Dante firmed his jaw and released her hand. “If you’re implying my mother was involved in a clandestine affair, I suggest you think again.”
Miss Sands took the fat-bottomed bottle, swigged the foul spirit and panted to cool the burn. “I’m not implying anything, but we must keep our minds open to all possibilities. Even so, I wrote to Mrs Pickering. She had nothing but praise for the couple, said they were totally devoted.”
“They were.”
“Then, we must presume this gentleman knew something damning. Something about your father’s business dealings.”
Dante found it hard to believe either of his parents had committed an offence that might have led to their murder.
“My uncle Lorenzo took control of my father’s estates and business ventures until I came of age.” He had wanted to take Dante to live with him in Italy, but the earl had used the full weight of his power to fight the decision. “Lorenzo examined every letter, every ledger. I’ve since sifted through the documents and found nothing incriminating. He interviewed stewards and housekeepers, concluded my father was a good and honest man whose life was snatched from him all too soon.”
Dante’s pulse raced as he battled with the memories, the injustice. The demons were stirring, getting ready to incite war. He needed to calm them if he hoped to make progress tonight.
“Then we must focus on your mother. In my father’s notes—”
“Enough! Enough, Miss Sands. Please.” He dragged his hand through his hair, softened his tone. “The balance seems heavily weighted on one side. It’s my turn to probe your mind.”
“Ask me anything, Mr D’Angelo.” She sounded confident, but her long lashes fluttered wildly. He almost heard the portcullis come crashing down as she mentally withdrew to a place of safety. And one couldn’t help but notice they both used formal address when battling emotions.
He might have asked if she’d had a good life until her aunt’s death, if she remembered her father fondly, but it would bring them back to the case and he needed a moment to catch his breath.
“Tell me about life at the Bull in the Barn.”
“There’s not much to tell.”
He suspected the opposite was true. “Did you feel safe there?”
The muscles in her cheeks twitched and distress lines formed on her brow. In those few silent seconds, he imagined a smoke-filled tavern where grubby men tugged at her skirts and made lewd suggestions.
“Safer than I felt huddled around a brazier in a dank alley. But it’s loud and rowdy. One’s nerves are constantly on edge.” She looked to the bottle on the floor between them. “Drink makes some men merry, some men monsters. But no one crosses Alice Crouch, and she took care of me.”
For some reason, he felt immense gratitude to the madam of the tavern. “Did you not think to seek me out? Did you not think to approach me, explain our connection?” Would he have listened? Would he have treated her differently had she not been in Daventry’s employ?
“I thought about it. I came to the Order’s office and saw you standing in the street, laughing with Mr Sloane. But my uncle said people blamed my father for what happened, that I was the daughter of a traitor, and so I focused my efforts on reading the notes, trying to think of a way to prove his innocence.” Her shoulders slumped. “Mr Daventry is right. My father is a suspect. I must assume he had a motive for not firing at the fiends, for not protecting your family, at least until I prove otherwise.”
Damn!
Without realising it, he was back in the carriage, snippets of that dreadful night darting about in his mind.
“Your father is innocent, that much I do know.”
She jerked to attention. “Innocent? Why? How do you know?”
Dante swallowed past the large lump in his throat. “Mr Watson gave my father his pistol and told him to wait in the carriage.”
I’ll distract them. Take the boy, Daphne. Take the boy and run.
“Watson climbed down and tried to reason with them, but they shot him.” The bang, the sinister laughs,
the screams, all filled his head. “So you see, your father died trying to protect my family. Despite the gossip, I believe he was an honest man, too.”
Tears sprang to her eyes, yet she couldn’t help but smile.
“Please don’t cry,” he pleaded … begged.
Don’t cry, Mama.
Bloody hell!