Not a Fine Gentleman (Rogue Hearts #6) - Donna Hatch Page 0,3

courage.

The butler appeared and helped her into her coat. Margaret donned her gloves and wrapped the strings of her reticule around her wrist.

The watchman let out a snort. “No need to get all prissy, ya murdering wench.”

“Keep a civil tongue,” she shot back.

Underneath her calm façade, her insides quivered. If she could get word to one of her brothers, they would help sort this. Cole, as an earl, clearly had more authority to intervene on her behalf. Grant, knowing the inner workings of the law due to his assistance with Bow Street, probably knew her legal options best, but perhaps Christian’s mysterious connections could be as useful now as they were when Jared was in trouble. Jared, who could very well brandish his sword and charge in swinging.

Calling on all her powers of control, she inclined her head to the butler, who hovered nearby. “Thank you, Gibbs. Please send word to Lord Tarrington immediately to advise him of what has happened. For that matter, notify all my brothers. Tonight—without delay.”

“Of course, my lady.” The slight curl of Gibbs’ brow and twitch of his lips gave her pause.

Would he carry out her instructions? Probably not. She must take matters into her own hands. After weighing her options, she added another layer of courage and formulated a plan.

The night watchman made an impatient noise. “Come along, poppet. You an’ me, we got business. Don’t worry, I’ll get ye to the magistrate—eventually.” He smiled slowly, the kind of expression men made when they’re up to no good. The repulsive expression revealed gaps where teeth should have been.

A cold chill trickled down her spine. Margaret used her fear to galvanize her. She would rather die than subject herself to the bodily harm this night watchman planned to mete out.

With all the drama of a stage actress, Margaret put the back of her hand on her forehead. “Oh, dear, I’m feeling faint. Oh, help! Gibbs, fetch smelling salts!” She moaned and swayed as if she were on the verge of collapse.

While the men stammered and gaped at one another, fluttering their hands in indecision, Margaret dashed outside through the terrace door.

As if a pack of rabid wolves chased her, she raced across the stone terrace and leaped down the steps. She plunged into the dark garden, following the path to the back gate by memory. With shaking fingers, she fumbled with the latch. Finally, it gave way. She charged out to the street. Panic drove her onward, heedless of her direction. She ran and ran. Her lungs burned, but she kept running, dodging shadowy obstacles in her path. She reached a square and slowed to glance over her shoulder. No sign of the Night Watch.

Now what?

She pressed her hands over her cheeks and tried to think. In the darkness, every shadow crouched as if poised to leap at her; every noise took on the sinister tones of thieves and cutthroats. The rodent-faced man’s threat rang in her ears.

Bad luck ya seen me, ducks. Now, you gotta be next… I’ll come back fer ye.

If she went to Cole’s house, she would be safe. Cole would never turn her over to the law, and no one had the authority to arrest a guest of an earl in his home. Besides, she was innocent. The real killer was out there somewhere.

Would he harm anyone who gave her sanctuary?

“I see ya, poppet!” the night watchman yelled.

She ran again. A carriage careened around a corner, and the horses nearly trampled her. She threw herself out of the way and flattened herself against a wall. A dark figure lurking in an alley reached toward her.

London had never been so terrifying. All thought fled, and pure instinct took over. She ran.

Chapter 2

Connor Jackson sat across the desk from Richard Birnie and gaped at the magistrate who commanded the Bow Street constables. “You want me to hunt down Grant Amesbury’s sister? He’ll kill me.”

Truth be told, Connor wouldn’t cross any of the Amesbury men. Angering all four would be an act of suicide.

Not to mention, Grant had saved Connor’s life in battle and had treated him like an equal, a friend, all the years they’d known each other. Could he really arrest the sister of a friend?

Birnie carefully lined up the quill pens on his desk. “Lady Hennessy is accused of murdering her husband two nights past.”

Connor straightened. Murder?

Birnie met his gaze. “Not only must she face the law, but her brother wants her returned home. No gently bred lady should be out