Page 48 of Death at Fournier Downs
As she explained about the maid arranging for a meeting with Ida Smith for herbs to induce cramping and terminate the pregnancy, Hugh went to the table of evidence. He picked up the bundles of herbs, tied off with twine.
“Miss Smith was summoned again to the ruined cottage the morning of her death,” Hugh told the duchess. Holding up the herbs, he added, “The messenger came from this estate.”
Audrey spun to look at Philip. The duke shook his head. “I will speak to Gendron and find out which servant and who sent him. However, Audrey, I must ask you to come with me. This is no place for you.”
Her chin lifted an inch and indignance fired in her eyes. She wanted to refuse.
Hugh set down the herbs. “I’m going to Bainbury Manor. If the countess’s maid summoned Ida Smith, she did so by using a messenger as well. I’ll find him and speak to him.”
“I will come with you,” Wilkes said, an uncharacteristic grin touching his prim lips. “Bainbury might be more likely to let you trespass with me present.”
Audrey didn’t exactly pout, but her annoyance was plain. The duke touched her elbow, drawing her toward the door. “Come. I have a surprise for you. Cassie as well.”
She peered at him. “A surprise?”
Hugh ignored the sharp twist in his gut at the sound of her curious pleasure. She sent a quick glance at Hugh before allowing Fournier to lead her from the room. As Wilkes drew the sheet back up over Ida Smith’s face, Hugh pushed aside the irrational jealousy. The duke was right. This was no place for a duchess. Not just within this room, but within this investigation. Ida Smith may have died for what she’d figured out.
Hugh would not allow the same to happen to Audrey.
ChapterSeventeen
Apicnic. That was Philip’s surprise.
Audrey didn’t want to feel deflated or unappreciative, but as she and Cassie and Philip lounged on a large blanket on a knoll of green pasture overlooking the manor, she also couldn’t help but consider the disparity between the lazy afternoon diversion and the seriousness of the recent murders.
It didn’t seem real or right that they should be drinking lemonade and ratafia and eating salmagundi and berry pie while Hugh and the coroner were hunting down information on the killings. It was absurd, of course, to want to go with Hugh to Bainbury Manor, but she felt as if she’d failed when speaking to Dorothy. Why hadn’t she askedwhohad run the message to Ida Smith? She supposed, at the time, it had not seemed a critical piece of information. But after Philip told her of the findings at the inquest, her blunder made her feel like a pure fool.
After Philip spoke to Gendron, the stablemaster rounded up all the hands to ask who delivered the message to Haverfield the day of Ida’s death. None confessed. Gendron, embarrassed by the silence that had met the duke’s request, had assured Philip that he would find out who it was before the day was through.
There was nothing left to do but take their picnic.
The small grin Cassie wore when she’d come down from her bedchamber for the picnic had at least given Audrey a bit of appreciation for Philip’s idea.
Cicadas hummed in the tall grass, and butterflies and bees swooped and buzzed from the broad flowering heads of wild carrot and bright corncockle. Two footmen had pitched a small canopy to shield them from the sun’s direct glare.
As Philip poured them each ratafia, he’d made Audrey promise to discuss anything other than the investigation before he would hand her the small cordial glass. She had accepted with a small dart of her tongue just to cheek him, but she had held to the promise.
“Lysander,” Philip said, reclining on one elbow, his second glass of ratafia nearly drained. “Lysander Philip.”
Audrey barked a laugh. “That is a terrible name! Don’t you dare suggest it to Michael. Can you imagine looking at a little cherub-faced baby and calling himLysander?”
Philip had received a letter from Michael the previous day, and he’d mentioned that he and Genie had not yet settled on a name for their first child. So, for the last several minutes, she and Philip had bandied about names to see which one was most suitable for Michael’s heir. It was, of course, an attempt to distract themselves from the much more unsavory topic that hung over them like a shroud. Cassie was listening in, smiling at the more ridiculous names.
“So, you do not object to the middle name, then?” Philip replied.
“Oh, I object to the middle name most of all,” Audrey replied, trying not to giggle. “Philip is no more suited to a baby than Lysander.”
The duke pushed himself into a seated position and nearly spilled the rest of his drink. “Iwas a baby named Philip, mind you.”
“Yes, well, you weren’t very cherub-faced, or so I’ve heard,” she teased.
Cassie huffed laughter again, but it was a bit flimsy. She seemed distracted, just as she had been that morning while writing her letter to Genie. She sat upon the blanket, tracing the embroidery with her finger.
Philip poured himself more ratafia, though Audrey shook her head. The liquor was rather strong, and paired with the heat, it might cause them to take a long nap.
“I suppose even if he is named Barnabus Smockton, he will be perfect,” Audrey said, recalling one of the other names Philip had advocated for, which had inspired Audrey to throw a slice of cold ham from their salmagundi at him. He’d simply plucked it from his sleeve and eaten it.
Cassie sighed then peered into her cordial glass. “I cannot wait to meet him.”
