at the bruises upon Miss Carter’s neck, looking for some other mark, for a blot of blood beneath the skin that might have been caused by a ring on the hand of her murderer.
And there, low across the sinew, where her shoulder met the right side of her neck, was a larger spot of bruising, but it was not distinct enough to draw any conclusion as to being from a particular crest.
“There. Do you see this?” He directed Lady Claire’s glance to the spot. “This darkened, wider mark likely came from a ring. On a man’s left hand. Thus, a married man, rich enough to wear a ring and have a gold watch fob.”
Which also left Rosing—who was unmarried—unequivocally out, damn it all to hell.
Tanner tried to deflect the sharp stab of disappointment sliding between his ribs, by making himself continue to look for other evidence. Because both his gut and his formidable mind were in agreement that the killing of the maid and the assault on Lady Claire were related.
The evidence would be there, somewhere, if only he were clever enough to see it.
But he could see nothing at that moment, with Lady Claire so close beside him, following his gaze, looking herself, and wanting answers. At least half of his brain was taken up with cataloguing all the things about her that he had guessed and dreamed about while watching her from afar.
The subtle scent of orange blossom and roses, of sunshine and bright happiness, that wafted off her body like perfume from a flower was not new, yet Tanner let his eyes slide closed as he took a deep inhalation of the now-familiar scent.
But there was more, more he had not been able to see in the uncharted depth of the moonlight on the river. He opened his eyes to fill them with the sight of the lamplight shining off her blond hair, long and fine, falling across her shoulders now that it was released from its pins. It looked soft to the touch, and he nearly put his hand out to let the loose tendrils sift through his fingers. She reached up and tucked it back behind her ear with an efficient flick of her delicate, fine-boned wrist.
And he was struck again by how warm and real she was, despite her air of wide-eyed, delicate fragility. She was herself, and not the figment of his obsessed imagination.
So real that when she returned the coin to his hand he had to steel himself for her touch—for the havoc the fleeting press of the tips of her fingers against his palm would wreak. Even with just the whisper of her warmth, she could nearly knock him over.
She was not in the least similarly affected. She was all clever inquisition. “How can you see all that? And before, what you said about her? How can you know all that?”
He dredged his mind back to the here and now. “I made a logical assumption from my observations. Things are there for you to see, if you learn how.”
“Goodness. Is this what they’re teaching at Eton and Oxford these days?”
Her question surprised a short bark of a laugh out of him. “No. Not at all. Perhaps some.”
“Then … how? How do you know? How did you learn?”
“I correspond with people. Scholars in France and … elsewhere.” And then he made himself abandon this patent ploy to prove himself more learned that he was, and give her the truth. “And I learned at an altogether different sort of school. A kidding ken—a school of baby thieves. I told you, I wasn’t always a duke.”
“Yes, you said that. I don’t exactly understand.”
He might have let himself prevaricate again—he could lie readily enough. But it seemed important that she know exactly what sort of man she had gotten for herself when she had agreed to get into his boat. “I was a thief. I was the Tanner.”
“No.” For a moment she stared at him as if she could not conceive of him in such a role. Nor could she imagine it as anything but a tragedy. “How awful.”
It ought to have been awful, but it wasn’t. If he were honest with himself—and if he told the truth to no one
And there, low across the sinew, where her shoulder met the right side of her neck, was a larger spot of bruising, but it was not distinct enough to draw any conclusion as to being from a particular crest.
“There. Do you see this?” He directed Lady Claire’s glance to the spot. “This darkened, wider mark likely came from a ring. On a man’s left hand. Thus, a married man, rich enough to wear a ring and have a gold watch fob.”
Which also left Rosing—who was unmarried—unequivocally out, damn it all to hell.
Tanner tried to deflect the sharp stab of disappointment sliding between his ribs, by making himself continue to look for other evidence. Because both his gut and his formidable mind were in agreement that the killing of the maid and the assault on Lady Claire were related.
The evidence would be there, somewhere, if only he were clever enough to see it.
But he could see nothing at that moment, with Lady Claire so close beside him, following his gaze, looking herself, and wanting answers. At least half of his brain was taken up with cataloguing all the things about her that he had guessed and dreamed about while watching her from afar.
The subtle scent of orange blossom and roses, of sunshine and bright happiness, that wafted off her body like perfume from a flower was not new, yet Tanner let his eyes slide closed as he took a deep inhalation of the now-familiar scent.
But there was more, more he had not been able to see in the uncharted depth of the moonlight on the river. He opened his eyes to fill them with the sight of the lamplight shining off her blond hair, long and fine, falling across her shoulders now that it was released from its pins. It looked soft to the touch, and he nearly put his hand out to let the loose tendrils sift through his fingers. She reached up and tucked it back behind her ear with an efficient flick of her delicate, fine-boned wrist.
And he was struck again by how warm and real she was, despite her air of wide-eyed, delicate fragility. She was herself, and not the figment of his obsessed imagination.
So real that when she returned the coin to his hand he had to steel himself for her touch—for the havoc the fleeting press of the tips of her fingers against his palm would wreak. Even with just the whisper of her warmth, she could nearly knock him over.
She was not in the least similarly affected. She was all clever inquisition. “How can you see all that? And before, what you said about her? How can you know all that?”
He dredged his mind back to the here and now. “I made a logical assumption from my observations. Things are there for you to see, if you learn how.”
“Goodness. Is this what they’re teaching at Eton and Oxford these days?”
Her question surprised a short bark of a laugh out of him. “No. Not at all. Perhaps some.”
“Then … how? How do you know? How did you learn?”
“I correspond with people. Scholars in France and … elsewhere.” And then he made himself abandon this patent ploy to prove himself more learned that he was, and give her the truth. “And I learned at an altogether different sort of school. A kidding ken—a school of baby thieves. I told you, I wasn’t always a duke.”
“Yes, you said that. I don’t exactly understand.”
He might have let himself prevaricate again—he could lie readily enough. But it seemed important that she know exactly what sort of man she had gotten for herself when she had agreed to get into his boat. “I was a thief. I was the Tanner.”
“No.” For a moment she stared at him as if she could not conceive of him in such a role. Nor could she imagine it as anything but a tragedy. “How awful.”
It ought to have been awful, but it wasn’t. If he were honest with himself—and if he told the truth to no one
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