never discussed with another. Not even her mother.
In the same carefully modulated tone he’d used on her, she said, “Perhaps it is time for me to journey back to London.”
“Why is that?” His utensils clattered against his plate.
She ignored the undercurrent of danger lurking beneath his words. “Sitting idle, waiting for news, goes against my nature. I must do something. Maybe I can call upon Jeffrey’s friend from the city to escort me to my husband’s various haunts. Someone must have seen something of note the night he was murdered.” The thought of calling upon Cochran made her stomach quiver.
“Is this the same gentleman I saw leaving your home the other morning?”
For some inexplicable reason, Catherine felt a modicum of relief that the earl hadn’t been able to identify his colleague from such a distance.
She nodded, barely able to hold his gaze. “Yes.”
“His name, Mrs. Ashcroft?”
Every question he threw at her carried the sting of authority. Even though his features revealed nothing of his thoughts, his watchful eyes sharpened while awaiting her answer. Catherine’s inexperience with prevarication left her indecisive. However, everything inside her rebelled against revealing Cochran’s name to this man.
“John Chambers,” she said, relying on her instincts. “Do you know him?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Catherine’s bravado returned enough for her to prod him. “He mentioned something about my husband working with the Foreign Office. Have you heard anything of the sort, my lord?”
His blue-gray eyes flared for an instant before he severed the connection long enough to drain the last of his coffee. “Mrs. Ashcroft, we do not yet know what we are up against regarding your husband’s death. Any sleuthing on your part will only redirect our attention and slow the process down.”
She dropped her untouched toast onto her plate and rubbed the bread crumbs between her fingers. “I am sorry to hear that, because I must do something besides this incessant waiting.”
He indicated her schedule. “You will be.”
“It’s not the same, my lord, and you know it.”
“You are set on this course, I see.”
“Yes.”
Using a serviette, he wiped his mouth. Catherine could almost hear his keen mind searching for a way to stop her.
“Then there is something I must tell you.”
Apprehension cut through her anger. Would he finally reveal all? In a show of nonchalance, Catherine followed the earl’s lead and dabbed her mouth. “Oh?”
“Danforth brought some disturbing news from London.”
Her pulse pounded so hard, she could actually feel her flesh lifting at her neck. “Does this have something to do with my husband?”
“I’m afraid so.”
With uncharacteristic fervor, she bent forward and placed her fingers on the back of his hand. “Please tell me, my lord. No matter how difficult. Not knowing is worse than any news you could deliver.”
He stared at her hand for a long time and then the bones of his fingers curled into a fist, and his lips thinned into a hard line. He shifted his arm, breaking their contact. The room’s temperature plummeted, as did Catherine’s hopes.
“With any luck, Mrs. Ashcroft,” he gathered his utensils again, “you will be spared from ever experiencing the innocence of your statement.” He layered food onto the tines of his fork, his movements careful, precise. “As to your husband, I’ve received word that he was being followed, which might explain some of the comments he made in his correspondence.”
For several agonizing seconds, Catherine waited for him to expound, but he seemed disinclined to further discussion. In fact, he appeared the portrait of a man who often dined alone and was quite content with his state.
Except for his glowing eyes. Although he did an admirable job keeping them downcast, disconnected, Catherine caught brief glimpses of the fire burning in their frigid depths. She shivered, unsure what to make of this complicated man.
“Why would anyone be following Jeffrey?” she asked. “Do you think it has something to do with his Foreign Office connection?”
“I have told you all I know, madam.”
“Why would I not make the trip then? The answers lie in London, not Showbury.”
He stabbed his fork into a slice of bacon and conveniently stuffed it into his stubborn mouth. “As are Ashcroft’s pursuers, madam.”
“So your reticence is due to your fear for my safety.”
He carefully lowered his utensils and leaned back in his chair, directing those incredible eyes—no longer glowing—at her. “Did you trust your husband, Mrs. Ashcroft?”
“Pardon?”
“Your husband,” he repeated. “Did you trust him?”
Before the last few years, Catherine could have answered the earl with an unequivocal “yes.” Now, however, she was less certain of her answer.