Page 4 of Nature of the Crime
“Just let me sleep,” he moaned after taking another shallow sip of the horrible coffee.
When he was this intoxicated, he would usually be unconscious the moment his head hit the pillow. There would be no dreams, no thoughts of Audrey at all.
Not until morning, at least.
He waited for Basil to make another complaint, but the valet only snapped his fingers and pointed to the bed, the blankets already turned back. Had any other valet in any other household in London dared to snap their fingers at their employer, he would have found himself out of a position. But Hugh only scowled and made his way to the bed. In all honesty, he appreciated the old snob waiting up for him, forcing the bracing coffee down his throat, and trundling him off to sleep. Not that he would ever admit it aloud.
“It would behoove you to know,” Basil began to say as he lowered the wick in the bedside lamp, “Sir is not in his room.”
The soft mattress and pillow that Hugh had been happily sinking into, destination oblivion, disappeared. He opened his eyes and sat up, his head and vision swimming. “Where is the imp?”
“I imagine either with his mother or out with his friend, Stinky Pete.” Basil said the name as if he was currently whiffing the other boy’s distinctive odor. Unlike Sir, who now bathed regularly and wore clean, well-fitted clothing, his old mate from the Whitechapel slums continued to come around smelling of refuse and dead fish.
Hugh rubbed his temple, wishing he could already be sleeping. But if Sir was not in the house, that meant the boy was out there, somewhere in the streets. He was wise to them, of course, and knew how to protect himself, but they were still dangerous. Bringing Sir into a secure home, away from the rookeries and flash houses, was partially why he’d offered theposition as his assistant. He’d also wanted to get Sir away from his father, Harlan Givens.
“He hasn’t spent the night at his mother’s home in ages,” Hugh muttered, rubbing his eyes. “He shouldn’t be there this late, not with his father likely to come home utterly?—”
“Soused?” Basil cut in. Hugh opened his eyes and saw the barbed stare his valet was leveling him with.
Harlan Givens was a drunk and a bully, and before Hugh had stepped in, he’d been prone to using his fists on the smaller members of his family. There was little Hugh could do for Mrs. Givens, but he had offered Sir a position with room and board, and the woman had wept with appreciation. Since the previous spring, Sir had not spent a night back at his old home. He’d visited during the day but never at night.
Hugh’s stomach soured. It wasn’t just from the mingling of spirits and coffee, either. It was from what Basil had implied. “I would never raise a hand to Sir, not even if I was intoxicated and furious. He knows that.”
Basil sniffed. “He is a sharp boy, but he is still a boy. One who has learned to equate drunkenness with meanness.”
Guilt slashed at him, and Hugh threw off the counterpane. “Hell.”
He couldn’t sleep. Not now.
“I will pour you another cup,” Basil said, setting down the creased clothing that reeked of cigar smoke, whisky, and perfume.
The perfume had been compliments of Martha Devereaux, one of Thornton’s more consistent mistresses. She had draped herself over Hugh, but the only stirring he’d felt was one of annoyance. There was only room for one woman in his mind: the Dowager Duchess of Fournier. Audrey.
Where the devil was she?
Hugh went into the attached dressing room and pulled a pair of trousers from the clothespress while Basil poured the coffee. He didn’t need the stuff now. He was wide awake, the blurry haze of liquor clearing.
“Make sure Norris has not put away the horses and coach,” Hugh said as he pulled on a shirt. By the flare of Basil’s eyes, he did not approve of the selection, but he made no comment. Hugh hastily tucked it in at the waist. He was only going out to Whitechapel, after all. There would be no need for a cravat or stock, either.
After Basil left on his mission, Hugh allowed the barest groan of pain. His head throbbed. And like most nights when he returned home brined in whisky, his focus fuzzy, he well and truly despised himself.
Basil had good reason to judge him, as did Sir for taking off. He was a complete wreck, and he had been for months. Even Sir Gabriel Poston, the chief magistrate at Bow Street, had stopped approaching him with cases that his principal officers could not, or did not know how, to deal with. At first, those investigations, minor though they were, had kept Hugh busy, his mind off Audrey’s unexpected silence. But as the weeks passed, then stretched to months, and no letters from her arrived, Hugh had begun to simmer with agitation.
Though he sent letter after letter to the hotels she had listed on their intended route back in September, no replies came. At first, he’d been worried something untoward had befallen her on her travels. The maddening woman was prone to trouble, after all. But after Hugh paid a call on the new Duchess of Fournier, only to hear that she’d received a letter just that week from Cassie and that they seemed to be having a splendid time, his worry took on a different form.
Thankfully, Audrey was safe. But now he knew she was choosing not to write to him.
After several more of his letters remained unanswered, he’d stopped trying. And he’d started obsessing over the possible reasons why she would have spurned him. There were only a few logical explanations that he could fathom. First, she had met someone while touring the Continent. Second, she had been more upset with him than she’d let on in August, when he’d asked her if she would be meeting with Philip while away. Third, she had, in fact, found Philip and something occurred to convince her to sever ties with Hugh.
There was a fourth theory, and he thought he might hate it more than any of the others. It plagued him, like a thorny vine, slowly coiling around his heart. Once parted from him, perhaps Audrey had started to recognize that she did not, in fact, love him as she thought she had. That she did not miss him as he did her. That perhaps the initial thing that had drawn them together so intimately—investigations that ranged from murder to blackmail to abductions—could not evolve into something longer lasting.
And yet, he could not believe any of it. Not truly. Not after everything they had been through, all they had shared. Hell, she had given herself to him in every way possible. She would never have done so if she did not love him.
He groaned again as he finished dressing and made his way toward the ground floor. He’d been piss poor company these last months, and apparently also damned selfish. Why would Sir have wanted to hang around here with Hugh stumbling in, foxed off his arse and stewing in his own self-pity?
Audrey would be returning to London soon. The new duchess, Genie, was expecting her second child before winter’s end, and Audrey and Cassie would certainly wish to meet the infant. A hard knot formed in the pit of his stomach. There had to be a reasonable explanation, one that did not involve her falling out of love with him. Hell if he could figure it out though.
“Norris will be around in a minute, my lord,” Basil announced as he emerged from the short hall that led from the kitchen.
