London,

May, 1815

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Gilbert Bowen, Earl of Sorenson, burst through the swirling fog into the torch-lit rear courtyard of Lady Berry’s home in a violent temper a little before six o’clock in the morning. Mr. Albert Meriwether deserved to be horsewhipped, and so did the Runners for going along with this arrest.

A tall, narrow fellow, probably one of them, too, peeled himself off a wall by the servants’ entrance and moved to block Gilbert’s path.

Gilbert wasted no time on pleasantries. “Where is he?”

The man looked him up and down, taking in his fine clothing and superior size. “Who are you?”

“A man not to be trifled with.” He passed over his card and letter of introduction from a mutual acquaintance, hoping the man knew how to read.

Apparently, he did, for the Runner’s eyes widened and he swallowed hard.

The man handed them back, hand shaking a little. “We were not told to expect you, my lord.”

Gilbert scowled. “My presence should not have been needed if reason had prevailed. Take me to Mr. Meriwether, now.”

“Of course, my lord. He’s still interrogating the suspect inside.” The man smiled quickly. “The name is Davis.”

Gilbert recognized the name but made no further comment. Bow Street Runners were generally good men, thorough and effective at their jobs on most occasions. Except this one. They had little reason to rub shoulders with members of the ton or they would not have detained the man inside at all. He hated to think what had happened overnight inside Lady Berry’s home.

Davis may be one of the best. But Albert Meriwether, the investigator wrongly holding a suspect inside for interrogation, was definitely not of that quality, from all he’d heard tonight. Gilbert was here to put a stop to his interrogation before any lasting harm was done.

Davis led him swiftly down halls overflowing with chairs, folded tables and piles of soiled linen ready to be taken into the country for laundering. Gilbert should have attended the ball held here last night. Unfortunately, fate had not been on his side.

He stepped into a disordered drawing room and took stock of the situation.

Lady Berry was sobbing on a fainting couch by the far window, a maid hovering ineffectually at her elbow wearing an expression full of fear.

Gilbert swung his gaze to the man tied to a chair in the center of the room like a criminal. His temper did not improve to see fresh blood spotting his friend’s shirt front. His cream knee breeches were soiled by old blood too, likely the victim’s.

“Meriwether!”

The investigator looked up slowly, his expression annoyed. “Sorenson? What the devil are you doing back in London?”

Gilbert raked his gaze over Meriwether, noting his bloodied knuckles and the sheen of sweat glistening on his face. “I’m here to rectify the grievous mistake you’ve made tonight before it is too late.”

“There is no mistake,” Meriwether insisted, circling his innocent captive.

“There most certainly is,” Gilbert insisted, withdrawing his orders from Bow Street and holding them out. “Read this.”

The investigator snatched them up and read every line—twice, he suspected. Gilbert moved to check that Lord Carmichael still breathed. He turned his friend’s face up to the light, appalled by what he saw. “Dear God. What has been done to you?”

Carmichael shuddered. His left eye was swelling shut and his lip had been split from a beating and was dripping blood down his chin. Meriwether had not been gentle or within his rights to do this. The magistrate would not be pleased.

“No. This case is mine,” Meriwether complained. “He’s all but confessed to the murder. He’s covered in her blood.”

“Old blood, judging by the state of his knees.” Gilbert grimaced, reaching into another pocket for a week-old letter. “You should read this, as well, before you say another word to implicate him further.”

Meriwether read the letter Gilbert had recently received from Lord Carmichael and Miss Berry, announcing their impending wedding, and their request that Gilbert come to London for the announcement last night. Rain had prevented Gilbert from reaching London in time.

“Lord Carmichael was in love with Angela Berry, and she with him. He would not kill her when he was about to announce their marriage, of that I am certain.”

“This gives him motive if she refused him,” Meriwether crowed. “Look at him.”

“Did you not read her own words in the letter?”

“Anyone could have written it.”

“Show her mother and have her disprove it is her handwriting.”

Meriwether rushed to Lady Berry and thrust the letter at her face. “Is this your daughter’s writing?”

Lady Berry sat in shadows, but the maid rushed to bring a candelabra to her so she could read. After a long wait, she began to nod. “That is her penmanship. I would recognize it anywhere.”

Meriwether swung around, scowling at the maid.

Gilbert shook his head. “It is known he was found with the body and was nearly incoherent when questioned. He would have attempted to revive her, which is why his clothing is soiled with her blood, you fool.”

“She was cold when I found her,” Carmichael mumbled, clearly in pain, judging by the slurred nature of his speech. “Never even had a chance to announce we would wed…”

Carmichael sobbed and turned his face away from everyone.

