“I’m not most gentlemen,” Dante countered.
Beatrice cleared her throat. “Mr Coulter, you say you barely know Mr Babington yet you grew up together in Lancashire.”
Dante suppressed a groan. Yes, they had agreed to tackle the matter directly, drag answers from Coulter if need be, but he expected her to begin with facts, not supposition.
When Coulter made no reply, she said, “Perhaps you’re unaware of Mr Babington’s
penchant for fraud and theft, though considering he stole items from your home, I highly doubt it.”
Based on the sudden thrum of excitement in the air, the gentleman found this female enquiry agent more than intriguing.
Coulter stared intently. “Miss Sands, you have a rather vivid imagination, one which could be put to much better use than probing a man for information.”
The comment roused Dante’s ire. He’d hoped for an opportunity to knock the smirk from this devil’s face. “Answer her question. Tell us what Babington stole from the locked drawer in your study.”
Tell me why you had my mother’s brooch! Damn you!
“You know what Babington stole, else you wouldn’t be here.” Coulter’s arrogance seemed forced. “Though I caution you to forget about Babington, forget your personal vendetta, for it will only end in misery.”
“Is that a threat?” Dante’s pulse soared.
Coulter pushed to his feet. “Not a threat, a warning from someone who has suffered while pursuing the truth. And as there’s nothing more to say on the matter, I bid you good day. Miss Keane will show you out.”
He made to leave, but Beatrice quickly said, “Daphne D’Angelo died while pursuing the truth. Do you not owe it to her, owe it to your nephew, to bring the culprit to justice? Or are we to assume from your bitter reply, from the evidence stolen from your home, that you had a hand in her death?”
Nephew?
Dante’s mind reeled from the shock. Had he missed something? Had her uncle named Coulter as the illegitimate man claiming kinship with the countess, or was this more supposition?
Coulter froze.
Why wouldn’t he? Beatrice had practically accused him of murder!
But Coulter did not swing around in a violent rage, cursing them to the depths of hell. He stood still, shoulders sagging as he heaved a breath.
“Mr Coulter, my father died alongside Mr D’Angelo’s parents. We are committed to finding the man responsible and will not stop until we succeed.”
“Not stop until you’re dead,” the man muttered.
“Yes, if that is the price of justice,” Beatrice said confidently.
Coulter turned to face them, his conceited mask abandoned, replaced by a tortured expression that drew attention to the deep crinkles around his eyes.
“You’re wasting your time. You’ll never find evidence to prosecute the person responsible, and in the process, you’ll lose a damn sight more than you’ll gain.”
Dante firmed his jaw. “If that’s true, if you know so much yet had nothing to do with the murders, how is it you’re still alive?”
Coulter cursed beneath his breath.
“You may as well tell your story, sir,” Beatrice added.
Silence ensued—their whole case hanging in the balance.
In a somewhat plaintive mood, Coulter glanced around the sumptuous drawing room as if he were to sail to India and never return to his precious homeland again. His mocking snort was aimed at no one in particular.
“Happiness is like a spectre in the night,” Coulter said cryptically as he dropped into the chair. “You may creep out of bed, follow it across the landing, try to capture its essence, but you will always return disappointed.”
Dante tried to make sense of the man’s ramblings. “Chasing happiness is chasing the unobtainable.”