asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
“We will wait there while Mrs. Ashcroft’s bathwater is drawn.”
Grayson bowed. “Very well, sir.”
They made their way to the drawing room, and Catherine held her hands out to the fire. Flickering red-gold light reflected off her face, revealing a classic profile but for the dark hollows beneath her eyes.
“What a horrible end to what would otherwise have been a grand day,” she said.
Given they had started the day off by making love on his table, he had to agree with her.
“You knew all along, didn’t you?”
“Knew what?” he asked.
“That we would find her dead.”
“Not with any great certainty.”
She snorted. “That’s what my husband would have called a clanker.”
Sebastian’s jaw clenched. How did this woman continually see through his mask? “She could have eloped.”
“But you suspected otherwise.” She sent him a sidelong glance. “Instinct? Or something else?”
Ice trailed down his spine. “Do you have an accusation you would like to share, madam?”
Her probing gaze lost its courage, and she shifted her attention back to the fire. “Of course not, my lord.”
Sebastian grappled with his temper. In his line of work, he was used to being an object of suspicion and the veracity of his words always suspect. But to have her question his integrity, especially over the murder of an enceinte girl, burned every nerve ending in his body.
Outside of explaining her husband’s role in the Nexus and the facts around his murder, Sebastian had been careful not to lie to her. Very careful.
“By your own admission,” she said, “you have enjoyed an interesting past. One that has more than a passing familiarity to the insidious side of mankind. I thought perhaps this incident reminded you of something that occurred in London.”
His nostrils flared around a deep breath. When he released it, a great weight drifted away as well. “Only one other occasion comes close to matching what I saw today. Neither image will lose its grip any time soon.” His mouth felt suddenly dry, and his thoughts turned to the decanters in his study. “But you are right in that my past has prepared me for days like today.”
“A past involving my husband?”
All the weight came crashing down on him again. “You are nothing if not relentless, madam.”
A shadow crossed her face. “I suppose I am,” she said. “Without the protection of a husband, it’s how I’ve survived living in Showbury all these years.”
Sebastian tried to swallow back the guilt that clawed its way up his throat, but his mouth had gone completely dry. Not a single drop of saliva to soothe the sensation of his throat being ripped apart. He grasped the mantel to hold himself in place.
“Won’t you tell me what you know about Jeffrey?” she asked, driving the pain deeper.
“I cannot.”
“Why can’t you? Do you not think I deserve to know the truth?”
He closed his eyes. “Of course I do.”
“Then why, my lord? I don’t understand.”
“I know you don’t.” He pushed away from the fireplace and paced the small room. “And I can’t enlighten you.”
“Can’t, my lord?”
He whipped around. No one in the last decade had challenged him in the way this woman dared. Not his subordinates or his superiors. She poked and prodded and pried into places that could get them all killed. Did she not understand his silence protected her? And her daughter?
No, because he could not tell her. Not even that much.
But he could reveal the circumstances surrounding Ashcroft’s death. At least some of them. “You win, Mrs. Ashcroft.”
“I-I do?”
“Yes,” he said. “But I doubt your victory will be as satisfactory as you believe.”
“Then again, you might be wrong.”
A knock sounded at the door.
The widow’s eyes narrowed.
Sebastian sent up a prayer of thanks. “Enter.”
“Pardon, my lord,” the housekeeper said, peering around the door.
“Yes, Mrs. Fox?”
“Mrs. Ashcroft’s bathwater is ready.”
He looked to Catherine. “After you.”
She stopped in front of him. Fierce brown eyes settled on him. “I intend to hear more about this victory.”
Thirteen
Catherine sat on the hearth rug in front of a low-burning fire, attempting to untangle the mass of knots that was her hair. It wasn’t going well.
Each time she tried to pull the tortoiseshell comb through a snarl, her wet tresses slapped against her bare arms and dampened her cotton chemise. Even though the hot bath had warmed her to the bone, the fire still felt heavenly against her now chilled skin.
Thank goodness her dear mother had thought to send along a few items to get her through the evening as well as a change of clothes for tomorrow. Everything