assuredly."
His gaze slid down to her breasts where they rose above the immodest neckline of her gown. "Of course, there are certain . . . advantages . . . to the ones you've been wearing."
She flushed, felt the heat spread out until she was certain her breasts were flushed as well. The heat in his eyes said it was true, and she quickly glanced away. Blackwood settled back against the seat, studying her with heavy-lidded eyes that made her distinctly uneasy.
Jillian glanced away from his disturbing gaze and stared out the window. A fancy high-seat phaeton whipped past, a young dandy dressed outrageously in a black stock and bottle green tailcoat tugging on the reins. They had returned to the fashionable West End, yet memories of Newgate lingered.
Suppressing a shudder, Jillian leaned back against the seat, grateful for the earl's intervention yet worried about the swelling debt she owed him.
Dear God, she had no money. Even should they succeed in clearing her name, how would she ever repay him? She thought of the hunger in his eyes as his gaze ran over her breasts, and the worry she was feeling continued to build.
Chapter Eight
Adam slept little that night. He kept remembering Newgate, hearing the jailers' filthy threats, seeing the look of utter despair on Jillian's lovely face. For a single instant, he had believed with certainty that she hadn't killed the earl, could not possibly have done it, and in that same instant, it wouldn't have mattered if she had.
Protecting her was all he could think of, getting her out of that disgusting place, taking her somewhere warm and safe. Now that she was out of harm's way, his sanity seemed to have returned. He wanted Jillian in his bed, but in order to have her there he had to know the truth.
He was tired as he descended the stairs later that morning than usual and went to work in his study. A few minutes after, he heard Reggie's knock at the door.
"A note has arrived, milord." He walked over and handed Adam a folded slip of paper. "It's from a Mr. Fraser."
Seated behind his desk, Adam quickly scanned the words and rose from his chair. "Thank you, Reggie."
Grabbing his coat off the rack beside the door, he headed down the hall. He considered taking Jillian with him, but he wanted to hear what Fraser had to say and he wasn't sure the man would be as forthright if Jillian were along.
The Bow Street runner was waiting when he got there. "Good afternoon, my lord." A lanky, red-haired man in his late twenties, Peter Fraser wore a simple brown tailcoat, shiny at the elbows, and a pair of spectacles he seemed to have forgotten he had on. He stripped them quickly away as he led Adam into a small, orderly office where stacks of paperwork sat in tidy bundles on the floor.
Adam took a seat in a straight-backed wooden chair while Fraser sat down behind his battered oak desk.
"I came as soon as I received your message," Adam said without preamble. "What have you learned?"
Fraser scooted his chair a little closer to his desk. "To begin with, in the matter of Lord Eldridge and his unfortunate financial dealings with the earl, the marquess claims to have been at his club, Brooks in St. James's, the night of the murder. I am working to corroborate his story."
"I'll take care of that. I am also a member of Brooks." Eldridge loved to wager, though he never bet all that much. Perhaps someone would remember whether he had been gaming there that night. And there was always the chance his name would be scrawled beside that date in the betting book. "I'll let you know what I find out."
Fraser nodded. "As regards the late earl's former solicitor, Colin Norton, it seems his ailing wife passed away a week before the murder and Norton disappeared shortly thereafter."
Adam leaned forward, alert to the first possible suspect they had encountered. "Perhaps he blamed Fenwick for the death of his wife. Have you sent men in search of him?"
"Yes, my lord. But so far there's been no sign of
His gaze slid down to her breasts where they rose above the immodest neckline of her gown. "Of course, there are certain . . . advantages . . . to the ones you've been wearing."
She flushed, felt the heat spread out until she was certain her breasts were flushed as well. The heat in his eyes said it was true, and she quickly glanced away. Blackwood settled back against the seat, studying her with heavy-lidded eyes that made her distinctly uneasy.
Jillian glanced away from his disturbing gaze and stared out the window. A fancy high-seat phaeton whipped past, a young dandy dressed outrageously in a black stock and bottle green tailcoat tugging on the reins. They had returned to the fashionable West End, yet memories of Newgate lingered.
Suppressing a shudder, Jillian leaned back against the seat, grateful for the earl's intervention yet worried about the swelling debt she owed him.
Dear God, she had no money. Even should they succeed in clearing her name, how would she ever repay him? She thought of the hunger in his eyes as his gaze ran over her breasts, and the worry she was feeling continued to build.
Chapter Eight
Adam slept little that night. He kept remembering Newgate, hearing the jailers' filthy threats, seeing the look of utter despair on Jillian's lovely face. For a single instant, he had believed with certainty that she hadn't killed the earl, could not possibly have done it, and in that same instant, it wouldn't have mattered if she had.
Protecting her was all he could think of, getting her out of that disgusting place, taking her somewhere warm and safe. Now that she was out of harm's way, his sanity seemed to have returned. He wanted Jillian in his bed, but in order to have her there he had to know the truth.
He was tired as he descended the stairs later that morning than usual and went to work in his study. A few minutes after, he heard Reggie's knock at the door.
"A note has arrived, milord." He walked over and handed Adam a folded slip of paper. "It's from a Mr. Fraser."
Seated behind his desk, Adam quickly scanned the words and rose from his chair. "Thank you, Reggie."
Grabbing his coat off the rack beside the door, he headed down the hall. He considered taking Jillian with him, but he wanted to hear what Fraser had to say and he wasn't sure the man would be as forthright if Jillian were along.
The Bow Street runner was waiting when he got there. "Good afternoon, my lord." A lanky, red-haired man in his late twenties, Peter Fraser wore a simple brown tailcoat, shiny at the elbows, and a pair of spectacles he seemed to have forgotten he had on. He stripped them quickly away as he led Adam into a small, orderly office where stacks of paperwork sat in tidy bundles on the floor.
Adam took a seat in a straight-backed wooden chair while Fraser sat down behind his battered oak desk.
"I came as soon as I received your message," Adam said without preamble. "What have you learned?"
Fraser scooted his chair a little closer to his desk. "To begin with, in the matter of Lord Eldridge and his unfortunate financial dealings with the earl, the marquess claims to have been at his club, Brooks in St. James's, the night of the murder. I am working to corroborate his story."
"I'll take care of that. I am also a member of Brooks." Eldridge loved to wager, though he never bet all that much. Perhaps someone would remember whether he had been gaming there that night. And there was always the chance his name would be scrawled beside that date in the betting book. "I'll let you know what I find out."
Fraser nodded. "As regards the late earl's former solicitor, Colin Norton, it seems his ailing wife passed away a week before the murder and Norton disappeared shortly thereafter."
Adam leaned forward, alert to the first possible suspect they had encountered. "Perhaps he blamed Fenwick for the death of his wife. Have you sent men in search of him?"
"Yes, my lord. But so far there's been no sign of
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