Meriwether sneered. “Isn’t that a convenient tale?”

“Actually, he’s never been a good liar. I’m the reason he had delayed announcing they would marry last night. He wanted me here—which the magistrate believes too,” Gilbert told the fellow. “Now, I have Bow Street’s approval to release him, and you may go and track down a real criminal in any other case you have on your hands. You are done here. Leave the Runners behind. They are under my command now.”

“Damn nonsense! You titled bastards always protect your own,” Meriwether complained as he began to straighten his clothes. He pulled on his wrinkled coat in a furious rush, scowling like thunder. Clearly the man was unhappy but that was just too bad. “I’ll speak to the magistrate about this immediately.”

“Good. He’s expecting you,” Gilbert told him, glad to have the investigator gone.

Gilbert gently untied Carmichael’s bonds, noticing red stripes had formed around each tightly bound wrist. Meriwether would have a hard time explaining to the magistrate why he’d treated a peer with such contempt. “Carmichael?”

Carmichael turned his head, squinting at him through his long hair. “What kept you?”

Gilbert brushed his hair back, continuing to assess the damage Meriwether’s fists had caused to his face. Nothing so far suggested Carmichael would bear any scars. “The roads from Kent were muddy,” he apologized. “I had only just arrived in London when a Runner I know well came with the news you were being held as a suspect in Miss Berry’s death.”

Carmichael carefully dabbed at his split lip with his shirtsleeve. “I’m innocent, Sorenson.”

“I believe you, but Meriwether does not know you like I do. He will be reprimanded for this, I swear.”

He put his arm around Carmichael and hauled him up onto his feet. Carmichael was unsteady and Gilbert held him tightly. “Let’s get you out of here, all right? My carriage is waiting in the mews to take you away.”

“I want to help catch Angela’s killer,” Carmichael protested.

“You’re in no condition to do anything but what I say, my friend. When you’re rested, we’ll talk again. Bow Street has given me complete autonomy in the matter. I’d like to keep this quiet for now, to protect your reputation and Bow Street’s. I am sending you to my home, where my man will tend to your injuries in privacy. As soon as I finish up here and sort through this mess, I’ll return home to take your real statement and discuss what will happen next.”

Carmichael nodded but then turned. He looked across the room to where Lady Berry watched their slow progress through puffy eyes. She still had the letter from Carmichael and her daughter clutched in her hand. Her expression was decidedly ashamed.

“Thank you for believing in me,” Carmichael whispered to Gilbert.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he warned. London policing was an imprecise business at best. “Meriwether is fond of beating confessions out of his suspects, whether they be true or not. He could still cause trouble for you.”

Reputations were made or lost because of harmful gossip, and Carmichael’s standing in society was in jeopardy now.

Lady Berry drew herself up and thrust out the letter to Gilbert. “He said it had to be him,” she whispered. “He said there could be no one else.”

“I loved her,” Carmichael protested. “We were going to marry next week by special license and go home to Edenmere. Angela had already chosen the bedchamber that would become yours. I swear to you, I could never harm her,” Carmichael promised the older woman. “I’ll find out who took Angela from us if it’s the last thing I do.”

The older woman seemed to crumple back onto the fainting couch, covering her face as she began to cry again. Gilbert tried to hurry Carmichael away but the man was barely able to move.

“Be gentle with her,” Carmichael begged of him once they were a distance from Lady Berry. “As prickly as she’s always been with me, she adored Angela. Meriwether is a convincing bastard. I almost believed his arguments myself.”

“No, you didn’t,” Gilbert disagreed. But he would need to ask some hard questions of her and everyone in the household again. There was no telling what sort of nonsense Meriwether had coerced the household staff to say to implicate Carmichael. Getting to the truth might take a while.

He pulled Carmichael through the rear door and paused to catch his breath.

“Can I help you, my lord?” Davis asked, rushing forward.

“Indeed you can,” he said as Davis took on Carmichael’s extra weight. “Carmichael has attended too many lavish dinners this season.”

“So I could be with Angela,” Carmichael added with a groan. “Any excuse.”

Tears flowed from Carmichael’s eyes now and mingled with the blood smeared on his face.

Although he should say something to comfort his friend in his grief, he couldn’t delay out of sympathy or concern for his well-being. There was a crime scene to inspect before anyone else disturbed the remaining evidence.

He loaded Carmichael into the carriage with Davis’ help and sent him on his way through the subdued foggy streets of London’s early morning traffic.

