Mr. Jenkinson. We came to offer our condolences.”
“Oh, I see.” The look on Mrs. Jenkinson’s face clearly indicated she didn’t see. “Thank you.”
“It seems an awful business,” Sophia said before Jenkinson’s wife could turn the conversation or Adrian could snatch it out from under her again. “Were you at home that night?”
“I—ah—” The hesitation spoke volumes.
For the first time, Sophia noted Mrs. Jenkinson’s face. She should have done so upon entering the room, but she’d been too distracted by the woman’s pregnancy. Now she quickly took in the whole picture. Mrs. Jenkinson was in her early thirties. She was pretty, her features refined and set by age and a little of life’s experience. She’d lost the wide-eyed innocence and sweetness of youth, and it had been replaced by a calm serenity. Or perhaps that was the effect of the pregnancy. But Sophia wasn’t going to think about that.
Mrs. Jenkinson had brown hair, styled simply but attractively, wide-set brown eyes framed by arched brows, and a thin but pleasant mouth. Her cheeks were rosy, but Sophia did not think she used cosmetic enhancements. Her dress was unremarkable. She wore black crepe and no jewelry or other adornment. Mrs. Jenkinson looked like the perfect grieving widow.
But she had not been home the night her husband was murdered. Her hesitation and the look of pure guilt that crossed her features said that much.
“I’m afraid I really don’t want to talk about that night,” the widow finally managed. “You understand.”
“We do,” Adrian said, voice sympathetic. “Are you close to your brother-in-law? Lord Liverpool?”
“Robert? Why?”
“We are friends of the prime minister, and he mentioned Bow Street had not yet solved your husband’s murder. He asked if I—we—might look into the matter.”
Sophia pursed her lips in annoyance. Now he’d only confused the poor woman.
“You?” Mrs. Jenkinson looked from him to Sophia. “Why would Robert ask you to assist?”
Adrian waved a hand. “We have experience with investigation. I take it you were not at home that night. Where were you?”
Sophia watched the widow’s face, watched as she debated trusting the strangers sitting before her. Sophia knew what she had to do, hesitated, then clenched her jaw and rose. Mrs. Jenkinson sat on a chaise longue across from them, and Sophia indicated the empty space beside her. “May I?”
“Certainly, Lady Smythe.”
“Please, call me Sophia.” Sophia sat and tried very hard not to look at the woman’s belly. “And may I call you…?”
“Millie. Yes, of course.”
“Millie.” Sophia took her hand. “I know this is difficult to talk about, but I assure you whatever you tell us will be kept in the strictest confidence. Lord Smythe and I have no interest in your private affairs. We only want to help.” She took a chance. “Who were you with that night?”
Millie looked down, studied her hands. “I suppose it’s not that much of a secret. George knew. I wouldn’t say he approved, but he knew.”
“Knew what?” Adrian asked.
Millie looked at Sophia. “Knew I had a lover. Knew the child wasn’t his.”
It took all she had within her to hold her hand steady, but Sophia managed it. She had a thousand questions, and one glance at Adrian told her he had more than he knew what to do with as well. Sophia had not done many interrogations, but the one rule she did know was to allow the suspect being interviewed to speak as much as possible. Sophia cleared her throat. “Perhaps you should explain, Millie.”
Millie looked down at her skirts, smoothed the material with her free hand. Sophia squeezed her other hand reassuringly. Without looking up, Millie said, “George and I have been married ten years. It’s been a happy marriage. We liked each other. George could make me laugh.”
Sophia met Adrian’s eyes. She couldn’t remember a time he’d made her laugh. Adrian didn’t look away, and
“Oh, I see.” The look on Mrs. Jenkinson’s face clearly indicated she didn’t see. “Thank you.”
“It seems an awful business,” Sophia said before Jenkinson’s wife could turn the conversation or Adrian could snatch it out from under her again. “Were you at home that night?”
“I—ah—” The hesitation spoke volumes.
For the first time, Sophia noted Mrs. Jenkinson’s face. She should have done so upon entering the room, but she’d been too distracted by the woman’s pregnancy. Now she quickly took in the whole picture. Mrs. Jenkinson was in her early thirties. She was pretty, her features refined and set by age and a little of life’s experience. She’d lost the wide-eyed innocence and sweetness of youth, and it had been replaced by a calm serenity. Or perhaps that was the effect of the pregnancy. But Sophia wasn’t going to think about that.
Mrs. Jenkinson had brown hair, styled simply but attractively, wide-set brown eyes framed by arched brows, and a thin but pleasant mouth. Her cheeks were rosy, but Sophia did not think she used cosmetic enhancements. Her dress was unremarkable. She wore black crepe and no jewelry or other adornment. Mrs. Jenkinson looked like the perfect grieving widow.
But she had not been home the night her husband was murdered. Her hesitation and the look of pure guilt that crossed her features said that much.
“I’m afraid I really don’t want to talk about that night,” the widow finally managed. “You understand.”
“We do,” Adrian said, voice sympathetic. “Are you close to your brother-in-law? Lord Liverpool?”
“Robert? Why?”
“We are friends of the prime minister, and he mentioned Bow Street had not yet solved your husband’s murder. He asked if I—we—might look into the matter.”
Sophia pursed her lips in annoyance. Now he’d only confused the poor woman.
“You?” Mrs. Jenkinson looked from him to Sophia. “Why would Robert ask you to assist?”
Adrian waved a hand. “We have experience with investigation. I take it you were not at home that night. Where were you?”
Sophia watched the widow’s face, watched as she debated trusting the strangers sitting before her. Sophia knew what she had to do, hesitated, then clenched her jaw and rose. Mrs. Jenkinson sat on a chaise longue across from them, and Sophia indicated the empty space beside her. “May I?”
“Certainly, Lady Smythe.”
“Please, call me Sophia.” Sophia sat and tried very hard not to look at the woman’s belly. “And may I call you…?”
“Millie. Yes, of course.”
“Millie.” Sophia took her hand. “I know this is difficult to talk about, but I assure you whatever you tell us will be kept in the strictest confidence. Lord Smythe and I have no interest in your private affairs. We only want to help.” She took a chance. “Who were you with that night?”
Millie looked down, studied her hands. “I suppose it’s not that much of a secret. George knew. I wouldn’t say he approved, but he knew.”
“Knew what?” Adrian asked.
Millie looked at Sophia. “Knew I had a lover. Knew the child wasn’t his.”
It took all she had within her to hold her hand steady, but Sophia managed it. She had a thousand questions, and one glance at Adrian told her he had more than he knew what to do with as well. Sophia had not done many interrogations, but the one rule she did know was to allow the suspect being interviewed to speak as much as possible. Sophia cleared her throat. “Perhaps you should explain, Millie.”
Millie looked down at her skirts, smoothed the material with her free hand. Sophia squeezed her other hand reassuringly. Without looking up, Millie said, “George and I have been married ten years. It’s been a happy marriage. We liked each other. George could make me laugh.”
Sophia met Adrian’s eyes. She couldn’t remember a time he’d made her laugh. Adrian didn’t look away, and
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