep an eye on that building and inform me of any additional activity."

"Aye miss." He departed and Samantha returned her attention to Mr. Croft's carriage, which was presently rolling into motion. She leaned her head out the window and spoke to her driver, "Please follow that vehicle with discretion."

They pulled into traffic and made their way along South Audley Street, turning left and continuing for a good distance before turning right and slowing to a gradual halt. It seemed they'd reached a church, though not one Samantha was familiar with.

Through the window, Samantha watched Mr. Croft alight, her view of him slightly obscured by a steady stream of pedestrians. It only got worse when he entered the churchyard's front entrance and vanished behind a wall.

Frustrated, she climbed from the hackney and went to address the driver. "Circle the church and pick me up from the street behind it."

Grateful for the fashionable wide-brimmed bonnet she wore, she kept her chin down as she walked to the churchyard's entrance.

Mr. Croft wasn't far, his attention it seemed, fixed on a spot immediately to the left of the church's door. Remaining slightly behind him and to one side, Samantha sank to her knees in front of a gravestone and watched him through her peripheral vision.

To anyone who might glance her way, she would appear as nothing more than a bereaved young woman who'd come to visit a dearly departed friend or relation.

Birds tweeted from somewhere nearby. A cloud slid in front of the sun, casting her in a cool shadow. The smell of moss and brambles and weathered old stone drifted around her.

Careful to keep her face shielded from view, she angled her head just enough to be able to peer through the uneven space formed between a series of gravestones. Her line of sight wasn't especially good, and with Mr. Croft's back turned toward her, she couldn't gauge his expression. But the stiffness gripping his body as he dropped into a crouch revealed the anguish and rage that consumed him.

His love for his sister had been evident to Samantha the moment they'd met, and now she was gone. Cruelly taken from him much too soon. Of course he would suffer. The question was who else might do so because of his wrath?

He leaned forward slowly, as one might do when placing an item upon the ground. A hesitation followed and for a brief moment it almost looked like he'd gotten stuck in his forward crouch.

Samantha kept her attention upon him as his shoulders bunched, stretching his jacket taut. A series of movements followed and then he seemed to reach for something. Leaning back, he bowed his head, appearing to study the object he'd found before pushing himself into an upright position. With one final glance directed at the church wall, he headed toward the front entrance, passing Samantha on his way and disappearing from view.

She remained where she was for a long moment after, just to be sure she wouldn't get caught in case Mr. Croft chose to linger. When she eventually stood, he was thankfully gone. Even his carriage, which would have been visible from her position, had disappeared.

Stepping between a series of gravestones, Samantha approached the path that led to the church's front door and made her way to the spot where Mr. Croft had been crouching. There, nestled against the ivy that lined the church wall, was a single red rose, so vibrant and pure in color, it stood out with startling clarity against the dark background.

She took a deep breath and expelled it, forcing herself to maintain her composure, though it took every ounce of her training to do so. The sadness of that lonely bloom compounded the loss of the youthful woman Evelyn Croft had been.

Moving closer, Samantha reached for the church wall and traced her fingertips over the uneven stones. Was this where she'd died? Was that why her brother had come here? To pay his respects and possibly find some answers?

She stared at the ground, recalling all too well how it had looked like he might have picked something up. Evidence perhaps?

If that were the case, she prayed it would help him track down whoever had done this. For whatever her own relationship to Mr. Croft might be, he deserved to get his revenge before she destroyed him.

* * *

"Don't let him fool you," Harlowe murmured, so low the words became part of the gentle breeze brushing Samantha's cheek.

Back straight and shoulders squared, she kept her gaze on the ground, and on the deep hole into which Miss Evelyn Croft's velvet-clad coffin had just been lowered. The somber drone of the vicar's voice complemented the dreary drizzle wetting the air and beading on everyone's clothes.

Even so, thirty people or more had come to attend the funeral. Samantha knew only the ones who had been at the Marsdale ball. Lady Heathbrooke was among them. Hunched in a way that showcased the frailty brought on by age, she stood some distance apart from Samantha, her arm linked with Melody's while she supported the rest of her weight on a cane.

"He may have loved his sister dearly," Harlowe added, "but that doesn't make him any less ruthless. It's vital you remember that."

Samantha slid her gaze to Mr. Croft's mournful figure. The information Isak had given her two nights before indicated that he might be up to something. Ten men had visited Croft House the evening after she'd followed him to the church. According to Isak, he'd recognized one as someone he'd once seen Wycliffe meet with.

She continued to study the man whose secrets she had to discover. He stood some ten yards away, flanked by two other men. Servants, she wagered. Pain was etched upon his brow, but rage was visible too in the tightness of his jaw and the hardness of his gaze.

She didn't doubt Harlowe for a second. Mr. Croft had the look of a man who intended to rip the world apart in his search for his sister's killer. And once he found him, he'd likely take his sweet time skinning him alive.

It was, she reflected, what she would do if any harm came to the people she loved.

This thought had barely formed when Mr. Croft snared her with a hard look. Not altering his expression, he dipped his head as though in greeting. She gave a quick nod and blew out a steady breath to keep her pulse even.

She turned to Harlowe as soon as the vicar was done with his sermon. "Shall we offer our condolences?"

"Anything less would be rude." When Harlowe gestured for her to precede him, she traversed the wet ground and approached the man who could potentially have more influence than the Prince Regent himself. Should he embrace his father's legacy.

Seeing that Harlowe, who'd been right behind her, had stopped to greet an acquaintance, Samantha continued toward Mr. Croft on her own. A few other people ahead of her reached him first, so she waited until they'd voiced their regrets and moved on before stepping nearer.

"Mr. Croft," she said, doing her best not to let his powerful presence affect her. It was one thing to watch him from a distance, but close up, he appeared more unyielding than when they'd first been introduced.

His bearing was dangerous, almost threatening, when he pinned her with the intensity of his dark eyes.

"Miss Carmichael, if memory serves." His voice was low but even, as carefully controlled as his inscrutable expression.

"Indeed." It took some strength of will for her to keep holding his gaze – to not let him weaken her in any way. "I enjoyed a wonderful conversation with your sister the other evening, and wanted to tell you how truly sorry I am for your loss. It pains me to know that she's no longer with us."

Just like that night at the Marsdale ball, the penetrating look in his eyes seemed to search for the truth in her words. Samantha willed herself to keep breathing, to not allow doubt or uncertainty to show in something as simple as holding her breath.

"Your consideration is much appreciated," he eventually told her. "Evelyn was happy to make your acquaintance and looked forward to having you visit for tea."

Samantha considered asking if he had any leads that might help find the killer, but decided against it. Now was not the time to address such a distasteful subject.

With that in mind, she simply told him, "Thank you, Mr. Croft. I shall carry that sentiment with me forever."

She started to turn away.

"Miss Carmichael," he said, almost with a hint of warning. "Whoever did this has yet to be caught. I urge you to be careful."

He gave his attention to someone else before she was able to thank him, his manner suggesting he'd already dismissed her from his mind.