Over the next three days Scarlett and Felicity managed to fall into a routine of sorts. They had breakfast in the solarium while Henry and Anne were being tended to by their nanny, conversing on such titillating topics as the weather and how quickly the daffodils were blooming. Then Scarlett would go for her morning ride – something she hadn’t done in years – while Felicity did whatever it was one did with children. They spent the rest of the day in separate wings of the house, occasionally coming together to play a game of cards or have a cup of tea in the parlor. For supper everyone, including Ruth and the nanny – a young woman with bright red hair and a rolling Irish accent to match – ate in the dining room. Afterwards Felicity went upstairs to put the children to bed and Scarlett read in the library, often falling asleep with a book still open on her lap.

And so their lives went until, on the sixth day, a visitor came to call. 

Scarlett was just about to depart for her daily ride when he arrived without warning or even so much as a calling card. She hear the deep rumble of his voice before she saw him and would have retreated back up the stairs if only to give herself time to prepare, but by then it was too late. The footman had already opened the door and if drawn by a magnet Owen’s gaze shot across the foyer and up the staircase to where Scarlett stood frozen on the middle step, one foot hovering in mid-air.

The scene was so reminiscent of when she’d walked in to find Felicity standing on the very same staircase that she felt a wave of déjà vu and had to shake her head twice to clear it before she managed to croak, “What – what are you doing here, Captain Steel?”

“I came to see you.”

Scarlett knew it was folly, but she could not but feel a stirring of hope deep inside of her chest. “Me?” Her hand gripped the railing with so much force that her nails inadvertently dug a furrow of crescent moons in the wood. “Whatever for?”

Any secret desire that Owen had traveled all the way to Surrey because he’d suddenly realized he could not live without her was crushed in the blink of an eye when he growled, “You are a suspect in your husband’s murder. I’ve come to question you.”

If Scarlett had not been clinging so forcefully to the railing she surely would have tumbled down the stairs top over tea kettle, so great was her surprise. What on earth was Owen talking about? She was a suspect? In her husband’s murder? But Rodger had not been murdered, he’d fallen off his horse!

“Is there somewhere more private we can go?” Owen’s cold gaze raked her from top to bottom, skimming dispassionately down her form-fitting riding habit before returning to her shocked face. “Unless you would prefer to make your confession in the foyer. It makes no difference to me.”

“The parlor,” she managed to choke out. “We can go in the parlor.” Lifting her chin she descended the staircase and glided past him with small, measured steps that helped to disguise how fast her pulse was racing. Waiting until Owen had followed her into the parlor she closed the door with a quiet click and turned to face him.

“Now what nonsense is this about Rodger being murdered?” Glaring up at him, she tilted her head back and pinned her hands to her slender hips; a haughty queen staring down one of her subjects. Never mind that this ‘subject’ was easily twice her size and looked more like a dark prince with his thick ebony hair and piercing blue eyes than a lowly vassal. “You said he was foxed and fell of his horse and broke his neck.”

Owen’s mouth twisted in a humorless smile. Like the last time he’d paid her a visit he was dressed in a form-fitting tailcoat that accentuated his broad shoulders and fawn colored breeches that clung to his muscular thighs, leaving little to the imagination. His dark hair was uncovered and windswept, a thick tendril hanging low over his brow. “I never said he was foxed. Those were your words, I believe.”

“Because it does not take a genius to assume he had been drinking.” Her eyes rolled. “Rodger was always drinking.”

“Is that why you killed him?” Picking up a small glass swan from a mahogany drum table Owen absently traced the delicate neck with his thumb. “Because he was a drunkard?”

“Oh for heavens – I did not kill my husband!”

“Why was he in the theatre district?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” she said evasively. “I wasn’t there with him, was I?”

“This will go easier for you if you don’t lie,” Owen said as he pinched the swan’s neck between his pointer finger and thumb. Scarlett’s own throat tightened in response.

