Page 16 of Silence of Deceit
Miss Devereaux batted her lashes but did not direct her favor on Thornton. Much to Hugh’s annoyance, the woman settled her hand on his own shoulder.
“Why, Lord Thornton, I am afraid I see through to the truth of the matter,” she said, her voice unnecessarily loud. “Your Bow Street friend hasn’t so much as grinned once this evening. He is far too serious for a celebration.”
Hugh sipped his whisky. “The lady is not wrong.”
“Of course, I am not,” she simpered, draping herself more closely. “Tell me, officer, is there any truth to the rumors I’ve heard?”
He peered at her, her face much too close to his own. “Rumors rarely involve truth. However, I’m curious as to what you’ve heard.”
Miss Devereaux leaned heavily on his arm; her perfume drifted into his senses, and he waited, yet again, to feel the taut reaction of lust in his groin. It did not arrive.
“Oh, just that a certain duchess has taken an interest in yourinvestigations,” she said playfully running a finger along his shoulder. “And that she has her duke in quite a cuckhold.”
Hugh went utterly still.
Thornton did as well, pausing his whisky halfway to his lips. “Martha,” he hissed.
Hugh shrugged off the woman’s hand. His temper rose to a sudden boil as he took a step away from her. “I suggest you think twice before perpetuating such gossip in the future. Your cheap amusements could have unfair consequences for finer women, such as this duchess you speak of.”
The lash of his tongue and the insult leveled left the circle of men and Miss Devereaux gaping. Hugh sliced his irritated stare toward Thornton, who was already apologizing with a shamefaced expression, and stepped away from them.
“Hugh, wait.” Thornton followed him through the pockets of guests toward the front hall.
“I don’t know if I should be flattered or disturbed that your post-coitus chats with Miss Devereaux include me and the duchess,” Hugh said as he accepted another whisky from a footman, whose cheek sported a smudge of vermillion lip paint, and whose neck had been draped in a rope of pearls.
Thornton snagged Hugh’s arm before he could leave the room.
“I’m sorry. I slipped up just after the duke’s exoneration,” Thornton said, attempting to tone down their conversation for the rest of the crowd. Thankfully, James was holding many of the guests in his thrall as he told an exuberant and no doubt exaggerated tale of hunting a pair of bucks in Essex.
“I’d had too much brandy, and she was asking about you and the duke. I suppose I revealed too much about the duchess’s actions during the investigation.”
It was so rare to see his friend utterly chagrinned that Hugh had a hard time staying angry with him.
“Did you say anything about the duchess being shot?” he whispered.
Thornton shook his head. “No. I promise, I did not.”
Hugh exhaled, grateful. Audrey had not wanted anyone to know about the injury, as the knowledge that she had been attacked at the Thames on a houseboat by a murderer would have been just another grave blow to her and the duke’s already tattered reputation.
That didn’t mean he was not still peeved. “You need to find yourself a better mistress,” Hugh grumbled.
Thornton widened his eyes and cocked his head. “Does Miss Hanson have anyone she would recommend?”
His mention of Gloria did the opposite of what Hugh would have liked; he felt a ball of dread weigh down his stomach. Much like when Audrey had mentioned Madam Gascoigne at the bone house. Gloria had once told him the modiste created a few of Audrey’s gowns, but the knowledge had since slipped his mind. That Gloria had likely helped create the duchess’s gowns was a link between the two women he did not need or want.
“Don’t press your luck, Thornton.”
He only laughed, and Hugh settled for calling him a prick. Thornton was the closest thing he had to a brother, and thankfully, he didn’t piss him off very often.
“Tell me what you know of Lord Rumsford,” Hugh asked, intending to change the course of the conversation. He did not want to discuss Gloria or Audrey or anything at all having to do with mistresses. Work was a much more palatable topic.
“Rumsford?” Thornton pulled a face. “Why?”
It was only the smallest of twitches, but Hugh still saw it upon Thornton’s expression. Like he’d just met with a mind-twisting riddle.
“You do know him then?” Hugh asked.
“I do,” he said tentatively. Cautiously. “What is this about? Fournier?”
