Page 33 of Death at Fournier Downs
“Not to worry, Marsden, I’m sure a footman has something more to your measurements. Verly.” Philip stepped aside, a clear indication that Hugh was to exit the study and follow the butler.
With one final piercing glare at Audrey, he did just that, his hessians leaving damp marks on the polished floor.
ChapterTwelve
The rain cleared out by the time Hugh returned to Low Heath. Barely a chair in the tavern was vacant, and the jovial ruckus was almost offensive after the last two hours he’d spent in Fournier’s icehouse with Coroner Wilkes. Hugh made his way through the crowded tavern, requesting kidney pie and a tankard of ale to be delivered to his room. The somber task of opening the countess’s abdomen to the coroner’s educated eye and determining the state of her womb had left an oil slick sensation under Hugh’s skin. Paired with intense hunger, the feeling was not especially welcome.
It was not the smell or the sight of human innards that had disturbed him, for Hugh had been witness to dozens of similar scenes before—Miss Lovejoy’s mutilated body and Mr. Bernadetto’s slashed throat were just two of the more recent ones that came to mind. No, what lodged like a stone in his chest after he’d left Wilkes to the task of closing the necessary incisions, was the confirmation that the small life that had barely taken root within the countess had shared its mother’s fate. It was confirmed. As her maid claimed, Lady Bainbury had been with child and roughly two months gone.
He climbed the stairs and made his way to his room with the dark thought that the person who had harmed the countess might have known they were also doing away with the unborn child. That the babe was, in fact, the incentive. Hugh rolled his shoulders as he entered his room, the muscles knotted with tension. He came to a stop and stared at his valet, who stood next to the open clothespress, a hammer in his hand.
“Christ, Basil, what are you doing?”
Basil brought the tool down upon what looked curiously like a new shelf, hammering a nail into place. “I was not going to tolerate more snagged threads.”
Hugh closed the door. “So, you decided to repair it?”
“Something had to be done.”
“You are entirely too at your leisure,” he muttered, removing his damp hat, and tossing it onto the bedstead.
Basil followed the flight of the hat in astonishment, and then whipped his attention back to Hugh and stared, agog. “Pierce my eyes,whatare you wearing?”
Hugh had anticipated Basil’s certain discontent when he’d accepted the clothing from one of the duke’s footmen. The broad, fall-fronted trousers were cut from low-quality tweed and were billowy around the thighs; the slightly yellowed, drop-shouldered shirt was a size too large and had been darned at the elbow more than once; and the jacket… Hugh shrugged out of the threadbare sack coat.
“It’s a long story, but suffice it to say, I needed to borrow some clothes from one of the duke’s footmen. My own will be delivered tomorrow, clean and pressed and meeting your standards, I’m sure.”
Basil sniffed. “The duke should pay his servants better if they are reduced to wearing such dreary things on their day’s off.”
Hugh made no comment but thought of Audrey and how she’d imagined the duke would be willing to lend some of his own clothes. As if Hugh would put on a duke’s clothes! And Fournier’s at that. Hugh had dressed and met Wilkes in the icehouse without delay and had thankfully not seen the duchess on his way.
Tension coiled in his shoulders again at the thought of her. He’d known she would search for the cottage. She had at least not gone alone, but good God, the woman was a magnet for disaster. She could not have possibly predicted finding yet another slain body; however, the desire to blame her for the misfortune was right there on the tip of his tongue.
He wasn’t angry with her exactly, just frustrated beyond reason. Hugh rubbed his bruised and scraped jaw as Basil muttered to himself about having to now launder second-rate garments. He’d be forced to mend them as well because it would be entirely beneath his standards to return them with tears and loose threads, even if they had been there before.
“And what sort of fisticuffs did you get into at the duke’s household?” Basil asked, now eyeing his chin.
Hugh dropped his hand and undressed down to his smalls (damp but at least still his own). “Another long story.” He did not wish to discuss how he’d subdued the duchess before she could bash in his skull. As impressive as her fight had been, the idea of her huddling in the cottage, fearful of a potential killer closing in on her unwound a tight curl of latent hostility within him.
He also couldn’t divest himself of the unexpected and stirring response he’d had to Audrey’s embrace. Both of them drenched, breathing heavily, clinging to each other…her figure had fit against his with remarkable perfection. Even now, a pulse of heat fired from the pit of his stomach. The overwhelming need to shield her had left a twisted friction that stretched from the base of his throat, straight to his groin.
He emitted a growl and snatched the folded stack of fresh clothing from his valet’s hands. Considering the time of night, Basil had brought forth a nightshirt and banyan. Hugh dressed moments before his tray of pie and ale was delivered.
“There’s been another murder,” Hugh announced after drawing deeply on the tankard. Basil dropped the hammer onto the floor.
“My goodness. Who is it?”
As Hugh forced himself to eat, he informed Basil of the events of the evening. His valet, after picking up the dropped hammer and finishing with his unnecessary project, digested the news and said, “The person Her Grace saw in the woods had every opportunity to attack her. That he did not indicates he does not wish the duchess harm.”
Hugh mulled that over, seeing the value of it. Perhaps he’d been wrong to suggest she was in danger.
“Or perhaps the killer did not attack Audrey because he heard her tell the duke’s sister to ride for help,” Hugh suggested.
“Addressing the duchess by her given name, are we?” Basil’s suggestive tone dripped with sarcasm.
“I don’t know why I keep you on.” Hugh sat back in his chair and took another slug of his ale. Basil chuckled, but then jumped with a start when a slight figure leaped onto the frame of the open window.
Sir laughed at the valet’s show of fright, and Hugh couldn’t hold back his own grin. The lad had promised a report within twenty-four hours, and here he was.
