Page 30 of Nature of the Crime
He didn’t want to leave Dover for any length of time, but this was not an errand on which he could send anyone else. Depending on the answers he received, it would be worth the day it would take to travel there and back. It wasn’t as if he would be leaving Audrey alone at the inn. Thornton’s arrival had been timely. So, with he and Fournier both looking out for her and Cassie in his absence, along with Sir, Hugh had ridden out of Dover with more confidence than he would have had otherwise. When questioned by Fournier and Thornton about why he was leaving, he merely said that he was following up on an avenue of inquiry. What he’d say later eluded him. Mentioning Grayson would cue the others to Philip’s involvement—and that was something he wanted to avoid at all costs.
Then again, it was an emerging possibility that finding the killer and making a case against him could require exposing Philip’s secrets. Hugh would do everything he could to protect Audrey from that, but if lifting suspicion from her shoulders meant parting with the truth, he would do it. Even if that meant losing his own future with her in the process.
He took the road south, which bisected open fields dusted with snow. In the distance, the gray waters of the Channel were flat and foreboding. Out in the open where he rode, the winds began to beat harshly. He felt pity for the poor beast he rode, trudging along with determination—and with little choice in the matter.
He should have taken the damned carriage.
Hugh occupied his mind by sorting through the facts of the two murders so far, and what those facts pointed toward. The placement of the hair comb on the baron’s sleeve left no doubt about the killer’s intent to link Audrey to the two crimes. The killer had intended to make it look like Lord Burton fell over the edge of the cliff after a struggle with her. But as he and Audrey had already discussed, the killer would have known her alibiwould be easily proved. Just as it had been on the packet ship. So, why orchestrate a scandal? He tried to think of anyone who might despise her enough to want to damage her reputation. Anyone she had so seriously wronged. Who would want to seek their revenge to this extent?
She’d helped take down the Marquess of Wimbly, in his plot to kill an opera singer and frame Philip Sinclair. But the man had been stripped of his title and estates and banished to Australia. Andrea Millbury, the woman Audrey helped uncover as Lady Charlotte Bainbury’s murderer, as well as for two other innocent women, had paid for her crimes at the end of a noose. So had Delia, her former Shadewell acquaintance whose deadly blackmailing fiasco had nearly gotten Sir killed. As for the other two men Audrey had aided in bringing to justice—Hugh’s half-brother Thomas and Mr. Henley, the man responsible for kidnapping Lady Redding last August—they were dead as well. Audrey’s viperous mother and heartless uncle, Lord Edgerton, disliked her, but they were not capable of such intricate plotting. Besides, they never left Hertfordshire.
Other than with Philip’s family members, Audrey did not socialize widely. He could think of no one who would be desperate enough to cast her in such a poor light and ruin the Fournier name. Whoever it was, however, had made a good start. Hugh could only imagine what the newspapers in London were printing. And with the packet ships running to France every day of the week, the news was sure to have caught on there as well.
He braced against a slap of wind bearing across the snowy downs. When it let up, he slowed his mount as a notion strummed at his mind.
Would Philip, wherever he was on the Continent, read of Audrey’s plight? And if he did, what would he do?
If he were to throw caution to the wind and make his way back to England, to see if and how he might be able to assist, it would be a deliriously poor decision. Philip had vowed never to return, because he knew full well that to do so would bring ruination to all those he cared for. And yet, would he be able to sit idly by?
As Hugh directed his mount toward the village ahead, he returned to that quandary again and again. But as much as he wanted to explore the idea further, the icy wind coming off the sea had frozen his hands in his gloves, and all his mind could give itself to was the need to get warm. He couldn’t solve anything on supposition and theory alone; he required answers.
He urged his horse onward, into the center of Folkestone and went to the postal office for information on where to find the Grayson family. His limbs had not thawed at all when he was directed down the street to a linen-draper. By the time he arrived at Grayson & Co. Fine Drapers, he had the distinct feeling that his lips had turned a shade of blue. Indeed, when an older man came into the front of the shop, he did not bother to ask Hugh if he’d like some tea before directing a young man to fetch some for their customer.
“Thank you,” Hugh said, coming to stand by the shop’s squat stove. He’d have rather had a whisky, but the tea would do. Removing his gloves and holding his hands up to the heat, he peered around the shop. Fabrics of all colors and textures hung from freestanding posts; niches in the walls contained folded bolts of fabric. From cotton and linen to wool and silk, to printed muslin and broadcloth, the linen-drapers appeared to be a premier fabrics merchant.
“I’ve come from Dover to speak with Daniel Grayson, if he’s available.”
The pleasant and welcoming grin on the man’s face froze into place, then slipped.
“My name is Hugh Marsden, Viscount Neatham. I am an acquaintance of the Dowager Duchess of Fournier.”
“I am Daniel’s father, Edgar Grayson,” he replied, suddenly appearing a decade older than he had moments ago. “I’m sorry to say you’ve wasted your trip here. My son is no longer with us.”
The young man had returned with the tea, his attention jumping between Hugh and Mr. Grayson. “Should I make sure Mrs. Grayson stays occupied out back?” the young man asked softly.
Mr. Grayson nodded and waved a hand. “Yes, yes. That’s good of you, Matthew.”
Matthew left the cup of black tea on the flat top stove and disappeared through a door, presumably to where he’d distract Mrs. Grayson. Hugh frowned, curious, as he took the teacup and sipped.
“My nephew, Matthew. A good worker. After Daniel, he knew I would need the help here,” the man explained, still appearing rattled and distracted. But then he settled his gaze on Hugh. “What is it you wanted with my son?”
“To ask some questions about his previous employment with the Duke of Fournier. Has he left to take another position?”
Mr. Grayson’s mouth pulled down in a hard grimace. “Come. Have a seat.” He moved toward a small table where ladies would have likely sat while Mr. Grayson and Matthew fetched fabrics for sampling. Hugh’s teacup and saucer joined the shears, measuring tape, and white chalk already scattered on the table.
Hugh had delivered the worst of news enough times in his days at Bow Street to know what was coming. “He is dead?”
Mr. Grayson sat heavily in the other chair and nodded. Hugh clenched his back teeth. With the valet dead, there was no way to know to whom he might have spoken about Philip. But the man across from him had lost his son, so Hugh ignored his own loss and asked questions of Mr. Grayson instead.
“When?”
“Last year. June.”
Shortly after resigning his post. Hugh frowned. “What happened?”
Mr. Grayson let out a long exhale, and Hugh regretted asking him to relate the circumstances around his son’s death. But he held firm. It might be of some consequence to Audrey’s predicament.
“We aren’t entirely certain,” he said after a moment of thought, his eyes lingering on a folded length of burgundy wool on the shelf next to him. “He was working for the duke when the man himself drowned in France. A storm that whipped up, dragged him out, Danny wrote to us after. Said he would be coming home to us, that he’d given word with the duke’s household that he would be taking his leave.”
