When a Rogue Meets His Match - Elizabeth Hoyt Page 0,132
rug.
Adeline approached King. “If I agree to this, then I will start by looking into the dark corners of Marstowe’s life. I will have my answers whether you give them to me or not. Because while I do not chase justice recklessly, I will chase truth relentlessly.”
King didn’t answer.
“What am I going to find in those corners, King?”
King shoved his walking stick aside, and it banged against the edge of the desk. “You will find that John Westerleigh is the younger brother of the late Harold Westerleigh, former Baron Marstowe. As a young man, John was once destined for an appointment in the church before he sailed for Boston in 1798, immediately after the tragic, accidental death of his nephew, Evan Westerleigh.”
“Mmm.” Adeline watched King carefully. “Is that whom he killed? His nephew?”
“Yes. Though the account in the Times, if and when you go looking in their archives, will say that Evan Westerleigh, young heir to the Marstowe fortune and title, was discovered in the mews of the family’s London home. In the absence of witnesses, it speculates that he fell and struck his head or that he may even have been kicked by one of the horses. It describes his death as a tragic accident. You’ll find the story is the same in all the papers. It was quite the sensation at the time.”
“Why?”
King paced to the bookcase and back. “The old baron enjoyed a fair bit of celebrity in society. He was famous for his lavish events, titillating salons for all manner of artists and writers, and was a significant patron of the theater. He was quite popular. But there was never a mention of John Westerleigh anywhere.”
“Then how do you know that Evan’s death was not an accident?”
“I was there. I saw him kill Evan.”
Adeline frowned. So then there had been a witness. “Yet you did not tell anyone what you saw?”
“I tried…” King hesitated. “And then I couldn’t.”
An odd choice of words. “Couldn’t or wouldn’t?”
“The distinction doesn’t matter. No one believed me.”
“Why?”
He only shook his head, not meeting her gaze, his expression impossible to read.
Adeline waited for King to go on, but he remained mute. For as much information as he had given her, there was a great deal more he wasn’t sharing.
She pressed a different angle. “Tell me, is the baron here tonight to kill you?”
“What?” He looked momentarily nonplussed.
“Given what little you’ve managed to share about this particular crime, one might call you a loose end,” she continued. “I’d like to be adequately prepared for such a possibility.”
“That’s not funny.”
She turned his own words back on him. “It wasn’t meant to be.”
“No,” King said, finally moving. He skirted his desk and came toward her, sinking into the chair, his fingers pressed flat on the smooth surface. “The baron has no idea who I am.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes. It happened over twenty years ago. I was a child.”
“I see.” That explained a great deal. The word of a street urchin would never have stood against the word of an aristocratic gentleman destined for the church.
“I was eleven. I should have—” He stopped abruptly and didn’t finish.
“You didn’t expect to see Marstowe here tonight.”
King went eerily still. “I thought he was dead. I was told that the ship he was on sank off the coast of Massachusetts. At the time it was a small comfort. But if I had known he was alive—” He stopped again.
This time, Adeline knew the end to that sentence.
“Who was Evan Westerleigh to you?” she asked.
“He was my best friend.” His words were barely audible.
Adeline sighed. The boundaries of class should have made such a relationship impossible, but children were rarely bothered by such details. Adeline would know. “I’m sorry.”
“For what? You weren’t there. You couldn’t have done anything. At least not then,” he added pointedly.
Adeline bit the inside of her lip. If this had been any other person, she would most likely have walked away. A client who refused to provide information was impossible to serve. And yet…
Falaise d’Argent.
Named for the dark-silver cliffs against which it nestled, the small château and its vineyards had belonged to her family for over two centuries before it had been stolen. To Adeline it represented the roots she had never been able to put down, the only tie she had left to a family long gone. It was a promise of constancy, of a place where she might finally rest her weary soul. She had despaired of ever being able to recover the land, but now,