Page 27 of Silence of Deceit
She unclasped her hands. “You spoke with him?” Audrey couldn’t imagine the viscountess would allow Hugh entry into her home.
He shrugged and with a mischievous arch of his brow said, “It took some convincing. Thornton sent a word of recommendation, and when that was not enough to encourage her ladyship, my promise that the horse patrol in front of her home would be happy to stay put for as long as it took for her to answer my questions sped things along nicely.”
Audrey wished she’d had some similar leverage during her interview—if one could even call it an interview—in Hyde Park.
Still peeved, she stiffened again and put on her ducal tone. “I take it you have some object for me to hold.”
Insult clamped down on his expression, and his eyes narrowed. “No. I do not. And let’s resolve this, shall we?” Hugh tossed his hat onto the study’s sofa. Audrey watched him carefully, alarm rising when he crossed the rug toward her desk and braced his hands against the edge. “I do value your ability. And yes, it has been rather helpful in providing information and leads, but I am not standing here because I want to use your talent. I’m standing here because you know things I do not about this case. I’m standing here because you want to help, and despite my better judgment, I want to let you. And I’m standing here because I cannot seem to stop finding myself in your presence.”
The air around them went as silent and as still as a portrait; a sliver in time, frozen. Audrey stared at him, heating infusing her from the center of her chest to the tips of her ears. Lips parting wordlessly, eyes blinking, she must have looked simpleminded. She had not expected a speech of such raw intensity—or the accompaniment of his steady, admiring gaze.
“I…” she began. His attention slipped to her mouth, then slowly rose to her eyes again.
Audrey cleared her throat and severed their protracted stare. “I suspect Delia ran into Lord Rumsford at some point this fall.”
She straightened some papers on her desk, not watching to see if Hugh showed any disappointment in her awkward and obvious change of topic.
“At a bookshop on the Strand,” he confirmed after a long moment. “Apparently, while at Shadewell, Rumsford began to teach Delia how to read and write. They spent many hours in the library there, with Rumsford often reading to her.”
She had avoided looking at Hugh by turning toward the windows. Outside, evening had waned, and the windows reflected the study rather than the limbs of the broad plane tree. Just as the waft of a certain scent could conjure a specific memory, the mention of the library at Shadewell drove through her like a wick touched with a lit taper.
“You’ve thought of something,” Hugh said. “What is it?” She realized she had been staring at the windows for too long as her memory worked.
It had been ages since she’d thought of that library, with its limited shelves and even more limited collection of books. As one of the calmest places at Shadewell, most of the residents who frequented it treated the room as a respite, a place to separate themselves from those who were truly afflicted.
“I think I know who Lord Rumsford was there,” she said.
Hugh’s brow crinkled. “Who hewas?”
Audrey stepped out from behind the desk as a shivering sensation settled under her skin. A physical reaction to discussing Shadewell, surely.
“We did not all use our given names or titles, of course. Discretion was always upheld,” she explained. “I was Audrey Smith, Mary Simpson was Mary Wood, and if I’m correct, Lord Rumsford was the sweet and gentle Teddy.”
Looking to be somewhere in his late forties or early fifties, Teddy had been short and stocky with brown hair flecked with gray near the temples. He’d always worn a kind smile and had been notably patient when teaching Delia and a few others their letters and numbers inside the library.
“And what about Delia?” Hugh asked, removing his outer coat. The fire in the grate had warmed the room considerably since one of the footmen had stoked it earlier. “What name did she take?”
“She kept her given name,” Audrey replied. Hugh nodded, seeming to understand that Delia had not had a reputation or a life in London worth preserving.
“Why was she there?” he asked instead.
Delia’s story never failed to make Audrey both squeamish and enraged.
“Her father was not kind. He…abused her from a young age. Finally, Delia’s mother found them…in the act.” She swallowed, averting her eyes from Hugh’s. It was a horrible, wretched image to concoct in her mind, and she didn’t want to look at him while thinking it.
“Bastard,” he hissed, understanding again without question.
“Delia’s mother accused her of seducing her own father, calling her a demon child, warped in the head and heart. He was all too willing to agree with his wife.”
When Delia had related the reason for her being locked up at Shadewell, Audrey had scarcely believed it. But after a while, she had come to realize it was the truth. Delia was not like her or Mary or Teddy. She wasn’t refined or reserved. Well-trained, some might say. Her language was bolder, her manner rougher.
A rare look of loathing transformed Hugh’s expression into something Audrey would never wish to be directed toward her. The dark glower made her shiver, and then she cursed herself for being so thoughtless. So tactless. Hugh had been publicly accused of a crime reminiscent to that of Delia’s father—the ruination of his half-sister. However, where Mr. Montgomery had been guilty as sin, Hugh had been innocent.
“Did Delia have anything to do with either of her parents after she left Shadewell?” he asked.
Audrey shook her head. “Apparently, they left London before she returned. Their departure didn’t upset her.”
Hugh took a few breaths and rubbed at the crease in his brow, visibly attempting to expunge the disturbing account from his mind. Then, he got back to the case.
