Page 55 of Secrets of the Heart

“You didn’t even let me say anything.”

“The answer is still no. You cannot go to the tavern with me. It would inhibit everyone, including me, to have a woman with me while I am drinking with the people there. I don’t care how you dressed. I would find out nothing.”

Rachel grimaced, knowing that he was right, but feeling left out anyway. “It’s not fair.”

“No,” he agreed placidly. “The world seldom is.”

There was something about the way he said the words that reminded Rachel suddenly and so intensely of Michael that it made her chest squeeze in pain. What was she doing here? It was wrong, no matter what she said to herself about it.

“However,” he went on, not noticing the change in her expression, “you can go with me to interview someone else. In fact, I imagine your presence is necessary.”

“Who?” Rachel asked, her curiosity piqued.

“Your friend Mr. Birkshaw.”

“Anthony?” Rachel repeated in surprise. “Why?”

“I have been wondering about some things. Why did he tell you this story about his wife’s death now?”

“I told you—he thought that Michael could help him.”

“No. I mean, why now? Why at this particular time, six or seven months after she died, did he suddenly decide to investigate her death? What made him wonder if it was murder, given the fact that everyone at the time seemed to have assumed that it was merely an illness?”

“I don’t know. Why did Mrs. Birkshaw’s relatives hire you right now?”

“What? Oh. They, um, hired a Bow Street Runner some time ago. He found nothing, so finally he told them that I might be willin’ to do it. I’ve had some luck with a few things.”

“I see.” Rachel nodded. “I guess it is a trifle strange, isn’t it? After all this time…”

“It occurs to me, maybe this fellow Birkshaw knows something else.”

“All right. Let’s go see Mr. Birkshaw,” Rachel agreed.

Michael glanced at her in some surprise. Jealousy had been roiling deep inside him from the moment he learned she had talked to Anthony Birkshaw, and it had only increased the other night when she had taken Anthony’s side, arguing that it could not be he who had killed his wife. He would have expected her to protest the two of them going to see the man.

She frowned. “But how are we to explain you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, your resemblance to Michael. He will be certain to notice.”

He shrugged. “What does it matter? Tell him I am Westhampton’s half brother.” Even as he said it, he realized how much it would further entangle him in this nonsensical story of Lilith’s; the existence of this phantom bastard brother would be all over the Ton.

“Oh, no,” Rachel protested quickly. “It would be bound to get out somehow, and then Michael would be embarrassed. He doesn’t even know about you. I could not possibly give Mr. Birkshaw that knowledge when Michael doesn’t even know.”

He looked at her, oddly touched. “Well, then, I shall simply pretend to be Michael.”

“What?” She stared at him.

“Yes. You bring me a suit of his clothes, and I shall put it on. I can seem quite the aristocrat if I choose.” He assumed a haughty expression, raising his chin and looking down his nose. “Here. You. Bring around my carriage, there’s a good fellow.” He whipped his handkerchief out of his pocket and held it delicately to his nose. “Egad, how the masses smell. ’Tis positively ghastly.”

Rachel chuckled at his performance. “You cannot act like that if you expect him to believe you are Michael.”

He smiled. “I shall moderate it a bit, then.”

“What about your hair?”

He shrugged. “Does he know Lord Westhampton that well? Will he not just think that he was mistaken as to the color of his hair?”