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“It’s entirely appropriate, as long as you insist on shutting me out.”
By now, they’d reached the back gate. He put his hand on the latch, preventing her from going in. Samantha faced him, one hand slapped on her hip and the other gripping her walking stick. Even though the blasted laneway was as black as pitch, he had no doubt she was steaming like a teakettle.
“Dr. Kendrick—”
“Braden. I think after tonight’s adventures we’re on a first-name basis.”
“You certainly seem to think so. Now, if you get out of my way, I will open the gate.”
He kept his hand on the latch. “Are you going to talk to me?”
“Yes, but only because you otherwise will keep us standing here all night. That would mean you’d get no sleep before seeing your patients tomorrow, and I will not be held responsible if you slice off the wrong body part because of fatigue.”
“I hold to a firm rule of never slicing off the wrong body part. It’s hell on one’s reputation.”
“You are ridiculous. Now, there’s a bench over there by the kitchen garden. We’ll have to keep our voices down, though. I do not need my neighbors imagining all sorts of wrongheaded things if they were to see us out here.”
Braden could imagine all sorts of delightful things with her—before a warm, cozy fire, clothing optional.
Stop it.
Samantha led him to a wrought-iron bench. Beside it was a raised vegetable bed that held the last straggling herbs of the season. After she rested her walking stick against the edge of the bench, they sat side by side for a minute or so, staring up at her townhouse. The windows were dark and all was quiet but for the wind rattling through the leafless branches of the trees.
“I’m convinced my husband was murdered because he found something amiss at our charitable foundation, most likely what he learned about the orphanage finances,” she finally said in a hushed tone. “It must have been something so significant that someone needed to kill him to cover it up. As you know, they tried to make it look like a robbery, and I couldn’t convince the police that it was not the case. So Donny and I have been trying as best we can to find evidence to support our belief—and find the killers, too.”
Braden briefly squeezed her hands, which were clenched in her lap. “I’m sorry, lass. That’s bloody awful.”
Her shoulders lifted in a tiny shrug. “I have grown accustomed to the awfulness of it, if that makes sense.”
It did, because he’d grown accustomed to something similar. Although the pain never truly went away, the shock of it subsided over time. If lucky enough, one found a reason to go on. For him, it was his work. For Samantha, it was seeking justice for her husband and finding the children.
“Bathsheba mentioned that valuables were left on your husband’s body. I take it you pointed that out to the police.”
“I did, but it didn’t matter to them. And I became unwell shortly after, so I was in no condition to press the point.”
She meant her miscarriage. It was obviously still too painful to discuss, especially with a man who was little better than a casual acquaintance. He intended to change that, though.
“How do you know your husband found something amiss at the orphanage?”
“Because he told me.”
Not the answer he’d been expecting. “Really?”
She canted her head sideways. Even behind her filmy veil, he could see her disapproving expression.
“Roger shared most everything with me. Some husbands do, you know. They actually trust their wives and treat them like rational creatures instead of overgrown children.”
Braden held up a placating hand. “I wouldn’t expect you to marry a man who didn’t treat you that way.”
“Then why did you seem surprised by my answer?”
“If your husband flat-out told you of his concerns, why have you hit so many brick walls in your investigations? And why the difficulty in convincing others?”
“You can partly thank Roger’s grandfather,” she bitterly replied. “He thought me hysterical and discounted everything I told him. Lord Beath thought I was kicking up a fuss for no good purpose and besmirching Roger’s good name in the process. As if I would ever do anything of the sort.”
“He sounds like an idiot and a cold-hearted prat. How could you besmirch your husband’s name by wishing to see his killers brought to justice?”
“To be fair to Beath, he was genuinely devastated by Roger’s death. But he was also angry with Roger for always exposing himself to what he deemedunsavory elements. A proper gentleman didn’t muck about with thieves and guttersnipes or go about unescorted in the stews. He acted as if Roger brought his death upon himself.”
