Page 10 of Silence of Deceit
Winnie scowled. “Should they?”
“Delia never mentioned a Mrs. Simpson? A Lady Rumsford or Lord Fournier?”
She shook her head again. “Sorry.”
He was getting nowhere. Hugh sighed heavily. “Don’t apologize. Thank you for speaking with me.”
Winnie stood from the arm of the sofa, her expression changing. She lowered her lashes and pouted her lips. Hugh had been in plenty of establishments of ill repute to know that particular look.
“A shilling’s worth at least another half hour, and Mrs. Roy said I was to be extra nice to you.”
The woman was likely worried that Hugh had lied and was going to report her after all. Winnie brought down the shoulder of her dress, but Hugh held up his hand. “That isn’t necessary. You’ve been very kind. I’ll take my leave.”
Winnie covered her shoulder and gave another careless shrug, likely relieved by the rejection.
“If you remember anything more,” Hugh said as he found another sixpence in his pocket, and then pressed it into her palm, “send word to me at Bow Street.”
She stared at the coins before quickly slipping them into her bodice, where Mrs. Roy would never find them or take her gouging cut. Winnie nodded and thanked him, but he already knew she had nothing more to offer.
Outside, he took the calling cards from his pocket. The paper had bloated then dried, and the inks had distorted, but the pressed letters had mostly remained legible. He flipped through. There were at least three apiece for the Viscountess Rumsford, Mrs. Gregory Simpson, and the Duke of Fournier. Hugh spent a protracted moment eyeing the duke’s card. Block engraving with no flourish beyond the family crest stamped in the top center. Why would Delia have his calling cards, and who were the owners of these other two?
While the duke’s calling cards intrigued him the most, he had no desire to see Fournier—or the duchess—so soon after their outing the night before. Greeting a viscountess before the more acceptable one o’clock in the afternoon also did not appeal.
He would visit Mrs. Gregory Simpson first, he decided, and see what she could tell him about the pitiable Delia Montgomery.
ChapterFour
Audrey settled herself into the silk cushioned chair inside Mrs. Gregory Simpson’s receiving room and forced an awkward smile. Mrs. Simpson had been breathless ever since her maid announced Her Grace, the Duchess of Fournier just moments before Audrey entered the room.
The older woman’s flushed cheeks and wide, agonized eyes were likely the result of having been called upon by an elevated lady of society. Audrey did not enjoy the stiffening of postures, the hitching of chins, and the demure smiles that greeted her whenever she was presented formally, but it could not be helped. Surely, when she woke that morning, this middle-class woman had no notion that a duchess would visit her residence.
“Youare the Duchess of Fournier?” Mrs. Simpson’s tone was not one of shock, but of doubt. And now suddenly, the breathless, wide-eyed stare struck Audrey as hostile rather than surprised.
“I am,” Audrey replied, curious at the woman’s blatant doubt.
After a moment in which Mrs. Simpson appraised the duchess, she nodded to the maid. “Tell Mary she may come back in.”
Audrey frowned, following the maid’s departure with gaping lips. Apparently, she had sent her daughter from the room before Audrey had been shown in. As the woman called for tea and apologized for her qualms, Audrey puzzled over why she’d been so suspicious. And when Mary joined them, the young woman’s eyes widened so perilously, they nearly rolled out of her head. Her coloring pinked, then paled. Audrey sent her a stilted grin, and for a second time, extended her apologies for not sending a note ahead. Mrs. Simpson waved the apology away with a bright laugh, insisting such notice was not necessary.
“Why, we are honored to host you, Your Grace, are we not, Mary?” She sent her daughter a fierce look of expectation.
Mary, who was perhaps twenty now, quickly stifled her surprise and changed her expression to one of perfect graciousness, even though her coloring continued to alternate between stark white and a mottled flush. “Yes, of course, Mama.”
The blank, beseeching look Mrs. Simpson turned upon Audrey next needed no interpretation. She wished to know why the duchess was currently ensconced within her receiving room.
“I am not sure how to begin,” Audrey said, crossing another glance with Mary, who once again appeared ashen. “Mrs. Simpson your daughter and I are already acquainted. We met several years ago in Northumberland.”
This was a gamble, and it was one Audrey was willing to make if it meant learning more about Delia’s brutal end. As she’d suspected, the silver card case had shown her nothing more than murky, distorted images when she had attempted to read its memories. It was as though any energy the object had retained had been watered down by the Thames itself. So, with no clues to go on, she had settled on beginning with Delia’s previous mention of Mary Simpson.
Her mother now stared in dismay, eyes swiveling from Mary to Audrey and then back again.
“What? Surely not. North…Northumberland?” Her voice pitched high and breathy, and Mary’s trained poise fled. She slouched, her forehead creased with dismay, and her jaw slackened.
“Yes. A certainretreat,” Audrey said, referring to Shadewell as her own mother always had when describing the place. The baroness had never once acknowledged that it was an asylum. Audrey suspected that was to protect herself from feeling an ounce of guilt—or more likely shame—over sending her daughter there.
Mrs. Simpson glared at Audrey and went utterly still as if she had been transformed into stone. “So, youdohave some connection to that woman.”
Audrey frowned. “What woman do you mean?”
