CHAPTER EIGHT
Rose stared at the plate before her. It had been another long day. Mr Evans had seemingly limitless stamina, walking briskly from one location to the next. She lost count of those they interviewed, and when they visited the constabulary, she couldn’t recall precisely what was said. Mr Evans had been disdainful of those officers, disapproving of what evidence they had gathered and the conclusions they had reached. Unfortunately, he had not concealed said disapproval, and it had rubbed the constabulary the wrong way. He hadn’t seemed to notice, but she certainly did. She had attempted as best she could to smooth ruffled feathers, but the effort of trailing after someone completely oblivious to the wake they left was astounding.
She had taken notes, though. Copious ones. She would review them when her eyes didn’t feel as if they were gritted with sand.
The door opened. She could barely lift her head to determine who it was.
Mr Evans strode in. Shoving to her feet, she rushed to execute a curtsy, almost stumbling over her feet. Her pulse leapt, and she cursed herself for her involuntary reaction. Nothing could come of it and it would only do her harm if she were to ever believe otherwise.
She focussed instead on what his appearance meant, rather than her reaction to him. He did not look as if he had spent the day in furious pursuit of a mystery, his hair still precise, his clothing still immaculate. He did not look as if he were about to fall over with tiredness.
“Who was last to see the son?” he asked abruptly.
Rose blinked. She had no idea to whom he referred. “Sir?”
“I have said it plain—” His gaze narrowed. “Are you eating?”
Still standing, she looked down at her plate. Steam rose from the untouched thick beef stew, the golden crust of a knotted roll unbroken.
A frown creased his brow. “You are eating. Or, to be more precise, you are attempting it. Sit, before you fall over.”
She did as he bade, unable to muster the energy within herself to care overmuch at his high-handedness.
He waited until she had taken several spoonfuls of the admittedly delicious stew and eaten half of the hunk of bread before he spoke again. “What do you know of the son?”
Now that she had something in her belly, she deduced who he meant. “I do not know overmuch of Lord Henry or his circumstance. I met him for the first time upon our arrival here a month ago.”
“What were your first impressions?”
“He…thinks well of himself.”
His intense gaze levelled upon her. “Speak it plain, Miss Webster. I have no need for polite euphemisms.”
“He…” She was in service. It went against the grain to speak ill of her betters. “He is arrogant, sir, and self-absorbed, and believes himself deserving of all the good fortune fate has bestowed.”
“Indeed.” His intense gaze levelled upon her. “And how would you characterise his leavetaking?”
She frowned. “Sir?”
“What do you recall?”
“I do not know what you would like me to say.”
He waved a hand. “No matter. And your mistress? How would you characterise her?”
Her back went straight. “What are you suggesting?”
“I suggest nothing. I merely asked a question.”
“So you do not suspect Lady Caro?”
“I did not say that. I believe it unlikely she is the perpetrator, but I have not fully discounted her. I have asked, however, your characterisation of her which, while I acknowledge will hold some bias, I also believe will be keenly observant. You are observant, Miss Webster. Do not think I have not noticed.”
She…did not know what to say.
“Miss Webster? Your mistress?”
“Yes, she is—” Closing her eyes, she ordered her thoughts. “My lady is kind. She has had much to conquer in her life, and she has dealt with it with grace and charm. She is well-loved, and our time on the Continent was filled with a flurry of acquaintances and friends. She is, however, close to very few, and even less so to those members of her family. It is the reason she first went to the Continent—they did not hold well with her being in control of the Faringdon fortune.”
“Do you believe her to be a jealous sort?”
“I cannot imagine her ever being such or, if she is, she would work to overcome it within herself.”
He ran a forefinger over his lip. “You have given me much to consider. Thank you, Miss Webster. And what did you discover from the constables?”
She blinked. “Sir?”
“When I spoke with the inspector.”
“I—Nothing.”
“Did you ask no questions?”
She stared at him. “If I had, they would not answer them,” she finally said.
“Why not?”
“Are you truly that obtuse?”
His brows drew.
Dear God., what had she said? She could not say such things, but she was tired and… “I apologise, sir. I speak out of turn.”
“What do you mean, I am obtuse?”
“You must know they would not speak to me.”
“Why not?”
“I am a servant, sir, and a woman.”
“I realise both those things.”
“And yet you do not realise these are the things that would prevent most men from speaking to me regarding a murder?”
He looked at her. And then the stew. And then back at her. “I make allowances for the idiocy of others, but surely they could not be so dense as to not see your worth? They are even more useless than I imagined. No matter. What were your observations?”
With those few words, he had rendered her speechless. He—he truly believed that?
He exhaled impatiently. “Miss Webster?”
“Yes, of course.” Shaking such thoughts off, she forced herself to focus. “Their prevailing theory appears to be that as Sir George perished from poison, then it must be a woman who administered it.”
“Why?”
“Because they believe only a woman would use poison.”
“And do you support this supposition?”
“Of course not. Poison may be administered by anyone, regardless of gender.”
The corner of his lips lifted. “Good. Very good, Miss Webster. You are much more astute than any of the constabulary. Have they chosen a particular woman upon whom to foist their assumption?”
“A servant, sir. A scullery maid. They have not yet chosen which one.” She had already noted to warn Lady Caro the constabulary would soon harass her servants. Lady Caro would act accordingly to ensure those in her employ were protected.
Mr Evans shook his head. “As I said, completely useless. We will intercept them and ensure the servants are not disturbed unjustly.”
Surprise filled her, but perhaps it shouldn’t. He had already shown himself to be an unusual sort.
His gaze drifted over her. “Your hair is disordered.”
She lifted her hand. A lock had fallen from her bun, the straight strands falling over her ear.
“What did you do to it?”
She tucked the strands back into her bun as best she could. “What do you mean?”
“It is blonde.”
Of course it was blonde, her hair had always been blonde, except… “I used to dye it. When you saw me in Cambridge.”
His brows drew. “You dyed it? I had not observed such.”
“Yes. I thought it would make me…pretty.” Her sisters had inherited their Irish mother’s red hair, but Rose had instead inherited their father’s dirty blonde mop. She had attempted to replicate the colour of their hair, and had managed a fairly decent approximation, but when she’d entered the employ of Lady Caro, she had determined there was, in fact, nothing amiss with being ordinary and had let the red grow out.
“But I had not observed such. Why did I not observe such?”
She frowned. “Mr Evans?”
He looked at her. “I did not know you dyed your hair.”
He seemed disturbed by the statement, or as much as Mr Evans ever seemed disturbed. “Most did not, sir. I was uncommonly well-versed in making it appear as if it were my natural colour.”
Still frowning, he stared at her. “And you did this to feel attractive?”
Heat burned her cheeks. When he said it like that, it seemed…silly. “I realise it was absurd—”
He nodded. “I am glad you realise this. You are attractive no matter what colour your hair.”
Again, he rendered her…speechless.
Abruptly, he stood. “I will leave you to the rest of your meal. Good evening, Miss Webster.”
Wide-eyed, she watched as he bowed stiffly and exited the room. Gripping her spoon, she stared at the beef stew and did not think on the look in his eyes when he’d said she was attractive.
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