arrived home, Charlaine had ushered Caroline upstairs to change while Pierce had followed Albert to his study where Coleridge’s former butler awaited him. Unfortunately, the man had little to say. He’d overheard nothing that would speak to Coleridge’s guilt and the blood he thought to have seen on Coleridge’s sleeve that night might also have been mud—as the man admitted after some probing. Clearly, he still detested Coleridge for relieving him of his employ.
After that, Pierce had waited in the foyer for Caroline to return. He’d paced then, too, picturing her upstairs as she slipped out of her dark red gown. His thoughts had carried him a bit farther still, and when she’d finally returned downstairs in her usual mouse-grey gown, he’d been close to ravishing her on the spot.
The spark in her blue eyes had told him that she’d been aware of his lingering gaze, and Pierce had decided that it would be prudent to walk her home instead of calling for the carriage yet again.
And so, they’d walked through the darkened streets arm in arm, her cloak wrapped protectively around her and her hood pulled deep into her face. They’d not met a single soul on their short way, and Pierce had treasured every little moment of it. He remembered well the soft feel of her hand on his arm, the way she’d leaned into him, the way she’d pulled him into a quick kiss before darting off toward her father’s townhouse and then disappeared inside.
He could have stood out in the dark for hours, imagining her inside, sneaking up the stairs and then slipping into her bedchamber unnoticed. Still, he didn’t dare linger, and so he had reluctantly returned home and called for the Bow Street Runners in order to locate Coleridge’s cousin, Mr. Oscar Ruthledge.
Pierce had barely slept a wink after all that had happened that night and then risen with the sun, his body still tense with waiting, with doing nothing, with standing still. Eventually, he’d found his way down into his study and begun to pace. For how long he’d been doing so, he didn’t know nor did he care to. All he wanted was for the door to open and good news to be delivered.
Hours passed, and Pierce thought he would go mad, his mind picturing Ruthledge dead or disappeared from the face of the earth. What would he do then? All evidence he possessed at the moment was circumstantial, but the testimony of Coleridge’s cousin would change all that.
And then the sound of Albert’s slightly rushed steps echoed to his ears and, within the blink of an eye, Pierce was at the door, almost ripping it off its hinges. “Did they find him?” he demanded the minute Albert came into view.
The old man stilled and, for a moment, Pierce feared the worst. But then a tentative smile tugged at his butler’s lips and he nodded his head.
Pierce’s heart did a somersault, and he fought to keep his hopes from rising too high.
“He’s in the drawing room,” Albert stated, a hint of displeasure crinkling his nose. “I’m afraid he’s not in good shape, my lord.”
Pierce nodded, suspecting that Ruthledge rarely began a day these days without a bottle in his hand. “Bring some coffee,” he ordered as he strode past Albert. “We need to sober him up so that he can tell me what happened that night.” As they stepped into the hall, Pierce stopped and then turned to look at Albert. “And ensure that Daphne does not become aware of anything.”
Albert nodded solemnly. “I’ve already instructed Miss Glass, and she assured me she would keep the girls well occupied.”
Pierce grasped the old man’s shoulder. “Thank you, Albert.”
“Of course, my lord,” his butler replied, a slight hitch in his voice. “I’ll see to everything.”
“I know.” Straightening, Pierce drew in a deep breath, knowing that no matter the resistance Ruthledge would put up, he needed to break the man. Cousin or no, a monster deserved punishment.
And with that thought in mind, Pierce entered the drawing room.
Mr. Oscar Ruthledge was indeed a pitiful sight. His eyes were bloodshot and, even from the doorway, Pierce could detect the stench that wafted off him. His dark blond hair was in dire need of a bar of soap-or several!-and his clothes were so wrinkled, seams ripped here and there, that Pierce could not tell if they were simply old or had suffered some sort of accident.
Still, despite all the adjectives that could be drawn upon to describe Mr.