Page 52 of Death at Fournier Downs
For a man who opposes the ton so vehemently, you do recall a vast amount of gossip,Thornton had written.The doctor you are referring to is Millbury. Several years ago, a viscountess birthed a son bearing the same port wine stain as her physician on his neck. The man was ruined. He failed to turn up to a duel issued by the humiliated viscount and fled London with his family. No idea what happened to him from there.
With every sentence, Hugh had to hold himself back from kissing Basil’s cheek in triumph.
Now, as he came up behind the groom, he called, “On your way to grandmother’s?”
Tyson took one look over his shoulder, saw Hugh, and broke into a run. Partly amused, partly irritated, he overtook the lad easily, bringing his mount around and cutting him off.
“You don’t have much between the ears if you think you can outrun a horse, Tyson.”
The young man backed up a few steps. Sir’s depiction of him being green around the gills wasn’t too much of an exaggeration. He looked on the verge of swooning, what with his sweaty brow and wide eyes. “How do you know my name?”
“I spoke to Derry. I know you ran the countess’s message to Haverfield.”
Tyson’s eyes darted side to side, as if searching for an escape. There was none to be found. Hugh waited patiently for the stable hand to give up and meet his eyes again.
“You left Bainbury Manor abruptly,” he commented.
“My grandmother is ill.”
“Is that so? Then she could have used the wages you left behind for a doctor, I should think. Try again. Why have you cut and run?”
He stared up at Hugh, who was still in the saddle, and nervously licked his lips. He readjusted his satchel on his shoulder.
“You know what I think?” Hugh said. “I think you and countess were having some tumbles in the hayloft. You got her in the family way and panicked.”
He did not, in fact, think any of that, but he needed to get the young man speaking. It worked.
“No! I didn’t do anything like that!” he said, practically dropping the satchel stuffed with his belongings.
“Then tell me why you’ve panicked and fled.”
“Why wouldn’t I?” His voice cracked with emotion. “First, her ladyship dies. Then Ida. I’m the one what ran the message between ‘em, aren’t I?”
Hugh leaned forward, onto the horn of his saddle. “You think the killer has his eye on you? Why?”
His pale complexion tinged a shade crimson. “Because I know what the message said.”
“You read it?”
Tyson hung his head and nodded, clearly rueful over his action. “I know what Miss Ida does—did—for women, you see, and I was curious. I’m keen on Dottie—”
“Dorothy? The maid?”
Tyson nodded and Hugh understood. “You thought perhaps Dorothy was summoning Ida for herself.”
Tyson didn’t need to answer; his look of shame was enough of a confession.
“Why would knowing the contents of the message make you a target?” Hugh asked next.
“I don’t rightly know,” Tyson answered, casting a look down the post road. “But with the two of them killed and that note linking them…What if the killer finds out I read it? What if he thinks I know something I don’t?”
Was this how frantic and irrational Hugh had sounded when trying to convince Audrey to stay inside the walls of Fournier House? He hoped not.
“What did the message say?” He had an idea but wanted to know specifically.
“It just asked that Miss Ida bring the necessary herbs to the meeting spot at three o’clock that same day. There was a pound note included.”
A pound? That was as much as some maids earned every month.
