Chapter 15 #3
He refrained for the sake of preserving her dignity — of preventing her from appearing weak as she faced the man who could easily see her destroyed. Wrengate’s jaw clenched. His shoulders hunched ever so slightly, as Adrian had so often seen them do at Reed’s when he was preparing to strike.
Would the duke truly attack a pregnant woman in the middle of the Moorland ballroom? Adrian wouldn’t have thought so. Then again, he wouldn’t have thought either Edward or Kendrick would bend the law to save anyone. Yet they had, proving that people could act out of character.
Considering how much anger Wrengate harbored for Adrian and Samantha, there was a chance this moment would push him past the point of reason. That he might lash out without thinking.
Adrian flexed his fingers and loosened his posture so he would be swift enough to intercept any move the duke made against his wife. If the bastard was foolish enough to attempt so much as approaching her, he’d beat him into the ground before he finished taking his first step.
“Tying my sister’s name to a crime was a dangerous move on your part, Mrs. Croft.” Wrengate’s voice dripped with venom. “Clearly you are more unwise than I imagined. As such, you leave me no choice but to—”
“Please stop.”
Wrengate’s attention snapped toward the woman who’d spoken. Lady Edwina. His sister. Hugging herself, she stepped between her brother and Samantha. “If someone was killed and I’m able to help figure out who did it, I’ll happily stay and provide an account of all I have seen and heard.”
“We don’t even know who the victim was yet,” Viscount Ottersburg complained, in response to which a number of people voiced their agreement.
“Did you not hear Orwell’s comment about his son going missing?” Lady Glendale asked. “Neither one of them is present as far as I am aware.”
“What about Mrs. Orwell?” Baroness Midhurst asked, craning her neck for a better view of the room. “Has anyone seen her?”
“She wasn’t in attendance this evening,” Eldridge said from his spot by the door.
Adrian pushed a breath from his lungs. He’d not intended to share any details about the murder.
In his opinion, it would be more appropriate for Moorland to do so, but since he was otherwise occupied at the moment and since the guests were growing restless with their speculations, he decided to share what would soon be confirmed anyway.
“The victim is Mr. Keith Orwell.” It did not escape him that Lady Edwina’s face paled or that she looked on the verge of sudden collapse.
Adrian instinctively moved, prepared to lend his support should she need it. Only for Wrengate to grab her and pull her roughly against him.
Ignoring his sister’s gasp, he kept his furious gaze on Adrian. “Don’t.”
Adrian froze, paused for a second, then raised his hands. “Fine. But you stay here so she can speak with Kendrick.”
Not wanting to spend another second in this ridiculous standoff, Adrian turned to Samantha. “I need to speak with Moorland. Do you wish to remain here or would you rather come with me?”
“I need something cool to drink and a spot in which to rest my feet,” she told him.
He found a vacant chair near Edward and escorted her to it before procuring a glass of chilled lemonade.
Happy she would be comfortable until he returned, Adrian went to find Moorland.
The duke was in his study with Orwell, his bleak expression relating what had occurred and what he now faced.
This evening’s events would haunt his family and their home forever.
Adrian glanced at Orwell, who looked like he lacked the will to move. Even the glass of brandy he held in one hand seemed forgotten. The faraway look in his eyes and slumped figure served as a testament to the shock and grief he was forced to endure.
“How do I return home?” Orwell turned his attention in Adrian’s direction, yet it seemed he stared straight through him. “How do I tell my wife that the son she nursed through influenza when he was but eight years old has been killed?”
“I don’t know,” Adrian replied, though nothing in Orwell’s expression suggested he listened.
Adrian stepped past him to better address the duke.
“Your guests remain calm for the moment though that may change as the evening drags on. Kendrick’s arrival should help as this will show matters progressing toward some sort of conclusion.
Until then, I’m thinking it may be prudent of you to make some sort of statement. ”
“Of course.” Moorland sounded as though he couldn’t believe he’d not realized as much himself. He stood and straightened his jacket.
“I’ve had to reveal…” Adrian dropped a look toward Orwell, then quietly added, “the victim’s name. However, that’s all anyone knows.”
“Right.” Moorland knit his brow as though in thought. “Best get on with it then.”
Adrian sent the study a backward glance before telling the duke, “Someone may have to escort Orwell home. A footman, perhaps, if you can spare one.”
Moorland merely nodded, his mind clearly awhirl with all the intricacies he now had to deal with. The man had been shoved onto thin ice and was doing his best to keep it from breaking.
They were almost at the ballroom when a commotion near the front of the house made them halt.
Moorland met Adrian’s gaze, then swiveled on his heel and strode toward the clamor of voices.
Adrian followed, the tension pulling each nerve in a different direction easing when he spotted the new arrivals.
Kendrick. Thank God. He and his Runners had been admitted by Moorland’s butler, who’d been tasked with waiting for them.
The chief inspector’s blue gaze caught Adrian’s. A nod accompanied a somewhat wry look. Behind him stood two of the Runners Adrian knew. Jackson and Lewis. A third one, whom Adrian wasn’t familiar with, brought up the rear. No sign of Miss Hastings.
Kendrick removed his hat and approached Moorland, his expression appropriately grave. “Your Grace. I understand there’s been a death in your home this evening?”
“Indeed,” Moorland said. He swallowed, as if the action might remove the events that had taken place. “Mr. Orwell’s son, Keith, was murdered. His body is…”
“I can show you,” Adrian told Kendrick when Moorland failed to finish his sentence. “We were actually on our way to the ballroom.”
“Yes,” Moorland murmured. His expression suddenly cleared as though he’d awoken from a dream. When he spoke next it was with newfound purpose. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to reassure my guests.”
“None has left the premises yet?” Kendrick asked.
“Mr. Croft made sure all remained,” Moorland said.
“Eldridge and Marsdale have helped by guarding the exits,” Adrian told Kendrick while Moorland strode off. Adrian then provided Kendrick with a quick summery of what had happened so far, from the moment Miss Brighton arrived in the ballroom and up until the present.
When he was done, he led Kendrick and Jackson to the conservatory.
Holding a lantern high so the light enveloped as much of Mr. Keith Orwell’s body as possible, he sent the chief inspector a grim look.
“As you can see, this case bears a striking resemblance to the one you described to me last week.”