horror upon discovery of her husband’s dead body?”
Seeing that his most junior Runner had lapsed into silence, the magistrate pressed his advantage. “It was still she who had easiest access to the bedchamber, and it was she who knew the nail scissors were readily to hand. She wanted only the opportunity. If you truly want to establish her innocence, you must first eliminate that.”
“And so I will, sir, as soon as I—”
Here he caused no small damage to his argument by yawning hugely. Mr. Colquhoun waited patiently until his Runner’s mouth was closed, then asked, “How long since you’ve slept, John?”
Pickett glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Just over twenty-four hours, sir.”
The magistrate nodded. “I thought as much. Go home and go to bed. I promise you, no one will arrest the viscountess while you sleep.”
* * * *
She wanted only the opportunity . . . To establish her innocence, you must first eliminate that. The magistrate’s words accompanied him all the way to Drury Lane, where he discovered to his relief that Mrs. Catchpole was occupied in the rear of the store. Feeling incapable of facing another inquisition—for Mrs. Catchpole’s questioning could be twice as ruthless as Mr. Colquhoun’s, once that redoubtable female had got the bit between her teeth—he tiptoed up the stairs so as not to attract her attention. Once upstairs, he paused only long enough to remove his coat and boots before collapsing onto the narrow iron-framed bed.
Alas, his slumber was not the peaceful oblivion he had hoped for. He was troubled—if that was the word for it—by vaguely erotic dreams in which Lady Fieldhurst, clad in the white ball gown in which he had first seen her, twined her slender arms about the neck of a man who was somehow both himself and the viscount. As he lowered his head to kiss her, firelight flashed off the silver blades of a pair of nail scissors concealed in her hand, and he awoke shaken and damp with perspiration. When he slept again, the setting had changed to the gallows, where a hooded executioner approached Lady Fieldhurst with a length of rope stretched taut between his hands. But even as he reached to lower the noose over her head, Pickett seized the lady, tossed her across his saddlebow, and carried her in safety to his rooms above the chandler’s shop, where she rewarded his heroism in a manner which, when examined in the harsh light of wakefulness, was as embarrassing as it was improbable.
But whatever else they may have done, these dreams served to strengthen Pickett’s belief in Lady Fieldhurst’s innocence. A moment’s reflection was sufficient to inform Pickett that, if he truly wished to rescue Lady Fieldhurst from the gallows, his best course of action lay not in tossing the lady across his saddle-bow (an awkward proposition in any case, as he possessed neither saddle nor horse), but in eliminating any possibility that she might have had either the inclination or the opportunity to do the deed. Unfortunately, there was little he could do about inclination. He had already heard from the lady’s own lips that all had not been well between herself and her husband, and this unhappy state of affairs had been confirmed by Camille de la Rochefort as well as Mr. and Mrs. Bertram.
His efforts, then, must focus on opportunity. Pickett’s experience of balls was slight to the point of nonexistence, but common sense informed him that, if Lady Fieldhurst had indeed spent the evening thus engaged, her presence must surely have been noted. There must be gentlemen somewhere in London who would remember dancing with her, ladies who would recall admiring her gown. It remained only for him to locate these anonymous beings and piece together a complete accounting of the viscountess’s movements on the night of her husband’s murder. With this end in view, he rose, washed, and dressed, then set out for Lady Herrington’s house in Portman Square.
Herein he made a tactical
Seeing that his most junior Runner had lapsed into silence, the magistrate pressed his advantage. “It was still she who had easiest access to the bedchamber, and it was she who knew the nail scissors were readily to hand. She wanted only the opportunity. If you truly want to establish her innocence, you must first eliminate that.”
“And so I will, sir, as soon as I—”
Here he caused no small damage to his argument by yawning hugely. Mr. Colquhoun waited patiently until his Runner’s mouth was closed, then asked, “How long since you’ve slept, John?”
Pickett glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Just over twenty-four hours, sir.”
The magistrate nodded. “I thought as much. Go home and go to bed. I promise you, no one will arrest the viscountess while you sleep.”
* * * *
She wanted only the opportunity . . . To establish her innocence, you must first eliminate that. The magistrate’s words accompanied him all the way to Drury Lane, where he discovered to his relief that Mrs. Catchpole was occupied in the rear of the store. Feeling incapable of facing another inquisition—for Mrs. Catchpole’s questioning could be twice as ruthless as Mr. Colquhoun’s, once that redoubtable female had got the bit between her teeth—he tiptoed up the stairs so as not to attract her attention. Once upstairs, he paused only long enough to remove his coat and boots before collapsing onto the narrow iron-framed bed.
Alas, his slumber was not the peaceful oblivion he had hoped for. He was troubled—if that was the word for it—by vaguely erotic dreams in which Lady Fieldhurst, clad in the white ball gown in which he had first seen her, twined her slender arms about the neck of a man who was somehow both himself and the viscount. As he lowered his head to kiss her, firelight flashed off the silver blades of a pair of nail scissors concealed in her hand, and he awoke shaken and damp with perspiration. When he slept again, the setting had changed to the gallows, where a hooded executioner approached Lady Fieldhurst with a length of rope stretched taut between his hands. But even as he reached to lower the noose over her head, Pickett seized the lady, tossed her across his saddlebow, and carried her in safety to his rooms above the chandler’s shop, where she rewarded his heroism in a manner which, when examined in the harsh light of wakefulness, was as embarrassing as it was improbable.
But whatever else they may have done, these dreams served to strengthen Pickett’s belief in Lady Fieldhurst’s innocence. A moment’s reflection was sufficient to inform Pickett that, if he truly wished to rescue Lady Fieldhurst from the gallows, his best course of action lay not in tossing the lady across his saddle-bow (an awkward proposition in any case, as he possessed neither saddle nor horse), but in eliminating any possibility that she might have had either the inclination or the opportunity to do the deed. Unfortunately, there was little he could do about inclination. He had already heard from the lady’s own lips that all had not been well between herself and her husband, and this unhappy state of affairs had been confirmed by Camille de la Rochefort as well as Mr. and Mrs. Bertram.
His efforts, then, must focus on opportunity. Pickett’s experience of balls was slight to the point of nonexistence, but common sense informed him that, if Lady Fieldhurst had indeed spent the evening thus engaged, her presence must surely have been noted. There must be gentlemen somewhere in London who would remember dancing with her, ladies who would recall admiring her gown. It remained only for him to locate these anonymous beings and piece together a complete accounting of the viscountess’s movements on the night of her husband’s murder. With this end in view, he rose, washed, and dressed, then set out for Lady Herrington’s house in Portman Square.
Herein he made a tactical
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