She stared right back. He was tall and thin but not skinny, and although he bore some signs of age, like the grooves between his brows, she assessed him to be about thirty, perhaps a little older. His face was long and ascetic, his nose a long blade that bisected his features precisely, and his eyes bored into her like arrows seeking their target.
She straightened her spine; she would not look away. Being under threat of death had liberated a part of her she had never known before.
She would repeat the truth until she stood under the gallows. Then she would say it again.
“I am Sir Edmund Ashendon.” His voice was clear, but not overloud. She liked it. “Mr. Fielding of Bow Street asked me to come, since he was informed that your father would not allow a common person into the house.”
That sounded like her father, all right. Ever aware of his consequence, even in such dire circumstances.
“I will listen to your story and decide how to proceed,” he continued. “While I have a document from Bow Street demanding your arrest, the how and when are up to me.”
“I did not kill my husband.”
He raised a dark, winged brow. His coat was exceedingly simple but made of good stuff, and silver buttons marched down its length, as well as down his waistcoat. He was several inches taller than her. She suspected Godfrey had not liked that she had at least three inches on him. “I am here to assess that, my lady.”
His voice went through her like a clean knife.
And with that slice, her emotions flooded back. With everything she had, every speck of willpower, she held back the tide, stood against it as if it was a physical thing. If she did not keep control of herself, she would lose this battle for her life. A woman in floods of tears, unable to speak, could not plead her case. “I am telling you I did not do it.”
He still watched her.
She would not let him win. She met his gaze boldly. “I have no proof, only the truth.”
Belatedly remembering her manners, she gestured to a chair set by the cold fireplace. The scent of the lilacs set in the empty space floated to her nose, reminding her that this could be her last spring. But not if she could help it.
Nodding, he went to the chair, but waited until she had taken her seat on the sofa opposite before sinking down gracefully and stretching one leg before him. “Tell me what happened, if you please.”
“How is it you come from Bow Street? Do they employ gentlemen now?”
He raised a brow. “I act a consultant when the case interests me. I have an interest, no, let us say a passion, for justice. I am a lawyer, and I work on my own. Not under anyone’s direction.”
“In murders?” How could there be such a thing?
He answered her, unperturbed by her question. “That and other matters. Fielding is glad of my help, since he’s shorthanded and low on funds, but I only take the cases that interest me. Sometimes people come to me.” He leaned forward, a faint smile crossing his lips as if vouchsafing a secret. “But nothing at this level of society before.”
She recalled his title. What was this man doing here? Sometimes lawyers were awarded titles. Perhaps he was one of those. “You’re a knight?”
“In shining armor?” He lifted his hand in a gesture of dismissal. “I can hardly claim that. I am a mere baronet, far below your father’s notice.”
A hereditary knight, and yes, her father would probably consider him below his notice. Baronets were not members of the aristocracy. But this man did not seem cowed by his lack of status. He had walked into this room as if he owned it.
His fine mouth twitched. “At present I’m merely acting on behalf of the magistrate.”
Her mind was running again, and it didn’t want to stop, but her stomach was churning. The initial shock had worn off and she was exposed to the emotions the glass sphere had sheltered her from. Terror at her imminent demise, determination to avoid the sentence she did not deserve and fear that she would not succeed. All of it battered at her now. “Tell me what will happen next.”
“That largely depends on what you say to me now.”
She wanted more before she told him her story, although deep down she longed to tell someone the truth. Nobody had asked her why she should think of murdering her husband. Her father appeared to know, and her father-in-law did not care.
Her father wouldn’t have allowed him up here if he was anything other than what he claimed. Long practice told her what to do. She forced her emotions down, and took care to keep her usual expression of polite interest on her face. Without the face paint, the task was more difficult, but she could do this.
“Tell me what I can expect.” She wanted certainty so she could plan. She had kept her father on her side—barely—but that might not be enough to save her, unless she accepted his offer to flee abroad. That did not sit well with her. She was innocent, so why should she behave like a guilty person?
She liked the way this man looked at her, straight on, with interest but not the fawning deference her father preferred from those he considered his inferiors. She suspected Sir Edmund was nobody’s inferior.
“You first. I need to know your story before I can recommend a course of
