Page 67 of The Case of the Curate

Rupert paused to shake the sergeant’s hand. “You too.”

And then he was in the magistrate’s room, with the constable rigidly at attention in front of the door, and Remington himself glowering from his desk. They were not the only people in the room.

Lord Chadbon was seated some yards in front of the magistrate’s desk. And beside him was Kate.

At least there was no sign of Winster.

Boyle prodded Rupert forward. There was no time for more than a quick interrogative flicker of his eyebrows before he walked past Kate and stood before Remington. Again, he felt like a schoolboy hauled up to the headmaster for the umpteenth time.

“Mr. Grande,” Remington said, “I hope you understand exactly why you were arrested and charged with this heinous crime.”

Since it was not a question, Rupert did not respond. He was beyond the days of shuffling his feet with discomfort.

The magistrate continued. “The fact that new evidence tends in your favor should not detract from the reasons I had to detain you at the time.”

Where the devil is this going? What new evidence?

“Mr. Grande, you are free to go.”

Rupert blinked.

“Knock me down with a feather,” he said to no one in particular.

A gurgle of laughter came from behind him, hastily cut off. Kate, of course.

His lips twitched. “Thank you, Mr. Remington. I’ll stay for your next case, if I may, and, by your favor, speak on the sergeant’s behalf.”

Now it was Remington’s turn to look baffled. But he clearly felt unable to turn down the request. He waved somewhat feebly toward Chadbon and Kate.

“Chair for Mr. Grande,” he commanded. “Then bring in the drunk.”

Boyle marched across the room, moved a straight-backed chair, and set it beside Lord Chadbon before stalking to the door.

Rupert strolled to the chair, trying to disguise the unexpected weakness of his knees. Relief, he supposed. He wanted to grin at Kate, who looked pretty and summery and fresh as a daisy in a sky-blue gown and ivory spencer. She wore a fetching, wide-brimmed ivory bonnet tied with ribbons of the same shade of blue. She cast him a quick, conspiratorial smile, but somehow, he couldn’t smile back. The sight of her seemed to hurt.

So he sat beside Chadbon and said, “What new evidence?”

Chadbon’s face shuttered.

“Tell him, my lord,” Kate advised in a stage whisper.

Rather to Rupert’s surprise, Chadbon did. “Someone shot at Lady Ambrose last night.”

“What?” Now, it seemed, he had no difficulty staring at Kate. His ears were singing.

“I’m fine,” she said carelessly. “The shot missed. But clearly, the culprit was not you, and everyone thinks it thoroughly unlikely that we have two murderers in these environs.”

Rupert closed his mouth. He had no words.

Vaguely, he was aware of Salter marching in as though he were on the parade ground, which at least jerked him back into awareness of his duties.

“Name?” Remington snapped.

“Samuel Salter, sir.”

“Charged with being drunk and disorderly,” he read from his notes. “How do you plead?”

“Guilty, sir.”