Chapter Fourteen

J oss fought back a yawn. It had been a sleepless night, consumed with thoughts of a certain woman who was now a widow. And her newly eligible status eliminated one obstacle, but certainly not all of them.

Looking around, he took stock. His office occupied one of the two rooms he had rented above an apothecary's shop in Cheapside. The shingle hanging outside read simply "Private Inquiries." Business was not booming, but he had more than enough to keep him busy and to keep the rent paid. And he was doing it without any aid from Vincent Carrow, a fact that he was quite proud of.

As he settled deeper into the creaking leather chair behind his desk, he perched his booted feet atop it and considered all the things he'd seen the previous evening. But nothing at the forefront of his mind had anything to do with his actual paying client and whatever it was that his pretty young wife was up to. No. On Joss's mind was the death of Lord Ernsdale, and more particularly, the widowed state of Henrietta Dagliesh.

Unbidden to his mind came the image of her—naked, her body gilded by the dim light of that simple box stove. It was a memory that tormented him often. And he strongly suspected that it would do so for the remainder of his days.

As if his thoughts had summoned her, the door to his office opened, the small bell hanging above it tinkling lightly. Silhouetted in the doorway, wearing a green dress with a matching pelisse and bonnet, she looked every inch the wealthy and titled lady that she was.

"No," he said. The word came out immediately and without thought. It hung in the air for a moment and then settled over them like a thick fog, unpleasant and unwelcome.

"No? You do not even know why I am here," she said, ignoring his protest and stepping into his office regardless. The door closed behind her with a kind of finality that told him she had no intention of leaving until she'd said her piece. Part of him was grateful for her tenacity. She wasn't for the likes of him, no matter how much he might have wished otherwise. But having a moment longer just to look at her—to drink in the sight of her—soothed his soul.

Clearing his throat and shaking his head to banish such asinine romantic notions, he said with cold detachment, "Fine. Tell me why you're here so that I can give you my well-informed refusal and send you on your way."

"My husband is dead," she said simply.

"Congratulations would be more apropos than condolences," he said without any inflection at all.

She stepped deeper into the room and settled into the chair that faced his desk. Clearly, she intended to be there for a while. As she straightened the fabric of her skirts, dust stirred around her, reminding him that he had yet to hire a woman to clean because he couldn't damned well afford to. Not yet.

"He was murdered," she stated simply, as if it weren't a shocking act of violence. She seemed as unmoved by his death as she was by the low appearance of his office.

He knew it was shabby. The walls needed painting. The surface of the desk was cluttered, the wood finish nicked and pocked from years of use long before it had come into his possession. The chairs were lumpy and not especially comfortable. The floor and walls were utterly bare, devoid of anything that might brighten up the place. And in all of that, he was acutely aware of how it must appear to her. For himself, her presence highlighted one undeniable fact—he was beneath her. In status, in wealth, in manners and breeding, in morality. In every way, she was much too good for him, and he had no hope of closing that chasm. So he focused on the one thing where he felt solid and confident: his ability to take the facts and get to the very root of them.

"As he was universally despised, that is hardly a shock."

"Do you know Inspector Bates?"

It would be that prick, Joss thought bitterly. "I know him well enough."

"He is convinced that I had something to do with Arthur's murder," she replied. Despite her hands folded primly in her lap, there was a hum of nervous energy about her. Something was very, very wrong.

"Did you?" He wouldn't blame her. If any man deserved killing, Arthur Dagliesh certainly fit the bill.

She glanced up at him, her shock at the question easily apparent.

"You had reason, Hettie." It had been a slip, to utter her name, not even her given one but the too-intimate shortened form, as if he had the right. He could only hope she wouldn't notice. " Reasons. By the score, in fact. Did you do it?"

"Of course not. Arthur and I had reached an... understanding, of sorts. I would not confirm or even acknowledge the rumors about his lack of action when I was abducted, and he would simply leave me be. It's the happiest I have been since we married."

Joss shook his head. "And statements like that, Lady Ernsdale, are what make you a good suspect."

"I didn't kill him. I couldn't. Even if he did deserve it. You know that. But I need you to prove it... and the only way to do that is to find the person who did murder him."

He longed to say yes. To play the hero for her once more. But there was no percentage in it. In the end they'd part ways once more, and he'd be a hollowed-out shell of a man in the aftermath. "No. I'm not getting tangled up in the mess of your life. I've done that once already." And it was eating away at his soul on a daily basis. He couldn't risk being near her, of falling under her spell again.

"I could hang for this."

It would never come to that. Vincent would not let her hang. "That's hardly likely."

"If my suspicions are correct, it's very likely. And growing more likely with each passing day... you see, I think that Arthur's heir, Simon Dagliesh, is behind it all. I wouldn't even put it past him to have had some involvement with Gilbert Walpole."

