Page 17 of Silence of Deceit
Hugh lowered his whisky glass and the rest of the conversation in the room muted underneath his renewed focus. “Why would you suggest the duke?”
Thornton, though taller than Hugh, seemed to shrink at being snared. He’d given something away and shook his head, knowing it.
“All right. You’ve got me. If I can trust that this will go nowhere but between us?”
Hugh beamed at him with obvious sarcasm. “I cannot promise Miss Hanson will not hear of it.”
“Devil take you,” he groaned. “Lord Rumsford and the duke are…” He thought for a moment, then finished, “likeminded in their tastes.”
Hugh grappled with what that meant until the widening of Thornton’s eyes pushed him toward understanding. His friend, having been present when Hugh and Audrey had confronted and overwhelmed Lord Wimbly, the mastermind behind last April’s scandal, knew of Fournier’s preference for men. He’d vowed his confidence, and Hugh trusted him.
“How do you know this?” Hugh asked. Thornton grinned and looked around the room.
“Do you not see my acquaintances, Marsden? The demimonde is welcoming to all, and Rumsford is not as shrewd as the duke,” Thornton said quietly, turning his back again to the rest of the crowd, including to Miss Devereaux who watched them with a hawk’s interest.
“Others know about Rumsford’s activities?”
Thornton nodded. “Some do. He’s also rumored to have left London for a length of time. A few years ago, if I recall. Some hushed up business after a molly house raid. Sarah mentioned his absence after attending a luncheon with Lady Rumsford.”
Thornton did not often speak of his late wife. That he brought himself to do so now proved to Hugh the length to which he was willing to go to make amends for blabbing to Miss Devereaux.
Hugh didn’t ask where the viscount was rumored to have gone. He was almost certain he knew—Shadewell was likely to be a place for men as well as women. The connection between Delia, Mary Simpson, Audrey and now Lord Rumsford was becoming too solid to consider mere happenstance.
Shortly after Audrey delivered him back to Bow Street, Hugh had traveled to the address engraved upon Lady Rumsford’s card. He’d made sure to arrive before the fashionable hour when the viscountess might be strolling along Rotten Row, but the footman had turned him away with the excuse that the lady was out. For a brief moment, he’d wished the duchess had been with him to help ease his way into the lady’s drawing room, much like she had done in August when visiting the Marquess and Marchioness of Finborough to speak to them about the so-called suicide of their daughter. But then, Hugh had felt immediately guilty for the wish. Audrey’s card had been used in such a manner by Delia Montgomery, and there he was, thinking of using the duchess herself in much the same way.
“What about Rumsford has you in a twist?” Thornton asked.
“He or his wife is connected to the death of a woman, though I’m not sure how,” Hugh said. His admission would be safe. Thornton might have been loose-lipped before with Miss Devereaux, but he would not make the same misstep again.
“What woman?”
Hugh shrugged a shoulder. “No one of great import, though I should be struck down for saying it. A life is a life. Still, she had no family, was no one of consequence. Hell, she had only some fine dresses cast off to her and a few other worldly possessions. Sir Gabriel doesn’t think I should spend time investigating. Give her a pauper’s funeral and let it be. Move on to bigger fish.”
“But?” Thornton crossed his arms in expectation.
Hugh sighed. “But I cannot.”
Thornton quirked the corner of his lips into a wry grin. “Tell me what the duchess has to do with this.”
Irritation spiraled through him, reminding him of why he should not keep friends so close. “Who said she had anything to do with it?”
“You would not defy the magistrate otherwise. And considering your outburst back there regarding the duchess, I’m convinced you’ve seen her recently.”
Hugh glared at him, but he did not back down. More than once before, Thornton had made some comment about Hugh’s troublesome interest in the Duchess of Fournier. It had been easy to brush off, at first. But after the case in Hertfordshire, he was willing to admit his friend might have seen something Hugh himself had not.
He relented, and in a hushed voice, explained to Thornton all that occurred from the time Constable Stevens brought him Audrey’s drenched card case and Mrs. Simpson admitted to being blackmailed by the deceased—all but Audrey’s own involvement at Shadewell. Instead, he said Delia was a charity case that the duchess took on. A relation to one of her house staff. He didn’t like lying to his closest friend, but it could not be avoided. Once Hugh concluded, Thornton’s expression was contrite.
“I don’t think I’d be able to walk away from that muddle either,” he admitted. And then, the pale green of his eyes darkening, added, “You think Rumsford is also being blackmailed?”
Hugh suspected that to be the case. But then, he had also found the duke’s calling card among Delia’s things. It was possible she’d stolen those alongside Audrey’s when she’d somehow managed to go snooping through Violet House. However, Hugh wondered if there wasn’t another reason.
“I was turned away today when I called on Rumsford,” he admitted. Thornton snorted a laugh, unsurprised. He scratched his chin and considered.
“I could accompany you,” he suggested.
“I would rather do this on my own.” Not just for his pride either. He would need to speak of Shadewell, and the topic of the duchess might rise to the surface. As much as he valued and trusted Thornton, he could not betray Audrey.
“Let me send a request, at the least,” he insisted. “A note to recommend you.”
