Page 21 of Death at Fournier Downs
She glanced up at him, and his dark eyes seared hers. Then, he stepped back, dropping his hand, and allowing her to open the door. Audrey swept into the hallway and did not take in a full breath until she was back outside in the sunlight, starting home on foot toward Fournier House.
ChapterEight
The sun was slipping behind the treetops by the time Hugh made it to the earl’s estate. He’d taken a curricle, hired from the stables at Low Heath, and dropped Sir off about a quarter mile from the entrance to Bainbury’s drive. The manor—a blocky Tudor manse reminiscent of an overgrown hunting lodge—was situated down a long, straight drive off the main road, about a half hour from Low Heath.
Sir had taken to his task with great aplomb, leaping onto the dirt road and saluting Hugh with a finger to the side of his nose before Hugh snapped the reins and carried onward. The lad had agreed to show up at the servant’s entrance at Bainbury Manor and apply as stable or house help. There was no telling if he’d be accepted or not, but Sir had a way that would loosen the jaws of even the most taciturn people, and Hugh didn’t doubt he would unearth some valuable nugget regarding Lady Bainbury.
The scratches and bruising along her wrist left him with no doubt that she had been, in some way, helped along into the grave. That Bainbury would attempt to brush off his wife’s death as accidental, and not seek answers or justice for her mistreatment, stoked Hugh’s temper. The earl either wanted to avoid scandal or avoid blame.
When women were killed, husbands were, by and large, the culprits. This Hugh knew from countless cases in London. He would not dismiss the earl as a suspect simply because of his privilege of peerage.
The horse’s shod hooves and the curricle wheels sent clouds of dust into the air as Hugh drove along the stately path to the manor. The landscaping was simpler here than at Fournier Downs; more trees lined the property, casting shadows, fewer gardens adorned the lawns, and the heavy, humid air weighed like a dreary pall.
It was troubling to think, if not for the duke’s timely interference, Audrey would have been mistress of this manor instead. The concept made him feel ill, especially when he wondered if Charlotte’s fate would have become hers. Bainbury had now lost three wives. The circumstances surrounding his second wife’s death, a suicide by a bullet to the head, had intrigued him enough to glance at the files in the Bow Street records room before leaving for Hertfordshire. Suicides rarely needed investigations, and this one had been no different.
He rolled his shoulders as a surge of heat and frustration attempted, yet again, to settle in his chest and stomach. Audrey’s visit to his room had left him agitated, and Sir’s sly, sideways glances after helping the duchess escape the inn and tavern, unnoticed, had not helped.
“It was not what it appeared to be,” was all he’d said to the boy, who’d scrubbed the tip of his nose and looked away as if doubtful.
What had the woman been thinking, sneaking into his room? It had been entirely too brash and heedless, though it shouldn’t have surprised him. It was exactly the way she’d conducted her “investigation” in London back in the spring. While he understood why she’d wanted to speak to him alone, there was certainly another way to go about it rather than ensconcing herself into his private bedchamber while the duke and coroner and magistrate were all gathered downstairs.
Finding her there had created a firestorm right in the center of his sternum. He’d half wanted to toss her out on her ear. The other, impractical half had wanted their private conference to stretch out longer than it had—and that was a problem.
“Not a word of this to Basil,” he’d warned Sir after assuring the lad that the duchess had merely wished to speak to him on an urgent matter.
“Me gob’s a steel trap, Mister Hugh,” he’d replied.
Hugh brought his curricle to a stop in front of the manor’s main entrance and two footmen saw to his mount and conveyance. A barrel-chested butler met Hugh at the door.
“His lordship is not receiving callers, sir. This house is in mourning.”
“I am aware, my condolences. My name is Principal Officer Hugh Marsden of Bow Street and I’m—”
“Ah. You are the Runner whom Lady Prescott hired, are you?” The butler’s well-practiced sneer deepened.
“That is correct,” he replied, anticipating the butler’s next retort.
“The Earl of Bainbury has instructed me to turn you away should you blacken his doorstep.”
“Of course he has.” Hugh sighed. It was always such a shame when things became unpleasant. “I will return tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that, until he admits me. If he does not, I will have no choice but to proceed in my investigation with his lordship as my central suspect in the murder of Lady Bainbury.”
“Murder? Preposterous!” the butler seethed.
“The inquest has been suspended as foul play is now alleged. Have the magistrate and Coroner Wilkes arrived yet for their interview with the earl?”
The butler’s nostrils flared. His jowls somehow even managed to appear offended. “They have not.”
“Luckily for the earl, I have preceded them. He might want to be prepared for the news they bring. As well as the questions.”
It was a bit heavy handed, but Hugh was hoping the butler’s wish to protect his employer won out. It did.
“Wait here.”
Hugh stayed in the foyer, a footman planted next to the front door to watch at him with a reptilian-like gaze. The young man barely blinked as the butler shuffled off to alert Bainbury. Only an indistinct raised voice distracted the footman from his marble-like cast. A moment later the butler reappeared, his poise slightly rattled.
“This way, Runner.”
Hugh did not bother to correct him. While there were numerous foot patrolmen and horse patrol officers in London, he was one of several principal officers at Bow Street. Being called aRunnergrated on Hugh’s pride—it was where he’d started, as a foot patrol, but he’d worked his way up the ranks at Bow Street and had earned his designation.
