Nearly blown over by a tempest of relief, Imogen stared down at his skeletal silver left hand, not because of the anomaly, but because it illustrated the changes in the man standing in her garden. Once, that hand had been upon her. Warm and gentle. Then hot and demanding. Now it was gone, replaced by a cold and unyielding object, shaped by fire and force and unimaginable things. Who knew what it was capable of? Because, it seemed, it had about as much warmth and feeling as the man who wielded it.
At least he was no murderer. Well … not last night, at least.
“Lady Anstruther.” Morley interrupted her troubling thoughts. “Was there anyone else in attendance at your charity ball last night who you think could have been capable of something like this?”
Oh dear Lord, it was the question she’d been dreading. “Well … um. What do you mean exactly by ‘capable’?” she hedged.
The sound Trenwyth made could have turned the Thames into a desert wasteland. “Correct me if I’m wrong, Argent, but last night was a veritable Who’s Who of London’s vicious and bloodthirsty.”
Imogen huffed. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say—”
“Take your pick, Sir Morley,” he interrupted. “The Blackheart of Ben More. The Demon Highlander. Along with various and sundry of their contacts and associates.” He directed a look full of unsavory meaning at Argent. “Also, according to the countess here, the entire household staff consisted of cutthroats and criminals.”
Morley’s fair brows climbed his forehead. “Is this true?”
“Former criminals,” Imogen remonstrated. “They are reformed, sir. And I’m mostly certain there isn’t a cutthroat among them.”
“Mostly?”
“Well, one can’t ever be confident of the true nature of a man, can one?” She cast a withering look of her own at the duke. If there weren’t so many witnesses, she might just be capable of murder at the moment.
“It is not my experience, Lady Anstruther, that criminals are in the habit of reformation.” Morley said gently.
Argent made an ironic noise, which he resolutely ignored.
“But I—”
“I trust you have a list of these employees?” Morley pressed.
“Of course.” Deflated, Imogen couldn’t bring herself to look over at Trenwyth. “I’ll have Cheever procure it for you.” The words tasted of bitter defeat.
“Might I inquire as to what exactly you are doing at the scene of a brutal crime?” Morley turned on Trenwyth. “Were you somehow otherwise connected with Lady Broadmore?”
Imogen wished she wasn’t as interested in the answer as the inspectors seemed to be, though she didn’t at all want to investigate her motivation for being so.
“I never met her before last night,” he claimed, shifting uncomfortably.
“How did you get into my garden?” Imogen couldn’t stop herself from demanding. “The gate is secured with a chain and the only other way is from inside the house.”
The cad had the grace to achieve a sheepish expression, and bugger if it wasn’t appealing. “Twenty-five years ago our elm succeeded in rupturing the fence.” He gestured to a giant tree that spanned the stone base of the fence. “There is a section crumbled away large enough for a man to fit through at the base. I’ve been using it to visit Lord and Lady Anstruther since I was a boy as neither they nor my parents seemed inclined to mend the rift. It’s a tight fit now, but I managed from my own garden.”
“But … why?” Imogen breathed.
Trenwyth cast the poor victim a troubled look before pointing up to his adjacent home. “My study window overlooks the Anstruther garden. When I chanced to glimpse over, I noted the body and thought—”
Imogen’s breath caught in time to the death of his sentence.
“You thought it might have been Lady Anstruther,” Argent finished.
Trenwyth said nothing.
Morley moved to stand next to Lady Broadmore and lifted his face to the window Trenwyth had indicated. “From this trajectory and distance, your conclusion is not remarkable. In fact, the resemblance between the deceased and Lady Anstruther is noteworthy in a case such as this.”
“It … it is?” Appalled, Imogen had to force herself to look down at the slumberous expression forever frozen upon the poor woman’s features. “How so?”
“You are both fair-haired and slight of build,” Argent assessed. “You wore dresses of comparable color.”
“Not so.” She grasped for something, for anything to crush this ridiculous train of speculation. “If you remember, my gown was apricot, and hers is most decidedly coral.”
She met a collection of blank stares and profusely cursed the entire male sex. Mostly because they’d only just established their own point. The masculine palette, famously simpler than that of the feminine, would certainly have a difficult time deciphering the difference between the colors unless one was an artist. These men were used to the assessment of only one primary color.
Bloodred.
Additionally, the moonlight had been the only illumination in the garden last night, as she’d left the gas lamps unlit to dissuade anyone from venturing into her sanctuary. Which left Imogen with no choice but to concede that Lady Broadmore’s fate may have, in fact, been meant for her.
“Oh my God.” Imogen turned away from them, and only managed to stagger a handful of steps before fainting into a carpet of unsuspecting poppies.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
To Cole, carrying Lady Anstruther was like hauling a bolt of silk, limp and unwieldy, but not without its tactile pleasures.
The forensic doctor arrived just as she fell, and Cole barely even remembered offering to carry her inside until she was somehow gathered like a sleeping child in his arms. He swept her into the solarium and carefully lowered her onto a chaise. Supporting her back with his right hand, he made to slide the other from beneath her, when an unwelcome tug stopped him. Upon closer inspection, it became apparent that some of the joints and bolts of his metal hand had become entangled in her hair.
Lucifer’s bollocks. Cole gritted his teeth against a frustrated sound as he realized he’d have to slide his arm farther beneath her to disentangle himself.
His heart still hadn’t normalized from the bolt of terror he’d sustained when he’d seen Lady Broadmore. He’d truly thought … well, it didn’t bear consideration now. Now that he knew Lady Anstruther was alive, he needed to escape her. For both of their sakes.
He arranged a pillow underneath her head and lowered to his knees, allowing the chaise to support all her weight as he burrowed his arm under her shoulder until the offending hand was accessible. Leaning over her, he gingerly worked on freeing the errant strands without breaking or ripping them on his prosthetic.
Though her hair was thick and lush, it felt as fine as goose down. This would have aided his efforts if the press of her against him didn’t somehow affect his dexterity.
He checked their surroundings surreptitiously, acknowledging the scandalous intimacy of their postures. Though only their torsos were touching, it would look to anyone who should chance upon them as if he might have her locked in an impassioned embrace.