Page 67 of A Rogue at Stonecliffe

“I suppose. But couldn’t it have been handled by mail? Why would he come to visit them?”

“To see your mother, perhaps?”

Annabeth’s eyes flashed. “My mother was not carrying on an affair with him.”

“I didn’t say that. Of course she didn’t return the feeling. I’m talking about Edgerton. Sometimes, you would give anything just to see a person even though you know that it’s hopeless.”

Annabeth stared at him, suddenly tongue-tied. Did he mean that was how he had felt about her? Heaven knows, she had often enough ached to see Sloane, even knowing the pain it would bring her. He turned his head away.

She cleared her throat. “Perhaps you are right. But if so, that is more proof of how much Edgerton wanted to marry her. I can’t help but think—what if Papa’s murder wasn’t anything to do with this letter we’re chasing? What if it was because of jealousy?”

Sloane turned to look at her, his eyes soaring upward. “You’re accusing your stepfather of murder?”

Annabeth grimaced. “I don’t know. Grandmother said Edgerton had always been in love with Mother. Then, as soon after Papa’s death as propriety allowed, he married her. And he was so intent on us not telling Mother that it was murder. He wanted to keep it a secret from everyone, in fact. Doesn’t that indicate a guilty mind?”

“Or one who doesn’t want scandalous rumors of the sort you’re espousing all over the ton,” Sloane answered. “If Edgerton killed Mr. Winfield so he could marry his wife, then there must be an entirely separate enemy trying to harm you. I don’t like coincidences.”

“Or maybe it’s not two different men.”

“Why would Edgerton be after the letter your father wrote? Why would he try to have you kidnapped and shot? That would scarcely endear him to your mother.”

“Not if she didn’t know it was him,” Annabeth retorted. “Neither you nor I know what’s in this letter. Maybe it has nothing to do with what the Foreign Office assumes it does. Papa could have written it because he found out Lord Edgerton was plotting to kill him. I suspect Edgerton would very much want to find that letter.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

SLOANE THOUGHT ABOUT Annabeth’s theory the rest of the way to his house. It was hard to imagine the stiff and cold Lord Edgerton committing a crime of passion. But the crime had been done in a very calculated, removed way. Perhaps it was worth looking into.

When they arrived at his house, he pushed the hows and whys out of his mind and carefully surveyed the street before he got out of the vehicle. Whatever they had learned today was not enough to keep Annabeth safe, not yet. He glanced up and down the street again. Seeing nothing, he turned to Annabeth and said, “You may—”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the flash of a movement, and he turned just as the driver of the hack jumped down at him. Sloane threw up his arms, catching the man by his shoulders, and they crashed into the open door of the carriage. The force of the collision knocked them back, and they hit the pavement. Sloane heard Annabeth scream his name and willed her to stay in the carriage. Don’t come out. Don’t come out.

They wrestled on the ground. Sloane’s attacker was heavier than he was and difficult to push off, and Sloane’s blows were hampered by their position.

Then Annabeth was there above them, holding aloft one of her father’s boxes. She swung it down with all her force into his opponent’s back. The driver let out a roar and turned toward Annabeth. Sloane shoved the man off him and scrambled to his feet. “Damn it, Anna! Run!”

The other man rose to his feet as well, pulling a knife from his belt. He charged at Sloane, who quickly twisted aside. The knife sliced through his waistcoat, and Sloane could feel the cool metal as it grazed his stomach. He caught his opponent’s arm and slammed the man into the side of the hack.

They grappled, Sloane holding off his adversary’s knife arm but unable to free his other arm from the man’s clutch. That was when Sloane caught sight of another man running toward them. Coming to his aid, was Sloane’s first thought. Then he saw the knife glittering in the second attacker’s hand.

Annabeth, who, naturally, had not done as he said, let out a blood-curdling shriek and threw the wooden box at the second man. It hit him in the chest, hard enough that he stopped, startled, and swiveled toward Annabeth. It gave Sloane time to pivot, grasp his opponent by his jacket, and fling him into his accomplice.

Both the men stumbled back. Sloane reached into his jacket and pulled out his gun. His attackers went still, eyeing the weapon.

“I believe I have the advantage,” Sloane said. As the two men glanced from him to each other and back again, he went on, “Of course, a ball through the chest would kill only one of you. So it’s fortunate that I also have this.” With his left hand he pulled a knife from his belt and smiled fiercely. “Which one of you wants to die right now? And which one wants to die more slowly?”

The two men bolted off down the street. Sloane let out a long breath and leaned against the side of the carriage. “The hack driver.” He cursed. “I never thought of that. I’m getting old.”

“Yes, you’re clearly ancient,” Annabeth said. She managed to keep her words nonchalant, but her voice was shaky.

She came toward him. “I was so sca—Sloane! You’re bleeding.”

He had lifted his jacket to put the gun back in his inner pocket, and now he glanced down. “Damn. I quite liked this waistcoat.”

Annabeth gave him a withering look. “I hope you didn’t like this jacket as much—there’s another cut here on the sleeve.”

“Blast.”

“Not to mention the bloodstain,” Annabeth went on dryly. “Honestly, Sloane, how can you be so cavalier about it? You’ve been stabbed. You need to see a doctor.”