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“It is a sad turn of events, my lord,” he added. “But one that you could do nothing about. Who knows the content of many men’s minds.” He paused by the door. “I will, of course, update you should the person who found him come forward.”
“Thank you, Mr. Parr,” Valentine forced himself to say then swiveled on his heel to the parlor room. He gestured the footman out and slammed the door shut behind him, making the wall sconces rattle.
There was no sense in agitating the man who oversaw the case but it had taken all his willpower not to roar at him, to demand action. The sheriffs of London had their hands full with enough crime. The suicide of a lowly footman would mean little to them, especially with the note they found.
He paced across the rug to the window to watch Mr. Parr march away, swiftly crossing the road in front of a wagon and vanishing down a tight alleyway. He doubted he’d see the man again.
So that was it. Julian’s death would be ruled a suicide. He curled his fists. It was wrong. All wrong.
“Bloody hell.” He slammed an open hand against the windowsill, his palm stinging with the force. “Bloody, goddamn, hell, bugger.”
Jaw tight, he caught sight of his reflection and paused to take a breath, both sets of knuckles pressed to the painted windowsill. He knew what a man about to commit suicide looked like. He’d witnessed it up close.
There was no chance Julian was like his father.