The sixth sense that had always served him so well reared its head then. It wasn't just a possibility, but a probability. Still, he prodded her, "The inheritance is a done deal. He's got the house and the title. You'll go back to your sister and everything will be fine."

She looked down at her primly folded hands. In fact, she locked her gaze there and would not look up at him again. And when she spoke, her voice was pitched so low that he had to lean in to hear her.

"No. No, it won't," she said softly. "Because I'm with child... and if that is discovered, he will see me dead. Because if he does not, he risks losing the thing he has already done murder for."

The air seized in his lungs. He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Because he knew just what the implication was. After all, she'd been untouched until the night they'd spent together. "With child?" he finally managed to ask.

*

"I don't expect anything from you in that regard. You've made your feelings about me, or rather your lack of them, abundantly clear. But I am asking for you to help me to at least prove my innocence. I don't wish to bear my child in a prison and go to the noose immediately after... and Simon will stop at nothing to see that happen." She stopped talking, realizing that her words were tumbling out in such a rush he could likely make no sense of them. Taking a deep calming breath, she studied his face. It was impassive. Whatever he was thinking or feeling regarding her confession, she would never know until he chose to tell her. If he chose to tell her.

Continuing, Hettie explained, "When I am gone, there will be no one to protect my child. And no one turns a hair at the death of an infant, do they? It's commonplace enough to go completely unremarked upon. He'll still have everything he wants, it will simply be delayed. In short, Mr. Ettinger, I am in more danger now than ever before... and the stakes are infinitely higher."

Hettie was left once more waiting for a response. She waited for him to say something in response to all that she'd just shared with him. But he remained seated, his face an unreadable mask as the stony silence closed in on them. The longer that silence drew on, the more her hope faded. He'd saved her once, but it did not seem that he was inclined to do so again. Still, she waited. She waited until the very last shred of her hope left her.

After an interminable moment, and with no response given, Hettie gave a curt nod and rose. Turning on her heel, she made for the door. Before she could even grasp the doorknob to make her escape, he was there. His large hand slammed against the wood directly in front of her face, holding the door closed.

She didn't look back at him. She didn't dare. If she did, he'd see the tears in her eyes, and she wasn't ready to be that vulnerable before him. Never again. "Let me go. It's quite clear you have no desire to help me, and I have no desire to be a burden to anyone. I will ask Vincent. I'm certain he will know someone else who can look into the matter."

"Give a man a damned second to think, Hettie," he whispered gruffly. His breath was warm on her neck, ruffling the hair at her nape in a way that made her shiver.

"Let me go," she said.

He continued as if she hadn't spoken at all. "That's a hell of a thing to hurl at me and then just expect me to take in stride."

She knew that. It had certainly been a great deal for her to come to terms with, as well. And it wasn't as if she'd been keeping that secret for months. It had only been two weeks since the reality of it had sunk in for her. But she didn't want to empathize with him, she didn't want to think of his feelings. There was a little part of her, a petty and vindictive one, that still held a grudge over the way he'd treated her that morning—as if he couldn't be rid of her quickly enough.

Somehow, she managed to turn around in that small space he'd left for her without actually pressing her body against him. "I don't have the luxury of breaking it to you gently," she countered. "There is too much at stake."

"I know. I know there is. And I'll handle it. All of it. And once it's done, then we'll come back to this conversation," he warned.

"What conversation? I'm a widow, Joss. No one will bat an eye at my having a child only months after my husband's demise. In fact, it will likely only garner sympathy for me. You truly need not do anything." It was the perfect solution. Well, it was for everyone except Arthur's legitimate heir, but the feelings of Simon—who, at best, was a wretched little man and at worst was a cold-blooded murderer. His feelings could hardly be counted.

Joss leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath warm against her ear, close enough that she could smell him—wood smoke, a touch of whiskey, and the clean, masculine scent that made her ache to press her face into the hollow of his neck and let that scent consume her.

"Not another fucking word about what I have to do." He bit out the words. They were low and quiet, but no less fearsome. "You don't dictate that to me, Henrietta Dagliesh. I'll make my own decisions. I've been doing so for quite some time... and bearing the consequences of them."

Hettie shivered. His nearness, the sheer size of him—it should have been intimidating. She should have been frightened. But she wasn't. All she could think of was how good it felt to be in his arms again, or to at least be surrounded by his arms, even if the goal was restraint rather than passion. The temptation to lean into him, to sink against the hardness of his chest and feel his strength seeping into her was overwhelming.

As if he'd read her mind, his hand slipped from the door and his arm curved around her. He tugged her against him and just held her there. And she let him. For just a moment, she savored the sensation and took the warmth and comfort that he offered her.