Perhaps she should start with an apology. “Carlton—”
He held up his hand in a silencing gesture, not bothering to glance up from where his shrewd eyes flew across the official piece of paper.
Pressing her lips together, Farah winced. She hadn’t wanted him to find out this way.
She thought of her husband and poor Murdoch stuck in the dank strong room directly below them. It cost so much for them to be locked away in a cell after all they had suffered, and she had to use her wits to get them released as soon as possible.
This was her fault, after all. She’d begged for their help.
After a moment Morley tossed the document onto his cluttered desk, thoroughly disgusted, and ran a hand through his already tousled hair. “Tell me this is some kind of joke.” He whirled on her. “Or a nightmare.”
“I can explain,” Farah soothed.
“You’re goddamned right, you’ll explain yourself!” he thundered, his blue eyes swirling with storms. “Starting with just where the bloody hell you’ve been for four days!”
“I was hiding at Ben More Castle on the Isle of Mull,” she answered honestly, her eyebrows lifting at Morley’s uncharacteristic profanity. “There was a threat against my life.”
“Where you—married the fucking Blackheart of Ben More?”
Farah bit her lip. “Yes.”
Morley balled his fist and looked around his office decorated in a sort of organized chaos of paperwork, evidence, and a few intricate antique clocks that he had a passion for collecting and restoring. He obviously wanted to hit something, but couldn’t find a place where the damage would be worth the cleanup.
That was Carlton Morley as Farah had known him for six years. Always considering the consequences of his actions. Calculating the risks and weighing the cause and effect of every decision.
Jamming both fists into his trouser pockets, he leaned against his desk and glowered at her. “Did he force you?”
“No.” She didn’t want to lie to him, so she promised herself she would tell the truth.
“Hurt you?”
“No.” At least, not more than necessary, and not at all on purpose.
“Coerce you?”
Farah swallowed. “No,” she lied. Damn. She needed to get them out of this so that she didn’t end up as corrupted as her husband before the night was through. “I’m sorry that I’ve been absent, Carlton. If I haven’t already been sacked, I need to resign my post as a clerk for Scotland Yard, collect my husband and his … valet, and take Gemma somewhere safe.”
“The hell you will!” Carlton exploded. “Half of Scotland Yard witnessed your husband slaughter two smugglers. In addition, Edmond Druthers is being stitched up and having his broken jaw set by the surgeon.” He grimaced at the word husband as though it tasted foul. “Then there’s the unexplained, and no doubt connected, death of George Perth, whose body was found strangled on Executioner’s Dock. Did you have anything to do with that?”
“You don’t seriously believe I could strangle a man the size of George Perth?” Farah asked.
Gemma chortled beside her, but wisely refrained from remarking.
“Do you know who killed him?”
“I can honestly say that … the man who is responsible for George Perth’s death is no legitimate acquaintance of mine,” Farah hedged, certain she was digging her own pit in hell.
Morley’s eyes narrowed to slits of pure skepticism. “That isn’t what I asked.”
“Furthermore,” Farah continued, hoping to distract her former boss with more important things than the elusive and mysteriously frightening Christopher Argent, “if your men witnessed the encounter, they may add their statements to Miss Warlow’s, Mr. Murdoch’s, and mine that Mr. Blackwell was only defending himself, and Miss Warlow and me, against attacking dock pirates who deserved every bit of what they got.”
Morley’s jaw jutted forward as he ground his teeth together. “I was too far away to see much of the particulars,” he muttered. “But I didn’t miss the part where you barely talked him out of committing cold-blooded murder.” Morley pushed himself away from the desk with his hip. “You saved his life, because the moment he cut Druthers’s throat, I’d have had the fodder to finally see him hanged.”
“I owed him for saving my life,” she replied carefully. “May I ask what you all were doing en masse at the docks at that hour?”
“We’d a tip that Druthers had a large shipment of smuggled goods arriving tonight. We’d staked out the position in the hopes of making a mass arrest.”
“And so you did.” Farah offered a solicitous smile. “Druthers and a large contingent of his smugglers are either dead or in your custody. The night was a success, and if you don’t mind, I’d like to collect my party and go home.” She stood, gathering her skirts.
“Sit. Down,” Morley ordered.
Damn, she thought with a sigh. She sat.
Morley studied her for a long time, and Farah resolutely met his gaze. She’d done nothing of which she was ashamed. Only, Morley, a kind and honest man, had been hurt in all of this madness, and that was her one profound regret.
“I’m sorry for disappearing, Carlton. I realize the trouble and angst it must have caused not just you, but everyone here. It is unfair to you, especially after the evening we spent together.” She remembered the kiss, the proposal. If she’d accepted it right then, would she still be alive? “I was—am in danger. Say what you will about Dorian Blackwell, he did save my life.”