Page 4 of Fatal By Design
They were coming upon the new Duke of Fournier’s country estate after a full day of road travel from the Neatham country seat near Cranleigh in Surrey, and they were all itching to get out and stretch their legs. Though he’d agreed to attend the house party, he’d been dreading it for weeks, and for more than one reason. Ever since the spring, when Hugh had taken on the mantle of Viscount Neatham, he’d been in a state of turmoil. Inside, he still felt like the old Hugh: the illegitimate ward of the late viscount, the exiled scapegrace accused of ruining his own half-sister and summarily shooting and maiming his half-brother in a duel, and the man who rose from a foot patrolman to principal officer with the Bow Street Runners. But now, at least on the outside, he was no longer most of those things.
No longer illegitimate, he had been identified as the true Neatham heir. It was a title he had never wanted and still wished had not been granted to him. When he’d set out to find his half-sister’s murderer last March, he had never imagined what more he’d discover. But revealing Eloisa’s killer had also teased out the truth about Hugh’s birth, and once brought to light, it could not be shoved back into the shadows. Had there been a way to let Barty keep the title, Hugh would have been delighted to do so. He missed being a principal officer. He missed being Mr. Hugh Marsden. Hell, he missednotbeing a peer.
“Sir, remember—you will not address the duke or duchess directly,” Hugh said placidly, so as not to upset the boy or sound accusing. “I understand you have addressed the previous duchess in the past, and she did not mind, but this duchess most certainly will. Is that understood?”
The boy narrowed his eyes with an expression that said,What am I, a bloody idiot?He wasn’t. Not in the least. On top of Sir’s street education, which had given him skills no gently raised boy in the ton would ever gain, Hugh had implemented tutoring lessons these last few months: mathematics, elocution, geography, and much to Sir’s discontent, literature. The boy could barely read a primer, but his tutor, Mr. Fines, updated Hugh regularly and claimed he was coming along well.
He half expected Sir was threatening Mr. Fines with that slingshot to report as much, but there was no evidence of it, so Hugh shrugged it off.
“Yes,my lord.” Sir dragged out the appropriate address with the same sarcasm that had netted him Hugh’s respect.
He only hoped Sir would refrain from showcasing his ill temper with the other house party guests and servants for the next fortnight. The length of the social gathering loomed before him like a fathomless abyss. He’d declined countless social events that summer, instead preferring to be alone in Surrey at his country estate, Cranleigh Manor. But when the invitation arrived, embossed with the Fournier name and coat of arms, he’d held the fine linen paper a little longer than necessary.
When news arrived in May that Philip, the Duke of Fournier, had died while visiting the Continent, Hugh’s initial reaction had been shameful. He’d despised himself ever since. The fact that Audrey was free from her sham of a marriage had filled him with joy and relief. Belatedly, after cursing himself for his selfishness, he’d recognized that Audrey’s dearest friend was dead and that she was surely grieving his loss. They might not have been in love romantically, but they had loved one another as friends.
The longing to go to her and comfort her had crossed his mind, and he’d nearly given in several times before reason won out—that and a scolding command from his friend Grant Thornton, who had paid Hugh a visit with the sole purpose to grab him by the scruff of the neck and warn him against such a show of impropriety.
A Bow Street officer might have been able to get away with climbing up the tree next to Violet House and sneaking into her room at night, but Hugh Marsden, the Viscount Neatham, most certainly could not.
As if he’d needed one more reason to curse his bloody title.
He’d settled for a written letter of condolences, which had read hollow and unfeeling, no matter how many drafts he’d crumpled and tossed into the fire. Audrey had replied with a brief letter of appreciation and equally hollow inquiries as to how he was settling in as viscount. After one more exchange of letters, all communication had ceased.
It was for the best. She was in mourning. Ironically, that made her even more off-limits than she had been before.
The new coach—one of the items that Hugh had not minded selecting and outfitting with four new horses purchased at Tattersall’s—slowed as it turned up a long lane. On the left, thick woods hemmed in the lane, and on the right, a perfectly manicured lawn sloped toward a body of water large enough to be deemed a lake rather than a pond. His stomach, which had already been in a knotted state, cinched tighter.