“I am not lying.” Except she was, and they both knew it. But how could she admit – to Owen of all people – that her husband had died on the way home from visiting his mistress? The only thing more humiliating would be if he’d died in Miss Deveraux’s bed like Lady Pratt’s husband had last year. “What even makes you think he was murdered? Was he robbed?”

Owen gave a curt shake of his head. “No.”

“Well, was his horse stolen?”

“No.”

“Was he beaten?”

“No.”

Scarlett threw her hands up in exasperation. “Then why do you think he was killed on purpose?”

“The girth on his saddle was cut.” Owen carefully set the glass swan back down on the table. “Which caused his saddle to slide, which caused him to fall.” 

“And you think I had something to do with it?” She barely managed to contain her snort. “I have never tacked a horse in my entire life. I wouldn’t know how to cut through a girth, let alone have gone skulking about the theatre district by myself to do it.”

He studied her without expression. “Desperate people do desperate things, Lady Sherwood. Or maybe you just hired someone to do it for you. Either way, I know you were involved.”

This time she did snort. “That is a preposterous notion.”

“Is it?” The thick carpet muffled Owen’s footsteps as he crossed the parlor. Scarlett folded her arms across her chest and held her ground, her glittering gray eyes daring him to come closer. She knew he wouldn’t touch her. Not when he held her in such obvious contempt. But he did come near enough for her to smell his scent; an achingly familiar mix of sandalwood and evergreen that instantly brought her back to a time when Owen had gazed at her with love instead of loathing.

The unexpected tears that burned the corners of her eyes caught her off guard. Sucking in a sharp breath she turned her head to the side, feigning a sudden interest in a painting above the fireplace.

“I would like for you to leave now.” She was proud that her voice did not tremble, but she knew it was only a matter of minutes – mayhap even seconds – before her composure crumbled. And that she would not allow Owen to see. She couldn’t. Her damned pride would not allow it.

Have you thought about me at all over the years? The question burned the tip of her tongue but she swallowed it back, knowing she’d given up the right to ask it when she’d given up on them and any future they might have had together. 

“I have more questions.”

“But I do not have any answers.”

“You never did.” The sudden gruffness in his voice indicated Owen was no longer referring to Rodger’s death and Scarlett sucked in a painful breath. She wanted to reach out to him. Wanted to close the distance between them and wrap her arms around his neck. Wanted to feel the solid weight of his chest beneath her cheek and his thudding heartbeat in her ear. Wanted desperately to remember what it felt like to be loved and desired.

But her fear of rejection was too strong, and her pride too was great, and so instead of walking towards him she stepped further away.

“Leave,” she repeated as she reached blindly behind her and opened the door. “Now.”

To her immense relief he did as she requested, walking so close to her that if she’d had the courage she could have reached out and brushed his arm. He stopped in the doorway.

“You haven’t proven your innocence.”

Scarlett’s mouth thinned. “And you haven’t proven my guilt. Good day, Captain.”

Owen had enough self-control not to slam the parlor door, but the front door was not so lucky. The violent sound it made as it slammed shut echoed through the entire house. But instead of making Scarlett flinch, it filled her with the faintest stirrings of hope.

Perhaps he is not completely immune to me after all, she thought as she sank down onto the nearest chair and buried her face in her hands. Or at least not as much as he pretends.

A slammed door wasn’t much, but it was something. Anyone else may have viewed it as a simple sign of frustration, but Scarlett knew Owen. She knew him. He was not a man to easily lose his temper, nor let it show when he did. Which meant he was far angrier than he would have liked her to believe. She lifted her head to stare bleakly across the room. Could he still care for her after all of these years?

He no longer loved her. That she knew for certain and the weight of it sat like a stone inside of her stomach. But surely even the tiniest bit of anger was better than complete indifference, and Owen’s fury had been so great it shook the rafters.

“I am sorry.” In the empty room Scarlett finally allowed herself to say the words she was too proud to say to his face. And then, with no one to witness her despair, she wept them.

 

“Well?” Felix asked expectantly when Owen sat down across from him in the crowded tavern and nodded at the nearest serving wench to indicate he’d take a tankard of ale.

