Not a Fine Gentleman (Rogue Hearts #6) - Donna Hatch Page 0,1

as he toyed with it. He grinned at her, an expression that had once made her heart trip all over itself.

She turned away from the sight and stalked out of the room. Somehow, the lout had managed to cut through her usual shield of indifference. The bounder! If only she could challenge him to a duel. Running a blade through him would be so satisfying. Perhaps she could go hunting with him—and “accidentally” shoot him.

Margaret mounted the steps of the winding staircase toward her bedchambers. A resounding crash broke the stillness. She groaned. The dissipated idiot had probably fallen. Again. A thump and then another crash brought her steps up short.

Surely the servants would aid him. She waited. No sound came. Perhaps Gibbs had retired once she and Hennessy both arrived. A footman should be nearby, however, and his valet should be up and about.

A strangled, low-pitched scream echoed through the great hall and sent chills down her spine. A second, filled with agony, rippled through the air. All fell silent.

She called out, “Hennessy?”

Silence.

Something was amiss. Margaret rushed back down the staircase to the library. “Hennessy!”

A groan met her as she entered. She rounded the table in the center of the room and froze. Her husband lay on his back, his face turned toward her, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Dark liquid spread over his white shirt and spilled onto the cream carpeting. He gasped and coughed.

A scraping noise drew her gaze. Half in and half out of the window, a strange man sat on the sill. He turned his head toward her. The lamplight illuminated a long, pointed nose, receded chin, and glittering black eyes in a decidedly rodent-like visage.

As their gazes locked, he stepped back inside. “Bad luck ya seen me, ducks. Now, you gotta be next.” He drew out a knife.

Footsteps neared, and a male voice echoed in the great hall. “My lord?”

The rodent-man grunted. “I’ll come back fer ye, ducks.” He gave her a dark grin, slithered out the window, and disappeared.

“Ta…” Hennessy coughed, clawing at his chest. “Tal…”

Margaret rushed to her husband and collapsed to her knees next to him. “Hennessy?” She pressed a hand over the wound. Scarlet darkened his clothing in an ever-widening stain. “No.” She drew in a ragged breath. “No!”

Hennessy coughed again, blood seeping from his lips. After one a last gurgle, he went still.

“Henn?” Her voice abandoned her. “Hennessy?”

She gaped at the the unmoving chest, the profound silence. Cold stole over her like a winter frost.

He was dead. Dead. She’d half-wished for his demise to free herself from him but now… She stared, numb. Disbelieving.

She pressed a hand to her head. What to do? Why couldn’t she think?

A footman and a parlormaid wearing a nightcap rushed in and halted, mouths agape.

The footman let out a gasp. “You’ve killed him.”

The maid screamed. Took a breath. Screamed again. Over and over.

Margaret looked down at Hennessy, so still, so peaceful. With his eyes closed, he could almost be asleep—except for the blood, on him, on her evening gown, on her hands. She rubbed at her hands but only smeared the red liquid. The maid took a breath and let out another scream. Margaret struggled to her feet, shaking so badly she could barely move.

As the maid sucked in another breath, Margaret rasped, “Send for the Night Watch.” Her legs wobbled. She grabbed onto the back of a chair.

The footman continued staring, and the maid continued screaming.

“Silence!” Margaret barked at the girl. To no effect. The screams continued.

Margaret drew herself up, marched across the room, and slapped the maid. The girl shut her mouth and stared, at her, at Lord Hennessy’s still body.

Margaret turned on the footman. “Night watchman, this instant!”

Gibbs arrived, hastily tying his cravat. The butler stopped short, his attention focusing on her hands, her gown, and finally on Hennessy.

He paled. Gaped. Stammered, “M-my lady….”

“Someone has killed Lord Hennessey,” Margaret said.

“Yes, you have.” Gibbs swallowed.

She recoiled. “I didn’t kill him.”

The servants stared at her like a bunch of mute idiots. At least the maid had stopped screaming.

Margaret gestured to Hennessy. “I heard a noise and came to see if he had fallen and hurt himself. None of you rushed to his aid. Where were all of you?”

Three pairs of wide eyes stared at her, mouths agape, in clear disbelief. No trial necessary. They believed her guilty.

“I didn’t do this!” she shouted.

The butler recovered first, holding his hands out and speaking to her as if he addressed a skittish horse. “Come,