Out of guilt?
Lawrence straightened. His mind whirled with confusion. For some odd reason, he found her romantic disinterest in Charles pleasing. “To feel guilt, you must believe you have committed an offence against the injured party.”
Or worse still—a heinous crime.
She clutched her hands to her chest. “An offence committed unwittingly, sir, I can assure you. I did not act with intent or malice.”
“What is the nature of this offence, Miss Vale?” His tone held a serious note, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear the answer.
“Two men are dead, and I am to blame.” The words burst from her lips, lips that had clearly kept them at bay for far too long. She thrust out her arms as if he ought to whip out the shackles and drag her away to a waiting prison cart. “I tend the grave because I killed Mr Farrow.”
Chapter Two
Verity sucked in a sharp breath. The flood of emotions she’d tried hard to suppress burst from her like water from a fountain. Guilt and sorrow replaced the host of arousing thoughts she experienced after gazing upon Mr Trent’s Herculean physique.
Relief fought for supremacy, too.
It felt so good to tell someone. To finally say the words that made her waking hours a living nightmare. Confession enriched the soul. Isn’t that what the vicar preached in church on Sundays?
Everyone deserved forgiveness.
Everyone made mistakes.
But the moment of solace Verity found in revealing her crime soon dissipated. The imposing gentleman standing before her loomed as large and as dark as the church tower. Moonlight cast eerie shadows over his face, distorting the hard, unforgiving planes. Those magnificent green eyes turned cold and glassy as she stood rigid beneath his unrelenting stare.
“Tell me I misheard.” The rumble of Mr Trent’s deep voice made the hairs on her nape jump to attention. “Tell me you spoke out of some misguided notion of culpability.”
Verity swallowed.
She should have lied.
She should have concocted a story—a tale of unrequited love.
“I wish I could say I’m a witless female. I wish a mysterious force had captured my mind and wrought havoc with my imagination.” Tears sprang to her eyes. She wished she could eradicate the memory of that night six months ago, the night it all began. “But there is more than a grain of truth to my declaration.”
Mr Trent’s green eyes turned predatory. “Explain how you killed Charles Farrow when he drowned. Reveal the name of this other unknown victim so I may decide whether to haul you before the magistrate.”
The first tear trickled down her cheek. Then the floodgates opened, and she buried her head in her hands and sobbed.
Mr Trent’s heavy sigh spoke of compassion, not frustration. Was this man the answer to her prayers? Might she confide her darkest secrets? Surely fate had brought him here. But what if he ended up floating face down in the Thames, too?
The gentleman tapped her arm. “Here, dry your eyes and tell me what the hell happened to make you confess to murdering these men. Anyone with an ounce of intelligence can see you’re no cold-blooded killer.”
Verity looked up, took the proffered handkerchief and dried her tears. The smell of cedarwood and musk and something utterly divine filled her head as she inhaled. With some reluctance—for the scent brought surprising comfort—she extended her hand to return the silk square.
“Keep it,” Mr Trent snapped in irritation. “I ask you again, and hopefully for the last time, what part did you play in the death of Charles Farrow? I highly doubt a woman of your size had the strength to hold a man’s head beneath the water.”
“Sir, I fear if I tell you, you may fall foul of these blackguards, too. Suffer a similar fate.” Indeed, this handsome, brooding fellow looked the sort who craved vengeance. He would hunt those responsible, inflict his own punishment.
“Miss Vale, I can fend off an attack from any quarter. Do not concern yourself with my welfare, but I strongly advise you to consider your own.”
She studied the breadth of Mr Trent’s chest. Having seen the bulging muscles in his arms—the bronzed skin stretched taut over sinew—she had no doubt he could pummel any man to a pulp.
But these villains did not play by the rules.
How many more men would die so tragically?
Sucking in a deep breath for courage—and placing her faith in fate—the time had come to speak out. Her conscience could not withstand another fatality.