his eyes shut briefly and shuddered. When he opened them, he blew out a breath. “There was nothing I could do to stop her from falling. I’d moved too far away to reach her.” Besides, he’d been too shocked in the moment to act. Shocked? Or had he just not cared enough to do so? If that had been anyone else falling—Regan or…Beatrix—he would have endangered himself to save them.
The blame he’d assigned himself roared through him. Perhaps Bow Street would find him guilty too. If not for his daughter, he might even allow himself to be punished for it. But she needed him, and he would fight for her with every breath he took.
“Oh, Thomas,” Aunt Charity breathed. She put her arms around him and gave him a hard, swift hug. Then she turned, eyes blazing, toward the constable. “This poor man has been through enough. Can’t you see that?”
“It certainly seems an ordeal,” Dearborn said, frowning. He looked at Thomas. “You mentioned a penknife. We didn’t find that in our search. Would you mind if I look again?”
“You won’t find it. I’ve searched everywhere.”
Dearborn grimaced. He opened his mouth but hesitated before asking, tentatively, “Does this penknife actually exist?”
Aunt Charity drew a sharp breath, and Thomas wiped his hand over his face. “Yes. It was a gift from her father years ago. The handle was ivory with her initials—DC—carved into a design. Her mother knows of its existence, but I can’t produce it for you. I’ve searched everywhere, including her chamber.”
The lines crossing Dearborn’s brow deepened. “Why would you search her chamber if she attacked you with it?”
“Because I wanted to be sure I wasn’t going mad, if you must know. When you live with someone like her for years, you sometimes begin to doubt your own sanity.”
Dearborn blanched and tipped his head down as he scribbled a series of notes in his book. Aunt Charity gave Thomas’s arm a squeeze before letting him go.
At length, Dearborn closed his little book. His features tight, he replaced the book and the pencil in his coat. “After I conduct my search, I’ll be on my way. It may be that we return to search the entire house. I’ll send word if that’s the case.”
“Why are you continuing to pester him?” Aunt Charity demanded. “Can’t you see he’s been through hell?”
Dearborn turned a frosty stare toward her. “Lord Rockbourne hasn’t been truthful, and we’ve found ample motive for him to have pushed his wife. Her death seems to have been a convenient and welcome happenstance. It is my duty to investigate how it occurred. That it causes unpleasantness is unfortunate, but I’m sure you’ll agree that a woman’s death is even more so.”
Aunt Charity glowered at him but didn’t respond.
The constable inclined his head toward Thomas. “Forgive me, my lord. I will be as quick as possible in my search.”
“Baines will supervise and provide any assistance you require.” Thomas moved to the door and saw the butler lingering just outside. He gave Thomas a look of sympathy. “You heard?” he asked quietly.
“Yes. You continue to have my unfailing support, my lord.”
“Thank you, Baines. Please accompany Mr. Dearborn to our private sitting room as well as to Lady Rockbourne’s chamber and the balcony. The garden too, I imagine.”
Dearborn joined them outside the drawing room. “I’d also like to search your chamber.”
“Fine.” Thomas waved a hand dismissively. “I’ve nothing to hide from you.”
“Except what you already hid—and the name of the woman who visits you. I wonder, should I reinterview the household to see if any of them recall her name?”
Bloody fucking hell! He tried to remember if Regan knew Beatrix’s name. She had to. Had she shared it with her nurse? He wasn’t going to ask. It didn’t matter. He never should have expected her not to say anything. She was a child. No, the truth was that he shouldn’t have exposed her to Beatrix at all. It was unseemly. Even if Beatrix was the kindest, most charming woman he could hope for his daughter to meet, particularly after the horror that was her mother.
“Do what you must,” Thomas said through clenched teeth.
Dearborn turned and departed with Baines.
Stalking back into the drawing room, Thomas went straight to the sideboard and poured a glass of brandy. He wished for something more potent—gin would be perfect. His hand shook as he tossed half the contents down his throat.
“I’ll take one,” Aunt Charity said from behind him.
He set his glass down and poured another for