Page 78 of A Problem Princess

He froze for a beat with the mug halfway to his lips for another drink. Then he continued to bring the mug to his mouth. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

She blinked, confused. “I don’t understand.”

“My fatherwasconvicted, of both murder and smuggling,” he corrected. “But I’m not certain the conviction was wrong.”

“But the aunties said…”

“Ah, so that’s where you heard it,” he muttered. “I should have known.”

She set the biscuit aside, no longer wanting it. “They said he was innocent.”

His mouth twisted into a grim smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Because those two old ladies love me as if I truly were their own nephew, and they don’t want to face the truth that I might have been sired by a murderer.”

He finished his wine, then shoved himself to his feet and went to the cupboard in the corner, ostensibly to search for last night’s bottle of whiskey. But Cordelia knew the real reason he’d walked away. Her questions had finally struck too close to home for comfort.

Suddenly chilled, she pulled the shawl back on over her shoulders. “I’d wager thatyoudon’t want to face that truth either.” She paused. “Butisit true? Did he really…?”

“Slit the throats of three excise men who came across him while he was illegally smuggling goods from the Continent, dump their bodies in a rowboat, and then anchor it offshore as a warning to any other excise men who might decide to arrest him?” he finished for her, most likely attempting to shock her. Then he snatched down a fresh bottle of whiskey from the shelf. “The court said he did.”

She held her breath. “But what doyoubelieve?”

“I don’t know.” He blew out a long sigh and crossed back to the fireplace. “Honest to God, I don’t.”

He raked his fingers through his hair. The frustration and pain in that small gesture nearly undid her.

Cordelia rose from the rug and went to his side. She placed her hand on his bicep and felt the muscle flinch beneath her touch, but she didn’t pull away. For once, she wanted to share her strength with him, the same way he had always done with her.

“Tell me,” she urged.

He shook his head. “I was only a boy when it all happened,” he said, staring into the fire. “I looked up to my father—worshipped him, in fact. The actions I heard in the courtroom could never have been committed by the man I knew. Yet everyone there believed them, said that the evidence was overwhelming, the witnesses credible. Even my own uncle said so.” He stifled a low curse. “What was I supposed to believe?”

Her heart skipped. “You were in the courtroom?”

When he gave a jerking nod, she slid her hand down his arm and laced her fingers through his.

“I wasn’t supposed to be there, but I sneaked inside. I was living with my uncle then, and he didn’t care what I did.” He paused. “He didn’t care that I went to the execution either.”

Dear God…He was at his father’s execution? Cordelia tightened her hold on him to keep from crying out in grief at the hell he’d gone through.

“After that, I ran away every chance I could until I was old enough to join the army. I sold my portion of the family brewery and scraped together every ha’penny I could beg, borrow, or steal to buy a commission. That was when I left Margate for good. Haven’t been back, not even to visit my uncle’s grave.”

Her heart broke for him.

“I’ve been searching for the truth about my father ever since. That’s why I took a position with the Home Office after the wars, so I could gain access to the documentation about my father and the men who accused him of murder.”

“And did you?”

“No. Most of the records have been sealed away, including the court records.” His eyes remained fixed on the fire. “Per order of the Duke of Portland, who was Home Secretary when the murders took place, under Lord Sidmouth’s ministry.” He pulled out the bottle cork with his teeth and spat it into the fire. “Now Sidmouth is Home Secretary and just as unwilling to unseal the documents.”

She frowned, puzzled. “Why would they have done that?”

“It’s the Home Office,” he muttered and took a long swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. “God only knows why they do what they do. It could be anything from protecting their operatives to a personal grudge. But whatever reason, it sure as hell can’t be good.” He pulled in a ragged breath, then released her hand and leaned against the wooden beam serving as the mantel above the hearth. “There’s no doubt in my mind that my father was a smuggler. Lots of men traded illegally with the French in those days to avoid excise taxes and customs fees, and my father certainly wasn’t alone.” He shook his head. “But murder… I simply can’t wrap my mind around it.”

“Then he might have been innocent after all.”

Finally, he raised his gaze from the fire and leveled a hard look on her. “He might very well have been guilty, for all I know.”

She watched him take another long, gasping swallow of whiskey. Her chest ached for him and the little boy who so brutally lost his father and his hero.