Page 3 of Nature of the Crime
His clipped announcement settled over the room and silenced it. Belatedly, thinking something had happened to Carrigan and Travers in one of the men’s cabins, Audrey stepped forward with trepidation.
“I am Audrey Sinclair.”
“The Dowager Duchess of Fournier,” Greer supplied with a chastening look at the captain. Itwasodd that he would have asked for her by that name. She had purchased her passage under her title, not as Audrey Sinclair.
The captain, however, only gave a cursory nod of acknowledgement. “I am afraid you will have to come with me.”
A bolt of concern went through her. “Why? What has happened?”
The captain’s grim expression only darkened. “A passenger has been killed in his bunk during the crossing.”
The oxygen in Audrey’s lungs disappeared. Gasps from the other women spiraled around her head, and the softly undulating floor threatened to topple her. A man had beenkilled?
Greer’s face was stark white, her eyes wide. “What man?”
“I am not at liberty to say,” he replied.
Indignance seemed to consume the last bit of Cassie’s seasickness as she hooked her arm with Audrey’s. “You will at least tell us why you require Her Grace to accompany you from this cabin.”
She sounded as ducal as her eldest brother. Audrey, however, struggled to find her breath.
“A note was found on the dead man,” the captain answered, his patience visibly waning.
Audrey pressed her hand against her skirt pocket. “What kind of note?” she asked, her breathing thin.
He held her stare, his eyes hardening. “The kind accusing you of killing him.”
Chapter
Two
The front step at number 19 Bedford Street split apart, becoming two. Two doors, two lanterns glowing through the brume, and when the white door opened wide, two Basils frowned judgmentally at Hugh.
“Another soiree at St. James’s Square,” the valet said, standing aside and allowing Hugh to trip inside, over the threshold. “Another midnight you return thoroughly pickled.”
“You can quit your grumbling.” He tried to shed his greatcoat, but one arm somehow became lodged within the sleeve. “I haven’t spilled anything upon a single article of clothing this time.”
Basil sighed wearily, closed and locked the door, and then helped Hugh free his left arm. “What a relief. There was no saving your last waistcoat from the contents of your stomach.”
A dull ache in his temples started up, earlier than usual. Ordinarily, it was the late morning sunlight ripping through his bedroom as Basil threw back the drapes after one of Thornton’s particularly wild soirees that brought on the stabbing pains. The valet took an unwarranted amount of pleasure in it too.
“Go to bed, Basil, I am fine.”
His palm nearly missed the newel post when he started up the stairs, causing him to stagger to the side. He was convinced the bloody thing had moved when he’d reached for it.
“You are marinated in drink, my lord,” Basil replied, following him to the first floor.
“Where is Whitlock? Isn’t he butler around here? Why were you opening the door for me?” Hugh groused. All he wanted was his bed. The evening at Thornton’s had been loud and chaotic, packed to the cornices with demimonde and some of the less-starched peers that the physician knew. Hugh had a standing invitation to attend every party his friend hosted, and over the last few months, he had found no reason not to take him up on the offer. He preferred anywhere and anything to sitting around the house, thinking ofher.
“Whitlock is abed, my lord. I did not think it prudent to allow new staff to see you in such a state, so I offered to remain in the porter’s chair.”
Hugh sauntered into his room, and the bold scent of coffee slammed into him. The lamps were lit, as was a wood fire in the small hearth. Basil went straight to the silver coffee pot.
“Drink,” he commanded, and then, as if appearing there by some magic, Hugh’s hand was holding the porcelain cup. He grimaced at the black brew. “No complaints, my lord. You will thank me in the morning.”
Because he knew his stubborn valet would not relent, he sipped the coffee as he stood immobile, allowing Basil the pleasure of undressing him. Had he been sober, Hugh would have waved him off, but his brain was indeed marinated, and his limbs did not want to work.
“This is becoming a particularly unattractive habit,” Basil huffed as he collected the articles of clothing, leaving Hugh to stand in the middle of the room in nothing but his smalls.
