Page 15 of Nature of the Crime
She closed her eyes and leaned into his palm. “And I’ve missed you. So much.” Her voice caught, and a tear glistened on her lashes.
“Don’t cry,” he whispered.
“I can’t help it. I’m upset. Someone kept you from me, even if it was just your letters. You’ve been occupied for months with things I know nothing about.”
He understood her meaning. Hugh thumbed away the tear on her cheek.
“We now have time to catch up. And I’d say we just made an excellent start,” he said, winning an indulgent grin from hereven as she kept her eyes shut. He admired the splay of the honey gold lashes against her creamy skin. “And on that topic, I would like to make a request.”
She opened her eyes, still smiling. “What would that be?”
“That we never be parted for that length of time again.”
He’d detested it. Even had their correspondence not been purloined, he would have hated it. As it was, he’d marked off the days, spending more hours at the boxing club he’d joined, tutoring himself on House legislation, and taking a few inquiries for Sir Gabriel, until the chief magistrate accused him of being too distracted. He had been correct, of course. Hugh had been consumed with waiting for her to write back. To come home.
This was where she belonged—right here, with him. Even if theywerein a shabby Dover inn surrounded by military guards.
Being without her had been a trial even when they had not yet been in love. After the first case solving the murder of Miss Lovejoy, he’d felt a strange, unsettled friction under his skin when Audrey left for Hertfordshire with Philip for the summer. A few months later, after the investigation into the murder of Lady Charlotte Bainbury, they’d parted ways again, but that time, he’d acknowledged the feelings that were steadily growing for her. Feelings he tried, but failed, to set aside. After that, their separations were a torment, even if he could not admit it to himself or to others.
Audrey covered his hand that cupped her cheek with her own. “I like that idea very much.”
But then, her soft grin faded. She propped herself up onto her elbow again and pinned her lower lip. “I have something to show you that you aren’t going to like.”
Under the blanket, Hugh skimmed his palm over the bare curve of her hip, down onto her thigh, where the pads of his fingers touched a rough weal of skin—the scar she’d received after being grazed by Robert Henley’s bullet the previoussummer. Another scar on her shoulder, this one round and healed to a pinkish white, was yet another reminder of how close he’d once come to losing her. He kissed that scar gently. “Anything you wish to show me, I will like.”
She shifted away from his side, unimpressed by his quip. “Lift your head,” she commanded.
He frowned. “What?”
She nudged him, and when he complied, she reached underneath the pillow he’d been reclining on. She brought forth a folded scrap of paper.
“What is that?”
She sat up a bit more. “It was left in my hotel room, in Paris.”
As she held it out to him, he found himself dreading reading it. He sat up, his arm heavy as he took it from her fingertips.
A hollowing sensation started at the base of his skull and carved down into his chest and stomach as he read:I know the duke is alive.Soon, everyone else will.
“When was this?” he asked, managing to sound far calmer than he felt.
Someone knew. It was the first crack in a wall that could crush her. And him.
“Five days ago. The morning we set out for Calais, to catch the packet ship.”
She clutched the counterpane to her chest as he read the sentence again, this time with an eye toward the formation of the letters themselves, not the words and their meanings. He rubbed his jaw. He’d like to see a side-by-side comparison of this handwriting and that which was on the paper found with Vaillancourt’s body. Could they be connected?
“Say something,” she pleaded when several moments passed and Hugh only continued to glower at the paper. “Do you think it could be linked to what happened to Mr. Vaillancourt?”Something seemed to strike her then. “Or even to our missing correspondence?”
He finally folded the note and handed it back to her. “I’m inclined to say yes, though I can’t think of how. One note is about Philip, the other is accusing you of murder. And only our letters were intercepted, not yours to Fournier or Genie.” How the devil could Vaillancourt be connected to Philip? “You have absolutely no idea who might have left this for you?”
“None. I’ve been wracking my mind, but no.”
He exhaled and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He stood, his back to her, and began to dress. His pulse started to pump hard again, but this time for all the wrong reasons.
“Whoever it is, they were in Paris, and they know Philip is alive,” he said.
Hell and damnation, this was exactly what he’d feared. Philip might have been declared dead in the eyes of the law, and of king and country, but the moment even one whispered rumor took root, it would be all over. Audrey would not be allowed to remarry legitimately. Not only that, but she would also be ruined, along with the Fournier title and everyone associated with it. Philip had cursed her by leaving just as much as he had freed her.
