Shocked upon hearing the admission, Kathleen burst into tears.
It was another ploy to gain sympathy.
Eva waited for the maid to stop blubbering. She did not offer a comforting arm or a consolatory handkerchief. No. Her patience had worn thin. All she truly cared about was continuing the arousing conversation with Noah Ashwood.
“I burnt the letters,” Kathleen said between wet sniffs. “I did it for love, ma’am.”
Mr Ashwood’s mocking snort was audible.
“For love?” Eva stiffened. An arctic wind swept through her, banishing all amorous thoughts of the virile gentleman on the sofa. “Please tell me you’re not talking about my brother.”
The tight knot in her chest said this had everything to do with Howard.
“People misunderstand him, ma’am.”
Oh, for the love of God!
“Then I suggest you start at the beginning.” Eva snatched the port wine glass off the side table and swallowed a mouthful. The rich liquid warmed her throat. “I suggest you start at the point where my brother seduced you.”
Kathleen smoothed her golden hair from her face—Howard enjoyed corrupting the angelic types—and her eyes turned dreamy. “No one has ever spoken to me the way Howard does, ma’am. He’s so kind, so responsible.”
Was it possible for someone to be so misguided?
Compared to Kathleen, Mr Hemming seemed rational.
“Oh, he’s responsible,” Eva mocked, “responsible for causing a mountain of misery.”
“I know you were upset when he took the money, ma’am, but—”
“I don’t give a damn about the money,” she snapped. “I care that he stole my mother’s jewels. I care that he preys on innocent women. I’ll never forgive him for that.”
No. Howard Dunn was no longer her brother.
In truth, she hoped they never found him.
“But don’t you see?” Kathleen pleaded. “He was just trying to make things right. He was heartbroken when Mr Becker died. Grief does strange things to a man.”
Mr Ashwood’s weary sigh breezed through the room. “Grief made him gamble away every penny he owned?” Cynicism dripped from every word. “Grief made him abuse women and steal from his own kin?”
“Yes, sir, but he wished to make amends. That’s why I couldn’t take the letters to Hart Street. If Howard sent the blackmail note, it was because he was desperate.”
“So you do think he sent it,” Mr Ashwood countered.
Kathleen shrugged.
“But I checked the note against a copy of my brother’s handwriting.” Eva had spent hours examining every flourish. Instinct said Howard was guilty. But try as she might, she could not ignore the stark differences. Howard wrote with the same flamboyant air he did most things. “Howard did not write the note. Or if he did, he wrote it under duress.”
“That’s what I’m trying to say, ma’am. Howard is in trouble.”
One did not need to be a wise seer to determine that.
“Why else would he have made such a silly demand?” Kathleen continued.
“What silly demand?”
Kathleen squirmed. “I—I have a confession, ma’am, one that will make Bardsley take his foot to my behind. It’s … It’s about the theft of your boots.”
In the brief second of calm, Eva realised that emotions were highly volatile. A few ill-timed words could turn burning desire into violent rage.
“I swear, I shall take my own foot to your behind.” Eva’s cheeks flamed as she tried to control her temper. “Mr Ashwood’s time is precious. There are poor people without means who should be making use of his skills. Every problem he attempts to solve leads him back to you.” She shot the gentleman an apologetic look. “Forgive me.”
“It is not your fault,” he said tenderly.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it was a matter of life or death.”
“So Howard Dunn is alive,” Mr Ashwood stated calmly. “Other than one unreliable sighting, no one has heard from him in two weeks. I find it odd his clothes are still in the armoire.”
Kathleen shrugged and started sniffling again. “A boy brought this last week, ma’am.” She reached into her apron pocket and moved to hand Eva a crumpled note.
“Give it to Mr Ashwood. I haven’t got my spectacles, and I’m so angry, I cannot focus.”
Mr Ashwood leant forward and took the note. He read it twice.
“It’s from Howard. He instructed Kathleen to take your boots and shoes, put them in a coal sack and drop them into the garden of Number 12. Apparently, he did not sell your mother’s jewels but hid them in the heels of your boots.”
“Hid them? But that’s impossible.” Eva considered the pretty topaz and cannetille necklace. “The heels are too shallow. The soles on some are too flimsy. And why would he do that when I might send them to the cobbler?”
“I agree. It makes no sense.”
Silence descended.
Mr Ashwood rubbed his sculpted jaw while lost in thought.
Kathleen’s snivelling continued.
Then another thought struck her. “You don’t think Howard hid the jewels in the pair I sent to the cobbler?” An icy shiver shot from her neck to her navel. “You don’t think he got into a fight when he tried to reclaim—”
“Don’t torment yourself with stories,” Mr Ashwood said. “From what I’ve heard of your brother, murder is the only sin of which he is ignorant.” Mr Ashwood pushed to his feet. “Excuse me a moment. I need to check something in your brother’s room.”
And with that, the gentleman left them.
The question that had been dancing on Eva’s lips for the last two minutes demanded an audience. “Are you with child? Is that why you risked everything to help him?”
Kathleen broke into a whimper. “I thought so, ma’am, but no.”
“And you’ve had relations here, under my roof?”
A solemn nod was the maid’s only reply.
Contempt for her brother surfaced.
Had it not been for Mr Becker’s promise to her mother, Eva would be working in service. Ensconced in his villa in Italy, her father hadn’t paid her allowance in years. Everything she owned was thanks to Mr Becker’s generosity. Writing had been the answer to her misfortune, a chance to earn an income, be independent. But in the end, she was no different from
