Page 3 of Death at Fournier Downs
Yesterday, Hugh, a principal officer at Bow Street, had been called into Chief Magistrate Sir Gabriel Poston’s office. The magistrate slapped a letter onto his desk and gestured toward it in his rough, no-nonsense fashion.
“You’ve been hired to investigate a death.” He’d gone on to explain what little the letter had provided.
Lady Bainbury, the Countess of Bainbury, had been found dead. Her husband, the earl, was claiming it was an accident. However, the countess’s mother, Lady Prescott, refused to believe it. She had been advised to send for Officer Hugh Marsden by none other than Her Grace, the Duchess of Fournier.
Audrey.
Her name, scrawled in black ink at the close of the letter, had loosened something inside his chest, something tight and constricted. Like a fist clenched for too long, the muscles were reluctant to release.
Hugh had set the letter back on the desk and told the magistrate to find someone else.
“This fancy lady what we’re visiting,” Sir began as the hired coach and four rumbled and shook down a post road toward Greely Park. “She’s a viscountess?”
Hugh’s pocket watch read half four. They should be arriving any moment now. He slipped the watch back into his waistcoat pocket and fought rising irritation. It wasn’t Sir he was irritated with but himself.
“Yes, Viscountess Prescott. Butweare not visiting. I am. You and Basil will wait with the carriage while I interview her ladyship.”
Sir groaned and slumped down in the seat like a petulant child. If he wasn’t the smartest, scrappiest, most resourceful urchin Hugh had ever known, he would have left him in London.
Basil swept away a clod of dirt that had floated in through the open window and landed on his cuff. “I sincerely hope there are acceptable accommodations in Low Heath.”
Hugh knew next to nothing of the village closest to Lady Prescott’s estate. Just that it was in Hertfordshire. If it was anything like the other villages along the post road, it would have a posting inn and tavern, and a stable, at the very least.
“Hopefully we won’t have to stay on for long. A few days at the most to sort things out,” Hugh said.
Sir Gabriel would be having himself a grand chuckle right now, he imagined. He’d refused to have another officer summoned for the job.Your duchess is asking for you, Marsden,he’d said.The last thing I need is her hoity toity self, storming in here, asking why I sent the wrong man.
Had the Duchess of Fournier been in London, there was no doubt she would have done just that. Last April, he’d had a devil of a time keeping her from getting herself killed during her unorthodox investigation into Belladora Lovejoy’s murder. She’d been shot in the shoulder just before the true killer was caught, and Hugh had felt a barbed friction under his skin for days afterward. He’d been frustrated, bloody angry, and blissfully relieved.
Once Audrey and the duke left for Hertfordshire, that friction faded slowly. Arresting thieves and burglars, drunkards with tempers, and run-of-the-mill murderers had buried the memories of that remarkable case, in which Hugh had arrested the wrong man—something that still pricked like a thorn.
“No doubt you want to return by Friday evening,” Basil said, arching a brow.
“Shut it, Basil,” Hugh replied, more peeved than usual with his valet. He was a perpetual sarcastic snob who felt entirely too secure in his position. There wasn’t another valet in all of England who would provoke his employer with a sarcastic remark about his mistress. Basil was the epitome of grace when he saw fit, and yet also managed to be as petulant as Sir at times. No wonder the two of them rubbed each other the wrong way.
Next to him on the bench seat, Sir snickered. He was probably only eleven or twelve, but that boy knew more than he should.
“Miss Friday’s real pretty, she is,” he said.
Hugh glared at him. “Mind your manners, Sir.”
He pouted. “What? I didn’t call her ugly.”
“You should never mention a man’s mistress in conversation,” Hugh replied.
“Why not?”
“It is considered rude.”
Sir rolled his eyes. Hugh fought another grin. Sometimes he felt like his own father whenever he tried imparting wisdom and manners into the young lad. Lord Leatham, the sixth Viscount Leatham, had never shirked his responsibility to teach his sons how to behave in polite society. That Hugh was not his legitimate son, and would never be required to enter polite society, had not stopped him from instilling the knowledge just the same.
Hugh had been raised alongside his half-brothers, Bartholomew and Thomas, as well as his half-sister, Eloisa, and had absorbed every last drop of wisdom the late viscount had offered. He sat back in the carriage as it trundled toward Greely Park and sighed. A hell of a lot of good it had done him.
“Maybe ye two should be spliced then,” Sir said after a moment. Hugh jerked his head toward him.
“Spliced?”
“Ye know. Enter the parson’s mouse trap?Married?” Sir said while affecting a look of revulsion.
