Page 10 of In the Midnight Hour

“Did he really hit his head hard enough to die?” she whispered.

“He was apparently rather inebriated and struck his head on the bedpost,” North replied. “Did you notice whether he was foxed?”

Her mouth pulled into a slight frown. “Sir Radnor had a fondness for port and a tendency to overimbibe, but he was always…pleasant.” Her hesitation said something, but North wasn’t sure what. He noted that she commented on his demeanor in addition to answering the question about his alcohol consumption.

She went on. “We played chess last night and had a rousing argument about whether Shakespeare’s plays are best read or performed.”

North wanted to participate in that argument. “And what is your position?”

“That Shakespeare is excellent to read, but his plays are best enjoyed when they’re performed. That is, after all, what Mr. Shakespeare intended.”

“I agree. However, what if the actor interprets the role other than the way it was written?” North asked.

“The characters are open to interpretation, are they not? Edmund Kean’s Shylock was unique and an absolute revelation.”

North grinned. “You saw him? I did too, and once again, I agree. He was shockingly sympathetic. But is that how Shakespeare wrote him?”

She gestured with her hand, and her features were animated. “Does it matter? Did you not enjoy the performance Kean presented using Shakespeare’s language?”

“I did. Your point is well taken.” North was most intrigued with Lady Cartwright. If the repercussions from last night’s excesses were not beginning to creep over him in the form of a headache, he would have loved to continue debating Kean’s performance with her. “Speaking of Shakespeare, Sir Radnor kept the book you gave him on his bedside table. Drummond also saw it—and read your inscription. Pardon me for my next query, but Drummond will ask you the same question, and you might prefer to hear it from me first. How close were you and Sir Radnor?”

It was as if a shadow had passed over her. “We were friends with a shared intellectual pursuit.”

North couldn’t help thinking about what Usher had said about seeing her in Sir Radnor’s chamber, though he was perhaps not the most reliable witness. “Is it possible Sir Radnor’s servants thought otherwise?”

“I wouldn’t know,” she replied coolly. “You’re awfully presumptuous with your queries. Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

That he thought there was more to Sir Radnor’s death than a simple, hapless accident? That, for North at least, murder was a possibility?

Who was he to make such assessments? From his feelings, as Drummond had obnoxiously said. “It probably isn’t my place to reveal what was said to Drummond or what the physician found during his examination,” North said in answer to her query.

“And yet, it is your place to come to my house—when we haven’t even been introduced—to inform me of Sir Radnor’s death and to question me about my relationship with him.” She arched a brow at him.

North flinched inwardly. She was incredibly sharp. “I suppose that isn’t my place either. Forgive me. I’m new to the square and perhaps overeager in my desire to help and belong. I happened to encounter Sir Radnor’s footman as he departed the house in a frenzy of agitation and offered my assistance. Mr. Drummond has things well in hand. As I mentioned, he does wish to speak with you, if you want to continue to Sir Radnor’s.”

“I think I shall.” She tipped her head slightly toward him but didn’t smile. “Good day, Lord Northwood.”

North executed his finest bow. “Good day, Lady Cartwright.” His head throbbed after bending over.

She walked past him, and he pivoted to watch her walk up the steps to Sir Radnor’s house. The drape of her gown was sublime, and North imagined she would be stunning in a ballgown. Or in nothing at all.

Snapping his gaze away from her, he continued on his way along Pemberton Street. He ought not be thinking of Lady Cartwright in that manner. Never mind that he’d only just met her. She was, perhaps, a murderess.

Why did he care so much about what had happened to Sir Radnor? Was he really just trying to find a place in Pemberton Square?

It was far more than that. Something bad had occurred, and North wasn’t going to turn away from it. He’d done that before, telling himself he was minding his own affairs, but sometimes meddling was required. Especially in the pursuit of justice and protecting the innocent.

North needed to ensure justice was done, something his brother always sought to achieve. Even when North hadn’t. The ancient memory—and the consequences of North’s inaction—slithered over him. He flinched.

In Harry’s absence, did North think he could be his brother’s surrogate?

He could hear Harry’s reply now, “Do you want my old job at Bow Street?” He’d laugh and tell North to leave the investigating to him, or rather to the principal officers who were still at Bow Street.

Why couldn’t North investigate? Especially if he had reason to think Sir Radnor’s death wasn’t an accident.

Or was he trying to prove something to his brother who couldn’t be bothered to come?

North grunted as he turned the corner to Elizabeth Street. His head began to hurt more, and he was eager to throw off his clothing and climb into bed. Just as the idle heir was supposed to do.