Page 33 of Fatal By Design
Audrey set down her glass, unable to finish her whisky, and turned to Hugh.
“A rare purple diamond is sure to provide someone a hefty amount of money to invest.”
Hugh picked up her glass and with one toss, finished the rest of her drink. “My money’s back on Westbrook. If his estate is in trouble, he’d benefit from that ring. Perhaps he hired men and things went all wrong. His under-reaction to everything that’s happened could be an act to appear innocent.”
“But how could he have known about it? Or that Millie would be on the road to Greenbriar?”
Hugh shook his head, no answer to give. The only sound now was the rain whipping the glass windows. Hugh reached for Audrey’s hand and brought it to his lips. She wanted to rise to her toes and kiss him, but if someone walked into the study, the flagrant offense would make its way around to the other guests, then to London and polite society at large.
She settled for holding his hand and a rather unsophisticated moment of longing.
“I don’t imagine I’ll be seated next to you at dinner,” he said.
“With hope, I’ll be placed next to Lord Kettleridge,” she replied, suddenly no longer dreading dinner or the other guests. Hugh cocked his head.
“Why is that?”
“I hear they are looking for wealthy widows to invest in this silver speculation.” She enjoyed the perceptive grin spreading over his mouth. “And I just happen to be one.”
ChapterThirteen
In the two days Hugh had been gone from Greenbriar, Basil had arranged everything in his guest room with his usual exacting precision. The valet had organized all his clothing by purpose—riding, dining, lounging, boating, shooting—with several options for each. Every neckcloth was perfectly starched, his footwear polished to a high gleam, and his hats and coats brushed with the loving care of a snobby perfectionist.
“You look no better than a dog after it has rolled around in the dirt to rid itself of fleas,” Basil had muttered while impatiently waiting for Hugh to remove his clothing.
“It is road dust, Basil. Forgive me if I am not some magical being that can deflect all dirt and debris.”
He’d plunged into the waiting bath and summarily dismissed his fastidious valet when he’d tried scrubbing the back of Hugh’s neck. The man had been a fusspot when Hugh had first hired him, and he’d only gotten worse. Now, as valet to a viscount, he was next to impossible. Though Hugh threatened to replace him on a near daily basis, Basil confidently ignored him, and with good reason. The truth was, Hugh did not implicitly trust many people. As irritating as Basil could be, he was one of the scarce few he knew he could depend upon. He was also an incurable gossip, which often came in useful.
“Have you met Westbrook’s valet while I’ve been away?” Hugh asked him now as he tied his cravat. They stood in his dressing room, Basil readying him for dinner. Thornton, already presentable, though with a slightly rakish loose cravat that could have used a bit more starch, lounged on a quilted divan with his face stuck in a book. By the looks of it, a medical text. Seated on a cushioned stool near the open window, Sir was busy whittling a knob of wood with a folding knife.
“I have,” Basil replied. “The fellow has far too heavy a hand with the pomade, if you ask me. His lordship appears as if he’s been caught in a downpour.”
Thornton snorted laughter before turning a page in his book.
“The state of Westbrook’s hair isn’t my concern,” Hugh said. “I’m more curious if his valet is loose lipped about his employer.”
“Granger’s his name, and he’s a right idiot, that one,” Sir said, brushing some carvings from his hand. The boy perked up. “I could get him talkin’ real easy. You got something for me to do, Lord Hugh? What you want to know?”
“His lordship doesn’t need you nattering on to the marquess’s help,” Basil replied. “I am more than capable of speaking to the man without appearing obvious. I’ve already had a few conversations with him.”
“Yeah, about boot black and macassar oil,” Sir groaned. “Give me something to do, Lord Hugh, I’m beggin’ ya. I’m dead bored! Look at me—I’m so bored, I’ve had to take up whittling.” Sir brandished his carving.
Thornton lowered his book. “What is that supposed to be anyhow, Sir? A cat?”
Sir glowered at the knob of wood, which did appear to be some sort of hunched animal. “A cat? This here’s a horse!”
Thornton merely raised his book again, obscuring his amusement. Sir pocketed the knife and wood and crossed his arms with a huff.
“As much as I dislike agreeing with our young assistant—”
“I ain’tyourassistant, Baz.”
“—it is true that Granger isn’t overly cautious with details pertaining to his lordship.”
“What sort of details?” Hugh asked as Basil finished with the cravat and stepped back to inspect his work. With a press of his lips, he sighed and came back again to fix something that likely did not need fixing.
“He has made a few slips, revealing the marquess is not as plump in the purse as he once was. He was quite distressed that a few articles of clothing were held over from last season, and that he was forced to economize. He also lamented about purchasing a substandard bottle of macassar oil. Of course, if he simply applied less…” Basil sighed and left the comment unfinished.
