Her eyelids fluttered down. “I…couldn’t stay. A doctor drove me home, but I got out a street over.”
“Of all the stupid…what doctor? He ought to be shot for leaving you like that.”
That at least brought her gaze up and lit a spark in it, however weak. “It is not his fault.”
“You’re right. It’s the fault of the scoundrel who dared to assault you. Where is he? Did your grandfather detain him?” A long shot, he knew, no matter how spry the old man claimed to be.
Marietta shrank into the curved back of her seat, a strange flicker in her eyes. She pulled her fingers free of his and reached for the cup of tea steaming on the end table. “He got away.”
“No matter.” He patted her knee. “You can describe him, and we’ll have an artist do a sketch. This man will not go unpunished.” And when he got his hands on him, they would see how he liked having a knife pulled on him.
Her teacup shook as she sipped and then lowered it back to the table. “He had my face pressed to the wall. Perhaps to keep me from getting a good look at him.”
Devereaux rocked back on his heels. “He no doubt got a good look at you, though, and I imagine your grandfather shouted your name. He could figure out easily enough who you are and where you live, and could very well mean to collect later what he failed to take then.”
The green of her eyes snapped with fear. “Surely not.”
One never could tell with those base-born, desperate men. “I’ll not risk it. We must find him and see he meets justice.” The eternal kind, from which he would never awaken. Devereaux lifted her fingers and pressed his lips to them. “I love you too much to lose you.”
Maybe, finally she would speak the words he’d wanted for years to hear—but no. She glanced past him and pressed her lips together.
He looked over his shoulder and rose to his feet. Osborne stood in his usual motionless stance just inside the doorway, still as a statue. No, a guard dog. His eyes were, as always, wary and on alert.
Devereaux adjusted his coat, the thrum of his pulse resonating. “I will speak with your grandfather, get his description of the man, and talk with the police. Osborne?”
The detective straightened.
“Forget the rails, forget any other business. Your job now is to protect Mari. Do you understand? Until this scoundrel is found, you’re not to let her out of your sight.”
Marietta pushed to her feet, swayed. “Dev, this is ridiculous. I am not—”
“I didn’t ask your opinion, Marietta.” He glanced at his mother, fussing over sandwiches and cakes, and then back to Osborne. “Are we understood?”
Though Osborne’s black gaze darted briefly to Marietta, Devereaux read no hesitation in it. Calculation, perhaps, but that was to be expected. He gave one curt nod.
Good enough. With one last kiss upon Marietta’s knuckles, he strode for the door, his aim the cellar and the knife stored there.
He had a thief to hunt down.
Twenty-Four
Slade slid further into the room, out of the way of Hughes. Mrs. Hughes murmured something about returning directly and rushed after her son, but Slade paid no attention to the swish of her skirts as she passed. He kept his gaze on Marietta.
The trauma of the day cloaked her, sloping her shoulders, darkening her eyes. He caught her gaze, held it, and waited. The thoughts swirled over her countenance, coming to a rest not on fear or exhaustion, but on regret. She twisted a handkerchief around her fingers and sighed. “I’m sorry, Slade. You don’t have to guard me. He’s overreacting. But you can use the time to do whatever you must.”
He took a few steps until he stood right in front of her. Close enough to see the S.O. on the handkerchief in her hands. Close enough to see the angry red of the scrapes on her cheek. Close enough to see all that churned through her thoughts. “You knew him.”
He expected her to look away, perhaps to narrow her eyes in denial. Instead, a spark of amusement flashed in them, and a fraction of a sad smile touched her lips. “Must you be so good at your job, Detective?”
His smile was no bigger, but not so sorrowful. “Why are you protecting him?”
Her breath easing out, she sank onto her seat again. Slade crouched down to avoid towering over her. Her gaze went contemplative. “He did work here some years ago—painting. He had eight children and a sickly wife, and now he is missing a foot. I can only imagine the hardships his family faces.”
Two months ago he wouldn’t have believed her capable of being so moved by compassion. But then, he had read her wrong in a lot of ways. He settled his hand on top of hers, joined over his handkerchief. “You can’t excuse what he did to you.”