“I’ll make haste.” She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Te amo.”
“I love you,” he whispered. “Nowgo.”
Lifting her skirts, she ran to their phaeton.
Bound, Matthew followed the watchman in the opposite direction.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The stillness of the watch house crawled under Matthew’s skin. Aside from the crunch of his footsteps and thedrip-drip-dripof a leak, the halls were silent.
Padding from one side of his cell to the other, he kicked up a layer of dirt with each step and counted. Six paces one way. Six paces back. Faint light from sconces in the hallway bled through the bottom of the door. The stone walls carried the faint smell of mildew, but the rudimentary wooden table and two chairs in the middle of the room appeared new.
How thoughtful to consider my comfort.
He stared at his gloves, with three tiny droplets of red. When Seth was shot, he had nearly bled to death on Matthew’s kitchen table. When he killed Sir Reginald, there was blood everywhere. If Rothwell had been shot fatally, Matthew wouldn’t have walked away with three droplets of blood on his gloves—they would be soaked.
A sound tugged at his awareness—a tapping of footsteps on stone, getting louder. A clinking of keys, and the door creaked open.
Blackmoor stepped inside. He had bags under his eyes and stubble on his jaw. His normally sleek black hair fell loosely around his face, and he ran his fingers through it, taming it back.
Tension eased from Matthew’s shoulders. “Thank you for coming. How is Jasmine?”
“She’s safe with your sisters and Mr. Reeves,” Blackmoor said. “She did not take kindly to me telling her to stay with them.”
“No, I imagine not.” Matthew sighed. “How soon until I’m out of here?”
Blackmoor remained silent, poised with the professional coolness of a priest about to administer his last rites. Matthew waited for him to speak, so long he feared the man had forgotten how.
“Blackmoor?”
“I can’t get you out.”
Matthew’s heart dropped. “You’ve always been able to get me out.”
“Not this time. I don’t own this constable or the magistrate.”
Matthew cursed. The chances of this being handled cleanly dwindled by the minute. If any hands could be greased, Blackmoor would have tried that first.
Not enjoying the thought of spending the night in this cell, he almost pitied the poor soul who would greet him in the morning. A gentleman of his position being treated like a common miscreant with no proof would not be tolerated, and he would have much to say about the caliber of night watchmen employed by this parish.
“If there’s nothing you can do, there’s nothing you can do.” He leaned against the table. “The magistrate will release me in the morning once he hears my side of the story.”
“Whatisyour side of the story? Tell me exactly what happened. Start to finish, every detail.”
Matthew frowned and paced the room.
“Rothwell confronted me. He was in his cups. Belligerent. I saw someone on the other side of the street, but I didn’t get a good look at them. We were fired upon and Rothwell was shot. The watchman thought we were dueling, and he made Rothwell’s injury seem a bigger emergency than it was.”
“Lincolnshire.” Blackmoor spoke slowly. “Lord Rothwell is being treated for a gunshot wound, and you were the only one in the vicinity. There are witnesses.”
“I swear to you, I didn’t shoot him.” He clutched his chest, trying to control his breathing. “How badly is he injured?”
Blackmoor stood with his hands clasped in front of him. “I don’t know what condition he’s in, only where he is.”
“And that is…?”
The lock creaked once more, and the door opened. A man in a white cloak and black boots entered, his flowing white hair shimmering like a halo. The door remained open behind him, and Duke Kendall stepped into the cell.