“She had something to do with it. I don’t know if she’s guilty of murder, but there’s something she isn’t telling me.” He pounded a fist against the table to vent his frustration, earning a wide-eyed glance from Felix.

The Captain was notorious for keeping his emotions disguised behind a countenance of stone. It wasn’t often he revealed what he was truly thinking, and Felix had never seen him so out of sorts over a woman. Which was why he’d been so surprised when Owen had insisted on following Lady Sherwood from London to Surrey even though there was no evidence linking her to her husband’s murder.

“Have a drink,” he suggested when the Captain’s tankard arrived, frothy white foam spilling down the sides. “It’s not half bad.”

Owen took a swig of the ale and managed – barely – not to spit it onto the floor. He should have remembered that by Felix’s standards pure gin was ‘not half bad’ either. Pushing the tankard aside he leaned back in his chair and stared pensively over Felix’s head at the far wall.

He shouldn’t have gone to the Sherwood Estate unannounced, but the driving need to see Scarlett again – if only for a few minutes – had outweighed common sense. She had looked so beautiful with her gray eyes snapping fire and her cheeks flushed with indignation. It had taken all the will power he possessed not to snatch her against his chest and kiss her senseless.

Bloody hell.

Disgusted with the traitorous direction of this thoughts Owen picked up the tankard of ale and forced himself to take another drink. Had the past seven years taught him nothing? Was he still the same love-struck fool who had given his heart away only to see it butchered before his eyes?

No, he thought vehemently. No he wasn’t.

That boy was dead. In his place stood a man whose heart had been forged of iron on the bloody battlefields of war. A man who knew better than to let himself be distracted by a pretty face. A man who would never forget or forgive no matter if seven years had passed or a hundred. For he may have changed, but Scarlett hadn’t. She was still the same conniving, manipulative bitch she’d always been. Except now she had gone from breaking a man’s heart to breaking his neck. And this time Owen was determined to not only prove she’d committed the crime, but hold her responsible for her actions.

“I want the Sherwood Estate searched top to bottom, just like the townhouse was.”

“But we didn’t find anything in the townhouse,” Felix pointed out.

Owen’s glare was so potent it sent a serving wench who had been approaching their table scurrying in the opposite direction. “Which is why I want the estate searched.”

“With Lady Sherwood still in it? Don’t ye think that will be a bit of a problem?”

“You’re the thief. Figure it out.”

Before Felix had joined Bow Street as a Runner he’d made his living pinching jewels and paintings off the rich and powerful. He had been good at it. So good that when he’d finally been caught Owen had offered him a job instead of shipping him off to Newgate. To say the other Runners had been doubtful of his decision would have been a grave understatement, but Felix had proved his loyalty time and again and now they accepted him as one of their own without question.

“I’m not saying I can’t do it,” Felix said, looking vaguely insulted. “I’m just saying it would be easier if Lady Sherwood wasn’t hanging over my shoulder the entire time. Unless ye want me to do it at night.” His eyebrows lifted as a sly grin stole across his countenance. “In that case I’ll leave right now.”

The idea of another man sneaking around Scarlett’s bedroom while she was asleep – even a man he trusted – caused Owen’s hands to curl into fists.

“No,” he growled. “You’re not a bloody thief anymore.”

Felix blinked. “But you just said–”

“I know what I said.” He gave a frustrated shake of his head and took another gulp of the foul tasting ale. This case was already twisting him up in knots and it had barely even begun. Maybe it was better if he stepped back and turned it all over to Grant. But that would mean missing the expression of Scarlett’s face when she was officially charged with murder, and that he wouldn’t give up for the world.

“I will see to it she’s gone for a few hours tomorrow afternoon. You can search the estate then. Look for anything that might incriminate her. A green velvet hair ribbon or an earring that matches the one the undertaker found on Sherwood’s body will suffice.” 

“How are you going to get her out of the house?”

Picking up the tankard, he drank the remainder of the ale in one bitter swallow before slamming it down on the table. “Let me worry about that.”