Gilbert looked around and then up. The fog was thinning but the clouds overhead suggested the bad weather had followed him from Kent. It would rain soon if he was not mistaken. “I’ll need you with me at all times, so there can be no question that my loyalty is to the truth,” he told Davis as he turned toward the house again.

“Very good, my lord,” Davis said as he hurried to catch up. “I was itching to get inside from the get go, but Meriwether kept us all away.”

He looked at Davis in surprise. “Every single Runner was kept out?”

“Yes, my lord. Meriwether preferred to work alone on the interrogations, as he always does.”

Gilbert cursed under his breath. Beating a man to a false confession of guilt was abhorrent to him, and very easy to do without witnesses. Thank God he’d arrived in time to rescue Carmichael from Meriwether’s ham-fisted tactics. “That is not how it should be done. You will witness every interview from now on so the evidence brought before the magistrate is without reproach. Form your own opinions and we’ll discuss our conclusions in private afterward. Agreed?”

“Sounds fair.” Davis frowned though. “I am sorry about Lord Carmichael, my lord. It didn’t sit right with me the way he was held like that, but Mr. Meriwether wouldn’t hear reason.”

“He wanted the conviction, not the truth.” Gilbert handed over Carmichael’s last letter to Davis. The Runner would have all the information Gilbert uncovered, and help spread the word that Carmichael was wrongly accused and an abused mourner, should any gossip arise.

“Well, I’ll be damned.” Davis nodded and handed the letter back. “That’s clear enough for me. The poor woman is this way.”

Gilbert stepped into the conservatory, noting the room was well lit and quite crowded. There were cushioned settees, little side tables, and a few books scattered about the room.

He dropped his gaze to the floor. As Carmichael had alluded to in his many letters about the woman, Angela Berry had been pretty.

Dark auburn hair curled wildly around a pale, lifeless face. She’d been stabbed in the chest, a blow that most likely pierced her heart. Death would have been inevitable, if not instant from a wound like that.

“Hello, Angela,” he murmured. “I’m sorry we never had a chance to meet.”

Davis drew close. “What was that, my lord?”

“I was just introducing myself to the victim. I never had occasion to meet the deceased while she lived. She used to add a few lines to Carmichael’s letters occasionally, but that was the extent of our association. I should have come to London more often this past year.”

Davis made a noncommittal sound.

Gilbert drew in a breath and then got to work, noting the arrangement of her limbs, the location of the wound, and the blood smeared around her on the Indian tiles. “Did you read the initial reports?”

“I did. Maid found them together on the floor, Lord Carmichael holding her in his arms. She thought she’d stumbled on a tryst until she noticed the blood.”

“What brought her to this part of the house at that precise moment?”

“A cry for help.”

“From whom?”

“The report did not say.”

“We’ll need to question the maid again and ask about the cry.” He turned to look around. Angela Berry had fallen not far from the doorway. She might have been waiting here for Carmichael, or someone else perhaps.

Gilbert moved away from the door and the body and investigated the perimeter of the room. There was a narrow path behind the potted palms lining the walls. It was possible to walk completely around the room behind them, he discovered. Along the way, he tested every window and doorway latch. The last glass panel gave way with a gentle push, revealing a hidden exit.

“Well, I’ll be!” Davis said as he joined Gilbert. He slipped outside and looked left and right. “Access to the street, and to the mews at the back.”

“I take it Meriwether did not discover this?”

“He looked nowhere but to Lord Carmichael once he arrived.” Davis scratched his head. “There are other suspects in my opinion, my lord…if you’d like my opinion.”

“I would, but first things first. After the maid, tell me who else Meriwether might have spoken to. We need to re-interview everyone about Miss Berry’s movements from the moment she was found to the last time she was seen alive, to be sure they have not been influenced.”

“At least a dozen. There is a footman who is missing though.”

“We need to find him as soon as possible,” Gilbert said, making notes for himself in his pocketbook. “Tell me what else you know.”

“Miss Berry was last seen alive around eleven last night during the height of the festivities of her mother’s ball. There were thirty-three members of the ton invited, most present, and a dozen extra staff hired for the event.”

A hoard of suspects but the wrong one detained. “I’ll need Lady Berry’s guest list as soon as possible. Bring me the maid, and then the housekeeper and the butler, separately.”

“Right you are.” Davis stood straighter. “It’s good to have a proper investigator back in London, my lord.”

“Thank you, but I’m not happy about this at all.” He shook his head and looked down upon the deceased again. “I came for a wedding, not a funeral.”