Free The Unwanted Heiress by Amy Corwin Page B

had been found. The Bow Street runner, Mr. Clark, was already there, making annotations in his occurrence book. After a few questions, Nathaniel noticed more dark glances cast his way. More and more attention focused on him. There were not many clues, and several guests had seen Nathaniel in the gardens.
    “I was not there at the time,” Bolton said, staring at Nathaniel from under lowered brows. “But several others saw His Grace leaving the garden at a run.”
    The enmity Bolton held toward Nathaniel did not surprise him , and Nathaniel returned Bolton’s dislike. The man was a sore loser and preferred complaints to action.
    “His Grace was in the garden at the time of the murder?” Mr. Clark confirmed, writing something with a stubby pencil into his book. He flicked a quick, apologetic glance at Nathaniel. “Well, there could have been any one of a number of reasons why His Grace would be dashing through the shrubbery.”
    “Before that, he was dancing with poor Lady Anne. He was laughing, knowing he planned to kill her!” Bolton said, his brows beetling over his dark, deep-set eyes. “He danced with her three times!”
    “Now, sir, there is nobody who knows what another body is thinking,” Mr. Clark replied in a soothing tone.
    “Why would I want to kill her?” Nathaniel interrupted.
    Bolton leaned toward Nathaniel, his fists clenched and his face flushed. “Because you are a damn misogynist—you hate women!”
    “I don’t hate women! Why would I dance with her thrice if I hated her?” Nathaniel felt his own temper rise in response to Bolton’s anger. He turned partially away, deliberately maintaining a casual appearance.
    Bolton shrugged but didn’t back down. “If you are not, then why are you always throwing them out of your carriage and running the other way when one dares to greet you on the street? If you ask me, this is just the first we have discovered. There have probably scores of others you have murdered, and there will be more. I don’t care if you are a duke. You cannot say you were not in the garden when Lady Anne died! For all we know, you dance with all your victims three times before you kill them!”
    “I was in the garden, but I had nothing to do with Lady Anne’s accident. In fact, I was speaking to my uncle’s ward, Miss Haywood, on the terrace.”
    “Thank you, Your Grace,” Clark replied, mopping his brow with a large white handkerchief. “ I am sure we all appreciate your patience with this terrible affair. Although it is a mere formality, can this ward of your uncle’s verify your whereabouts the entire time?”
    “Part of the time. Have you thought to examine the clothing of those who were seen in the garden?”
    “Not yet, Your Grace.”
    “You should consider doing so,” Nathaniel suggested in a calm, almost bored, voice. “In fact, I believe we should start with those standing here.”
    The muscles in Bolton’s jaw clenched as the color in his florid face grew deeper. “Just what are you trying to prove?”
    “Nothing, other than the identity of the murderer,” Nathaniel replied smoothly. “Don’t you want to discover who killed Lady Anne?”
    “Yes, damn you!” Bolton held out his hands. They were smeared with black earth, bits of grass and long reddish streaks of dried blood. “I have blood on me, it is true. But I touched her to see if she was alive. I helped carry the body inside.”
    “No one is blaming you, Bolton,” Nathaniel said, having a difficult time keeping the sarcasm out of his voice. “The stains on your hands are from touching dried blood, not fresh.” Then, he held up his own hands, pulling his white cuffs further out from his sleeves. “Look carefully, gentlemen. You will find no bloodstains on me.”
    He gestured to the statuette lying on the ground next to Mr. Clark. “I could not have bludgeoned her without some sort of stain—”
    “That doesn’t prove your innocence,” Bolton said.
    “And I was so thoughtful in