She would not be here.
In her last letter, Audrey had written that she’d be spending the summer at Greenbriar, but Hugh knew she could not attend the house party. Mourning rules forbade it. His longing to set eyes on her again had not diminished, but as the weeks, then months, progressed, that longing had started to change. With it now came uncertainty—that as soon as their eyes met, she would know his despicable, opportunistic thoughts regarding the duke.
Philip had not been a bad man or a terrible husband; he’d not deserved to die, and Hugh had never wished him dead. Not even in his weakest moments, when he considered that the duke’s death would be the only way Audrey could be free for another. Forhim. But now that it had come to pass, he worried she might suspect he did feel selfishly happy.
But no, she would not be here, and Hugh would be among others who could inform him as to how she was faring. If the late duke’s youngest sibling, Lady Cassandra, was present, she would certainly be eager to divulge everything having to do with her sister-in-law.
The coach turned, giving Hugh a view of the main house at Greenbriar—a large and stately Georgian home with pale rose brick and cream decorative quoins at the corners, giving the impression that the sides of the home had been stitched up like a tailor’s seam. Rumor had it that the new duke and duchess had not wanted to turn Audrey out of Fournier House in Hertfordshire and take their rightful place there. It was kind of them. However, seeing Greenbriar now, Hugh also wondered if Michael and his wife, Geneva, were loath to leave their own country seat. It was a beautiful spot; with the lawn sloping to the lake, the prospect from the home was slightly finer than the one at Fournier House.
The coach drew to a stop in the circular courtyard of crushed gravel. Hugh eyed Sir and his bare head. “Cap.”
The boy grumbled and picked up the tricorne from his lap, then slapped it onto his head of unruly black curls. Until Hugh had sided with Basil and insisted that Sir bathe regularly now that he was a viscount’s assistant, his hair had been perpetually lank and greasy. The curls that had appeared when his hair was clean had been quite the surprise.
So, too, was Sir’s attempt to school his features into a complacent expression as the groom descended to open the door. He practically succeeded. Hugh bit back a grin as the door swung open. Almost instantly, a commotion burst through the columned entrance to Greenbriar.
Three footmen wearing plum and silver livery, and a man Hugh presumed to be the butler, hurried toward the coach with more enthusiasm than his arrival warranted. When Michael, the duke himself, came through the open front door with a brisk stride and a grim mien, Hugh understood: Something was wrong.
“Your Grace,” Hugh said warily as he came down onto the crushed rock. Tension stewed in the new Duke of Fournier’s eyes.
“Excellent timing, Neatham. I’m sorry to meet you with such urgency after your many hours of travel, but it cannot be helped.” Fournier quickly directed the footmen and Munson, his butler, to see to Hugh’s trunks and staff. Then, he turned back to Hugh. “If you’ll follow me.”
Fournier was the opposite of the late duke: a few inches shorter, far broader in the shoulder and torso, and dark haired, he came across as decisive and athletic, where his elder brother had exuded reason, calm, and intelligence that had, Hugh thought, often walked the edge of arrogance. It would be difficult to think of this man asFournier. As duke. Then again, it was likely no more difficult than Fournier now having to address Hugh as Lord Neatham. They had both had a change of situation thrust upon them.
“What is this about, Your Grace?” Hugh asked as they entered the home and a large entrance hall.
“Fournier will do,” he replied tersely. Hugh wondered if it was because he was as uncomfortable with “Your Grace” as Hugh was with “my lord”. The two of them were barely acquaintances; in fact, the last time he’d seen Fournier had been after the late duke’s arrest two Aprils ago. They had been at odds then and for good reason. Hugh had locked up his brother for murder.
Fournier came to a stop in the middle of the hall and turned, hands clasped behind his back. He lowered his voice. “There has been an incident on the road leading north, toward Hertfordshire. My sister-in-law’s carriage was traveling in that direction when her driver spotted an abandoned coach.” Hugh’s attention sharpened at the mention of Audrey. “The driver had been shot. Killed.”
His skin prickled. “She is unharmed?”
