“I know,” he sighed, and she heard the agony behind his words. “I am not so callous that I do not care about the lives of those young women. When Bridget died, I believed what everyone else believed, that she was killed by a traveling peddler, a gypsy, a tinker…some stranger who had passed through our hamlet. But with Tegen Quick, I began to suspect. Before she died, I caught them together—my father and Tegen—at the cottage at Dowerdu.”
Nicholas shook his head, eyes glazed with memory. “I never suspected that Miss Linworth was in danger. Not ever. If I had sensed that my father had an interest in her, I would have sought to protect her.”
His gaze sharpened, and he looked deep into Mira’s eyes, as though he were willing her to believe him. “I have tried to protect them, you know. The other young women. I have hired men—rather disreputable men, to be honest—to follow my father in London, to make sure that he does not hurt anyone there. And when my father is in residence at Blackwell, I follow him myself. I lurk about the hallways, watch the stables, making note of his every move. If he goes prowling for local girls, I am there, his shadow. I will not let him hurt another young woman.” He raised a hand to cup her cheek. “I will not let him hurt you.”
Mira thought of the form she had seen prowling the courtyard beneath her window that night. It had not been a dream, a figment of her imagination. It had been Nicholas. Guarding her. Protecting her.
She closed her eyes and leaned into his caress. Such a weight he carried, such responsibility. “Nicholas, you cannot watch him forever. And more is required: justice for Tegen and Bridget and Olivia.”
“Perhaps that is true,” he conceded. “But there is no question of justice of any sort unless there is proof you are right. Proof my father is guilty. I cannot have you bandying about accusations without proof. He is my father, after all.”
“Of course not. I will not accuse your father without proof. But neither will I sit idly by and plead ignorance. Tomorrow morning, I will begin to look for that proof, Nicholas. With or without you.”
Nicholas did not answer, and Mira sighed.
“For now,” she said, “I will leave you. I find I am exhausted. In the morning, I will go to Dowerdu. If we are right, then both Bridget and Tegen were meeting your father there and both were there, or going there, the nights they died. Perhaps we will find an answer at Dowerdu. Blackwell, Jeremy, Lord Marleston, and Uncle George are going to the next village over to inspect a brood mare, so the cottage will be empty.”
She moved past him and headed for the door, but she paused on the threshold.
“If you wish to join me, Nicholas, meet me in the library at nine o’clock.” She hesitated. “I would very much like that.”
With Nicholas’s silence ringing in her ears, Mira made her way back to her bedchamber. She understood why he was reluctant to prove his father was a killer. But she could not pretend ignorance. She had to uncover the truth.
She only hoped that the truth did not come too dear.
…
Nicholas poured himself another cup of gin.
Blue ruin. Nasty stuff. But it got a man drunk, and that’s what Nicholas craved.
He contemplated his unfinished portrait of Mira. He’d spent all morning trying to get the succulent curve of her arm just right.
Bloody hell, his Mira was driving him mad. Why could she not just leave well enough alone? Why did she have to be so bloody clever? So bloody obstinate?
Ah, but there was the rub. Her sharp, inquisitive mind, her passion and perseverance…the very qualities that made her such a nuisance were the qualities that attracted him.
He raised his glass in a silent toast to her image on the canvas. A toast to meddlesome, toothsome, troublesome redheads. A toast to his Mira-mine.
He looked about for a soft place to sit. Maybe lie down a bit before heading out to track his father. Spotting the sofa on which Mira had sat just hours before, he staggered across the room, the unevenness of his gait exaggerated by the liquor.
He had just sprawled across the sofa, closing his eyes and breathing deep—searching for a lingering trace of her scent in the soft cushions—when he heard the door open and someone enter the room. Whistling.