Chapter Eight
Eleanor
Eleanor decided to make him wait. Mr. Rollins had been shown into their afternoon parlor, offered a beverage by the Lynton’s ever proper footman, and then left to stare at his navel for all Eleanor cared while she went to consult with her mother.
“You don’t have to speak with him,” Eleanor insisted, pacing her mother’s pale peach bedroom. Martha Lynton sat at her dressing table, brushing a bit of powder on her already pale face. “I can tell him you’re not feeling well.”
“But I feel fine.” Her mother looked at her through the mirror, her eyes sad. “I am sorry, Eleanor. You don’t deserve any of this.”
Eleanor’s heart pounded behind her breastbone. She knew her mother couldn’t have hurt Lady Richford. Not her mother. Not the woman who had kissed her scraped knees, untangled the curls in her hair.
The woman of the past eight years, the one who’d become bitter and angry, however, the one who’d raged as her daughter had to go out to earn a living, who’d sat stony-eyed at her husband’s funeral, well, Eleanor wasn’t quite as certain about that woman.
What did her mother mean she didn’t deserve this?
Didn’t deserve a troubled parent whom Eleanor needed to care for, or didn’t deserve a murderess for a mother?
“This Mr. Rollins is a tricky character.” Eleanor grabbed her elbow. “You need to—”
“It will be fine.” Her mother took one last look at the mirror, then rose. She gave Eleanor a wobbly smile. “I will tell the truth and all will be well.”
“Not all the truth.” She followed her to the top of the stairs.
“He doesn’t need to know everything.” Didn’t need to know her mother had brought a gun to the club planning on killing Lady Richford.
Didn’t need to know her mother had spent nearly the past decade hating the dead woman.
There were some things that were common knowledge and he could learn elsewhere, but all the rest should remain private.
Eleanor took her mother’s arm as they made their way down the steps and to the parlor. At the open door, she paused, sucked in a deep breath, wiped all worry from her expression, then entered.
“Mr. Rollins.” She inclined her head as the man rose to his feet. “This is my mother, Mrs. Martha Lynton. Mother, Mr. Rollins.”
Her mother settled herself on a rose damask settee, smoothing her skirts. “I understand you wish to ask me questions about this terrible business. You may proceed.”
Eleanor’s lips tilted up as she settled beside her. Her mother might be fragile, but she still had pluck.
Mr. Rollins sat across from them. His jacket fell open as he reached into an inside pocket for his notebook and lead. His dark waistcoat was as conservative as the rest of his clothes and pulled snugly against a flat abdomen and broad chest.
She snapped her gaze back to his face, ignoring the slight curl of heat that coiled in her belly. The devil could take many forms, even attractive ones.
“I understand you have been acquainted with the victim for many years,” Mr. Rollins began. “Can you describe that relationship?”
“We had our first season together.” Martha arched an eyebrow at Mr. Rollins. “I will not admit to how many years ago that was, but Lady Richford and I have been acquainted for some time.”
“And you were friendly?”
Her mother swallowed. “For the most part. We’ve had some disagreements through the years.”
“Regarding?” He looked at her mother expectantly.
“She…well, we just….”
Eleanor squeezed her mother’s hand. “Shortly after my father discovered he’d lost his fortune in a bad investment, Lady Richford gave my mother the cut direct at a society function. It was petty, and cruel, and happened almost ten years ago. It is all forgotten about now.”
“Especially as Lady Richford is dead.” His eyes, a dark mossy green, she realized, held a hint of censure. He scribbled down a note. “Your daughter was at The Minerva Club at the time of the murder. Where were you?”
Both Eleanor and her mother hissed in a breath.
“Lady Mary and Bobby both saw me in the Tea Room when Lady Richford was killed,” Eleanor burst out. Mr. Rollins might have stated only a fact, but his tone certainly insinuated her guilt.
“My daughter had nothing to do with this,” her mother said in a wavering voice.
A lock of auburn hair fell over Mr. Rollins’s brow. “But what about you? Again, where were you when Lady Richford was killed?”
Her mother pressed her fingers to her temple. “I was here.” Her voice was faint, her face growing even paler. “In bed.”
“Where you should be now.” Eleanor gripped her mother’s hand and stood, bringing her up to her feet. “You know you should rest when you have your headaches. I can answer any more of Mr. Rollins’s questions.” She shot the man a narrow look, daring him to object.
He quickly rose, his courtesy merely a formality as his tightened lips showed his displeasure. But no gentleman could object to an unwell woman seeking her chamber. “Of course. I can call again when you feel better, Mrs. Lynton.”
Eleanor ushered her to the door, watching as her mother slowly ascended the stairs and disappeared down the hall. She spun around, clenching her hands. “My mother was here. Our servants can confirm that. Unless you have anything further to ask, please leave.”
