Sophia was the one to break contact when Millie spoke again.
“We were happy,” she repeated.
“And yet you took a lover,” Adrian said softly.
Sophia wondered if he already knew the reason and, like her, needed to hear Millie Jenkinson say it—for form’s sake.
“Yes. You see, George and I couldn’t have children. We tried for years. Last year I turned thirty. I knew I didn’t have much time left, so I took matters into my own hands. I took a lover. Not because I didn’t love George. Because I needed a baby to love, too.”
“Were you certain Mr. Jenkinson was the reason for your…?” Sophia stumbled, swallowed, and pushed forward. “Infertility?”
Millie shook her head. “I took a chance. As you see”—she indicated her swollen belly—“I was correct.”
“And your husband knew the baby was not his?” Adrian asked.
Millie nodded. “But he was going to give the child his name. He wanted to raise him as his own.”
Sophia took a breath. “Millie, your husband was murdered three weeks ago. You obviously knew you were pregnant at that time. If you had what you desired, why were you with your lover that night?”
Millie’s hand jumped in hers, and the widow covered her eyes. “I didn’t mean it to happen. That wasn’t what I wanted.”
Sophia saw Adrian stiffen, knew the dark conclusion he had reached—the widow hadn’t meant to kill her husband. Sophia held up a hand to stall Adrian. He frowned at her but held his next remark.
Sophia leaned close to Millie. “You fell in love with him. Your lover.”
Millie nodded, the action that of a repentant child. “And that’s why I was with him that night. I should have been here. Perhaps I could have done something, helped George…”
“No.” Sophia shook her head. “There was nothing you could have done, Millie. If you’d been here, you might be dead, too.”
Millie’s head jerked up. “You think I don’t know that? And at times I wonder if that would have been better. I feel so guilty for… for everything.” She rubbed her belly absently. “I don’t understand who could have done this horrible thing. I don’t know who would have wanted to hurt George.”
Adrian leaned forward. “So he had no enemies, no one who wanted to hurt him? No one who’d threatened him recently?”
Millie shook her head. “No—”
“Take some time. Think about it.”
“But I have thought about it. I’ve thought of little else! Honestly, Lord Smythe, I don’t know who could have done this horrible thing.”
“Is there anything you can tell us, Mrs. Jenkinson? Anything about the last days or weeks of Mr. Jenkinson’s life?”
“What kinds of things?”
“Anything unusual,” Sophia said. “Anything that made you pause or that didn’t feel right. I believe in trusting your intuition.” She ignored the roll of Adrian’s eyes. “Did you have any feelings of something amiss?”
“No. Not at all…” She paused.
Adrian leaned forward. “What is it?”
“I wouldn’t say this was unusual, but George spent quite a lot of time in his library. Often I would think he was alone, but I would pass by and hear him speaking in hushed tones.”
“Do you know with whom he was speaking?” Adrian asked.
“I assumed his business partner, Mr. Hardwicke.”
“What type of business was your husband in?”
Sophia could have told Adrian it was a wasted question.
“I don’t know,” Millie said predictably. “I never thought to ask.”
“Is there any reason for you to think your husband was speaking to someone other than Mr. Hardwicke?” Sophia asked.
“I suppose it could have been a foreigner.”
Sophia nodded, though the comment made little sense. “Why do you say that? Did your husband know many foreigners?”
“No, but in the weeks before he died, two different men came to call. Both were foreign.”
“What nationality?” Adrian wanted to know.
Millie gave him a blank stare. “Ah, German? Or possibly French. Perhaps
“We were happy,” she repeated.
“And yet you took a lover,” Adrian said softly.
Sophia wondered if he already knew the reason and, like her, needed to hear Millie Jenkinson say it—for form’s sake.
“Yes. You see, George and I couldn’t have children. We tried for years. Last year I turned thirty. I knew I didn’t have much time left, so I took matters into my own hands. I took a lover. Not because I didn’t love George. Because I needed a baby to love, too.”
“Were you certain Mr. Jenkinson was the reason for your…?” Sophia stumbled, swallowed, and pushed forward. “Infertility?”
Millie shook her head. “I took a chance. As you see”—she indicated her swollen belly—“I was correct.”
“And your husband knew the baby was not his?” Adrian asked.
Millie nodded. “But he was going to give the child his name. He wanted to raise him as his own.”
Sophia took a breath. “Millie, your husband was murdered three weeks ago. You obviously knew you were pregnant at that time. If you had what you desired, why were you with your lover that night?”
Millie’s hand jumped in hers, and the widow covered her eyes. “I didn’t mean it to happen. That wasn’t what I wanted.”
Sophia saw Adrian stiffen, knew the dark conclusion he had reached—the widow hadn’t meant to kill her husband. Sophia held up a hand to stall Adrian. He frowned at her but held his next remark.
Sophia leaned close to Millie. “You fell in love with him. Your lover.”
Millie nodded, the action that of a repentant child. “And that’s why I was with him that night. I should have been here. Perhaps I could have done something, helped George…”
“No.” Sophia shook her head. “There was nothing you could have done, Millie. If you’d been here, you might be dead, too.”
Millie’s head jerked up. “You think I don’t know that? And at times I wonder if that would have been better. I feel so guilty for… for everything.” She rubbed her belly absently. “I don’t understand who could have done this horrible thing. I don’t know who would have wanted to hurt George.”
Adrian leaned forward. “So he had no enemies, no one who wanted to hurt him? No one who’d threatened him recently?”
Millie shook her head. “No—”
“Take some time. Think about it.”
“But I have thought about it. I’ve thought of little else! Honestly, Lord Smythe, I don’t know who could have done this horrible thing.”
“Is there anything you can tell us, Mrs. Jenkinson? Anything about the last days or weeks of Mr. Jenkinson’s life?”
“What kinds of things?”
“Anything unusual,” Sophia said. “Anything that made you pause or that didn’t feel right. I believe in trusting your intuition.” She ignored the roll of Adrian’s eyes. “Did you have any feelings of something amiss?”
“No. Not at all…” She paused.
Adrian leaned forward. “What is it?”
“I wouldn’t say this was unusual, but George spent quite a lot of time in his library. Often I would think he was alone, but I would pass by and hear him speaking in hushed tones.”
“Do you know with whom he was speaking?” Adrian asked.
“I assumed his business partner, Mr. Hardwicke.”
“What type of business was your husband in?”
Sophia could have told Adrian it was a wasted question.
“I don’t know,” Millie said predictably. “I never thought to ask.”
“Is there any reason for you to think your husband was speaking to someone other than Mr. Hardwicke?” Sophia asked.
“I suppose it could have been a foreigner.”
Sophia nodded, though the comment made little sense. “Why do you say that? Did your husband know many foreigners?”
“No, but in the weeks before he died, two different men came to call. Both were foreign.”
“What nationality?” Adrian wanted to know.
Millie gave him a blank stare. “Ah, German? Or possibly French. Perhaps
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