“There was a baby. Your baby.”
“The devil there was.” Mr. Creagh shook his head, eyes crazed, hands jumping in and out of his pockets. “What’s she want, eh? Thinks she can use this to make me pan out bloody earnings and—”
“Elisabeth is dead.”
His jaw slackened. Even thethwacksceased. “She’s … er …” His cheeks inflated with air. He blew it out slowly and his voice calmed. “The baby too?”
Tom nodded.
“Just as well.” He spared a look at his wife, one that surged with a hint of humiliated regret. “Haven’t been to that sin house in a long time. Not going back. And I’m glad to have my hands bloody clean of it.”
An uncomfortable quietness heated across the room, and Tom gave a small nod of apology to them both. He left, fingering the wigged ringlet in his pocket.
Either Mr. Creagh could playact like those from Drury Lane, or he didn’t know—nor care—about Elisabeth’s death. If someone wanted to avenge her, it wasn’t him.
Which meant there was only one clue left.
“Impossible.” Lady Walpoole draped the delicate leaves-and-pearls necklace around Meg’s neck. “The guests are not to arrive for another hour. Anything earlier is deliberate insolence.”
“Mr. McGwen cannot be expected to keep with social standards.”
“Is he so daft?”
“No.” Meg wanted to squirm from the stool, tired of gazing at herself in the mirror while Tillie and Lady Walpoole twisted and yanked her hair. The reflection staring back at her was so unlike herself.
Dramatic, wispy curls draped on either side of her face, and the faintest rouge they’d dabbed on her cheeks gave her a flushed look. Silver earbobs dangled from her ears. The pale green-blue dress, embroidered with silver thread motifs, was cut low enough on her chest that she wiggled the neckline higher.
“Stop that this instant.” Lady Walpoole swatted at her hand. “Leave the dress alone. And Tillie, throw away that note. Miss Foxcroft will not be meeting such a request.”
“On the contrary.” Meg stood, ripping off the elbow-length gloves. For heaven’s sake, she was burning up. Or was it only the thought that Tom McGwen awaited her downstairs?
He had not come in days.
Once, she’d sent a servant out to the cottage to deliver the curtains she’d finally finished. The servant returned and said the place was empty. Why had that disheartened her? The knowledge Tom was no longer close?
“Miss Foxcroft, I must insist. We are not finished with your dressing, and I daresay, this is not the sort of behavior a woman betrothed would—”
“Tom would not ask for me were it not important.” Meg rushed to the door, remarking over her shoulder, “And I am not engaged to anyone.”
This was not what he’d planned.
Tom perched on the edge of one of Lord Cunningham’s elaborate chairs, then sprang back to his feet. He paced the length of the drawing room. Sweat trickled down his spine beneath the new clothes, and he wiped his palms down the thighs of his pantaloons.
Everything charged before him.
The look on Mr. Foxcroft’s face less than twenty minutes ago, when Tom had spoken the name Elisabeth. The furious batting of his eyes. The disgusted curl of his lips.
“Ye killed her.”Tom had not wanted to say the words, but they sprung out anyway on the cusps of a curse.“And ye killed Mr. Musgrave.”
Mr. Foxcroft grabbed his coat. He shrugged into it, grumbling.
“Look at me.”
“No, you look at me.”The old goat spun, shoving Tom into his bedchamber wall, rattling a framed picture.“Always interfering. Pushing your way in where you’re not wanted.”Spittle sprayed from his lips as he jabbed a finger into Tom’s chest.“Stay away from me. Stay away from my girl.”He turned for the door—
Tom snatched his arm.“I need names. I need to know who else ye killed.”
Nothing.