He settled himself back in the chair and picked up his cup of tea. “I’m not done with you, Miss Lynton. Please.” He gestured to the settee. “Have a seat.” Like it was his parlor they were sitting in, like he was lord of the bloody manor.
Gritting her teeth, Eleanor stalked back to the settee and sat, her spine ramrod straight. “Your questioning is bordering on abuse. The Lyntons are not without friends. If you persist in harassing us, we will have no choice but to complain to your superiors.”
He swiped a drop of tea off his bottom lip with his thumb.
“If you believe necessary questions are harassment, you must spend much of your life feeling persecuted. Of course, the alternative is that you balk at my questions not from a general objection, but because you fear me learning the answers to them.”
As Eleanor had no response to that which wouldn’t reflect poorly on her breeding, she settled on a steely-eyed glare.
Even as her ire rose, she recognized she was being unreasonable.
In her time in service as a lady’s companion and later as a tutor, she’d learned that the deference the ton expected was irrational.
Wealth and status didn’t give a man or woman any more virtue than a common Cit.
If the situation had been different, she could almost respect the Runner for questioning members of society so doggedly.
He seemed an honest, reliable sort of a man, and for someone whose life had become a series of ground-shaking ordeals, that constancy could be very appealing.
But as it was her mother the Runner now challenged, her admiration was somewhat dimmed.
“How many servants do you have?”
She knotted her fingers together and rested them on her knees. “Seven. Cook, Mr. Grosse, our butler, three maids, a footman, and our coachman.”
“And how long have they been with you?” He made another damnable note in his book.
“Almost all less than two years.”
“Almost all? And the others?” He looked up, his green eyes glinting.
Eleanor’s knuckles whitened. She cleared her throat. “Miss Olive, my mother’s abigail, has been with us since I was young. But they are all very honest. They wouldn’t lie.”
But apparently she would. Deception wasn’t in her nature, but she seemed to be taking to it quite easily.
It wasn’t only Miss Olive who had been with them for a long time.
Cook, Mr. Grosse, and Ned Coachman had, too.
And Eleanor knew just how loyal those servants were.
She’d grown up with them all. When the hard times came, almost everyone had needed to be released.
They’d barely been able to keep Miss Olive.
When Eleanor’s father had recovered his fortune, he’d found the servants who had been like family and offered them a high price for their return.
He’d wanted everything to go back to normal.
Although technically everyone but Miss Olive had been a recent hire, the circumstances of the situation made her words a lie.
“How long since your father passed?” he asked.
Eleanor gritted her teeth. That fact was public knowledge. Mr. Rollins likely only asked it to unsettle her. “A year and two months.”
He focused on her face as he asked his next question. “And what was done with his clothes?”
She knew he was gauging her reaction, yet she couldn’t still her expression. She popped to her feet. “My mother did not use my father’s cravat to strangle Lady Richford.”
His rise to his feet was more languid. It seemed to take forever as he unfolded his body and rose to his full height, forcing her eyes to meet his. “So she used another man’s cravat to do it?”
Heat crawled up her torso, clawing its way up her neck to her face. She was too angry to even form words. She grabbed an embroidered pillow from the settee and threw it at his head.
Since he too easily batted it away, she grasped another. Before she could get her throw off, he was there, looming in front of her, gripping her wrist, halting her motion.
“Let go of me.” She pulled, but he held fast, his long fingers easily encircling her wrist. She pulled harder and only managed to yank herself against him.
The heat of his body crept behind her bodice and stays. He smelled earthy, masculine, and her anger only rose when she realized how appealing it was. “Unhand me.”
“Not until you calm yourself.” Mr. Rollins held her waist with his other hand, holding her steady. His hip pressed into her belly, and her muscles there tightened.
She inhaled sharply, his nearness disconcerting.
He was infuriating. Dangerous. And if she was forced to admit it, just a little bit exciting.
She’d avoided the advances of the well-muscled groom at the house she’d tutored in.
Felt nothing when the son of the baroness she’d been a companion for had flirted shamelessly with her.
She wasn’t about to let a man turn her head now, not when the stakes were so high.
“I am calm,” she bit out. “Release me.”
He studied her, his scrutiny making her squirm. Finally, he stepped back, but not before removing the pillow from her hand and tossing it onto his chair. “Assaulting an officer of Bow Street wasn’t a wise decision.”
She huffed. “It was a pillow, not an assault. And you suspect my mother!” As far as she was concerned, people who went around suspecting mothers of horrific acts deserved having objects thrown at their heads.
He picked up his notepad and slid it away in his pocket. “Don’t worry.” He turned at the door, looking down his nose at her. “With your temper, I suspect you, as well.”