Not a Fine Gentleman (Rogue Hearts #6) - Donna Hatch Page 0,2

sit, my lady. I’ll send for tea. Or perhaps brandy is in order.” He sent a meaningful look at the footman. “Hodges, my lady told you to bring the Watch. Do so at once. You,” he pointed to the parlormaid. “Send for her lady’s maid, then go to your room.”

In the back parlor, Margaret sat, shaking. How, exactly, had she gotten to this room?

Gibbs spoke to her in soothing tones. With a wet cloth, he wiped her blood-stained hands, handed her a full glass of brandy, and opened the terrace door to allow cool air to blow in from the garden. She let out a caustic huff loosely resembling a laugh. How odd that the butler behaved in such a soothing manner at a time like this; he’d always shown such a disliking to her and a clear preference for her husband.

Her now-dead husband.

Dead.

Over and over, she relived Hennessy’s last moments. She pressed her hands over her face but couldn’t block the image. So much blood….

She would never have the chance to win his love now. Learning of his perfidy had wounded her, but a small, stupid, naïve part of her had hoped that if she worked harder to be more accomplished, more admired by all of society, more clever, that he would one day love her, and only her. But she would never win his love now.

Was she unlovable?

“Lady Hennessy, I presume?” A male voice boomed.

She lifted her head. A portly man with an expansive mustache and muttonchops hiding most of his cheeks stood in her parlor. In one hand, he held a staff and in the other, a lantern. A night watchman.

He switched his staff to his other hand and made a quick gesture. “Come on, then. Come wiff me, poppet.”

His condescending tone aroused Margaret’s temper. “You will address me as Lady Hennessy. And I’m going nowhere with you. It’s the middle of the night.”

“Don’t matter. Come along quiet, now, an’ don’t give me no trouble.”

His insolence helped her find her usual cool composure. “If the magistrate needs to speak with me, he can pay me a call during the daylight hours.”

He sneered at her. “That’s not ’ow it works, miss ’igh and mighty. Ye gotta come now.”

“I’m the daughter of an earl and wife of a marquis,” she said to the cretin. “I’m not leaving my home at this time of night to talk to anyone. I’ve done nothing wrong. You’d best expend your energy looking for the real killer. He was just here. He climbed out the window in the library.”

“Sure ’e did.” Advancing on her, the night watchman reached into his pocket and withdrew a rope. “If’n ya don’ come quiet like, I’ll ’ave ta tie ya and drag ya there meself. An’ I don’t mind gettin’ rough ifn I ’ave to.”

She stared. This couldn’t be happening. Though night watchmen were common men earning a little extra pay watching the streets rather than trained constables, she had expected some modicum of respect—both for a lady and for the law. Clearly, solving this crime was not on his mind. Images of being dragged into a dark alley and ravaged crowded her imagination, as did medieval pictures of women being burned at the stake.

What if the magistrate proved as unreasonable as this ill-mannered ruffian of a night watchman? What if they truly did hang her without giving her access to the House of Lords for a fair trial? Was such a thing possible?

No, of course not. She not only had rights but privileges of rank. Most importantly, she hadn’t done anything wrong. She clung to that truth. She must.

She lifted her chin and folded her hands. “Very well. That,” she looked meaningfully at his rope, “is not necessary. I’m certain the magistrate will be fair.” She stood. “Gibbs!”

The butler appeared. “My lady?”

“Please bring my coat, gloves, and reticule. I’m going with the night watchman.”

“Very good, my lady.” He disappeared.

She busied herself by washing her hands and face in a basin using as much outward calm as possible and took special care to clean the scarlet drops that had spattered her beloved pearl and sapphire bracelet.

The magistrate surely did not keep such late hours, which meant she’d be taken somewhere else for the night. The watchman fingered a knife in one hand and caressed the rope in the other, all the while looking her up and down. True fear wormed through her confidence.

No. She refused to let fear rule her. As she washed her hands, she bolstered her