A Suspicious Affair Read Free

females in all of London, and I don’t care if you’re the Lord High Magistrate himself, you shan’t say otherwise in my presence. Why, she married that villain just to save me from debtors’ prison.”
    “And he reneged on his promises.”
    “And that’s enough to convict her? I promise you this, you put my sister on trial—you even charge her with such a crime—and I’ll confess to killing the bastard. I followed him and Lady Armbruster home from the park, ran inside where I knew he kept his pistols, waited for my sister to leave, then shot him. You cannot charge two people with the same crime. I’ll be more convincing.”
    *
    Dimm underlined his notation about finding if Denning had the pistol with him in the carriage. Then he tapped out his pipe, got up, and toweled off his feet. He padded over and threw a blanket over Gabriel, hoping his own boy never felt such a need to prove his manhood, hoping, too, that Gabe would have such a brave, loyal heart if he did.
    As he placed another log on the fire, Mr. Dimm wondered if the new widow could really be such a saint. According to her aunt, who was next on his list, Marisol Pendenning,
nee
Laughton, was ready to be canonized. His Cherry, bless her soul, would never have stood for him raising his hand to her, much less him smiling at another woman. Not that Jeremiah ever would have done either, of course. But what kind of woman tolerated such abuse? Poor downtrodden wretches he saw every day, broken-spirited wraiths whose husbands considered them chattel. But ladies of the ton? Leading hostesses of the
beau monde
who held intellectual soirees? He shook his head. Perhaps Duchess Denning swallowed her own pride for the sake of a dependent younger brother and an impoverished old auntie. On the other hand, perhaps one day, this day, she happened to choke on that swallowed pride.

Chapter Two
    Another log on the fire, another page in Officer Dimm’s book, another suspect. Miss Theresa Laughton, spinster aunt to Foster and Marisol, was a lady of a certain age and a definite refinement. She even offered Dimm tea during their uncomfortable interview. Miss Laughton was also ready to confess to murder rather than see either of her chicks face charges. Of course, her hand was shaking so badly she could hardly hold her cup, and she frequently had to dab at her eyes with a tiny scrap of linen and lace.
    “Not that I am crying for Denning, I hope you know,” she’d confided to the Runner. “The man was a…a dirty dish. There, I’ve said it, even though one should not speak ill of the dead. Poor, poor Marisol.”
    “On account of Denning’s being dead, or on account of her being one of the suspects in his murder?”
    She rummaged through a work basket next to her and began stitching on a tiny knitted sweater. “What’s that?”
    “You said ‘poor Marisol.’ I wanted to know why.”
    “Because that awful man made her life such a hell, with his temper and his women and his nipfarthing ways. And now this awful scandal, just when the baby is coming, and the uncertainty of it all.”
    “What uncertainty might that be, ma’am?” Dimm wanted to know.
    Aunt Tess waved a plump little hand around, trailing a skein of wool. “Oh, the settlements and things. Such a mess.”
    “Surely the widow is provided for?” He hadn’t been to see Denning’s man of business yet.
    “What’s that?”
    “I said, Denning was known to be deep in the pocket. There cannot be any financial worries, can there?”
    “Who’s to say? The scoundrel had the terms of the marriage contract worded so that he agreed to ‘provide’ for us all, after paying Laughton’s debts. Dear Foster was too young to understand, and Marisol was already making such a sacrifice for the rest of us, and I… well, I confess I have no head for business. The solicitor said there was so much money, not to worry. None of us ever saw a farthing of Denning’s fortune. If dear Marisol ever complained that I was to have