Chapter 3 #2
“I shall question the household staff and identify someone to confirm your arrival, milord.”
“Will that be sufficient to clear his lordship?” Halmesbury’s query made Brendan stiffen. The same thought had haunted him since discovering the baron’s body.
Briggs stroked his mustache, expression pensive. “It might be. But I would advise persuading the lady in question to confirm his whereabouts. ’Tis not my opinion that’ll count in the end, but the coroner’s.”
Brendan grimaced. His arrangement with Lady Slight was not based upon goodwill or discretion. Her allure lay in the pleasures of the bedroom, not her reputation for benevolence. The idea that Harriet would involve herself for his benefit seemed laughable.
As it was, both Halmesbury and Richard had shown visible discomfort when Brendan had reluctantly admitted to spending the night with a woman, though he had withheld her name.
He could not fault them, but their thinly veiled superiority, products of their settled domestic bliss, was more irritating now than ever before.
“Is there any suspicion likely to fall on his lordship?” Richard asked, prompting Brendan to lean forward in his chair.
Briggs tugged on his mustache, gaze dropping to his notebook.
He hesitated, then finally replied, “The coroner—Arnold Grimes—is new to the post, but he strikes me as a man keen to make his mark. It would be in your lordship’s interest to resolve all doubt swiftly.
An alibi would strengthen your position. ”
A heavy silence followed. The only sound was the ticking of the library clock, its surface darkened by age and the tarnish of decades. Its stern, weighty presence lent a near-medieval air to the room.
At last, Richard exhaled. “Thank you for your candor, Briggs.”
“The baron has been dead for hours, that much is certain. And it is plain to me that his lordship was out, based on his attire and appearance. If it were my investigation, I would be asking who might have called on the baron last evening.”
“But it is not your investigation?” Brendan asked quietly. He had never before dealt with the authorities and found himself uncertain as to the process.
Briggs met his gaze, sympathy flickering across his weathered features. He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. The final say belongs to the coroner.”
Brendan rubbed at his temples, then slumped once more into the embrace of the worn library chair.
The countess’s footman released Lily’s gloved hand after helping her from the carriage, stepping back with practiced politeness as she followed her cousin to the painted front door. A small brass plaque declared the residence to be Ridley House.
It was her first time visiting the townhouse, having never before had occasion to meet the unmarried gentleman in his own home.
As a debutante, Lily did not go out much without her mother’s chaperonage.
She attended social functions with Mama, and on occasion, she accompanied Sophia either to her home or to Hatchards.
A bachelor’s residence, even a grand family townhouse, was strictly off-limits.
A thrill skittered through her like lightning, sparked by this unexpected deviation from custom.
Despite the somber circumstances, it was the most excitement she had known since Sophia had married the year before, following a nefarious kidnapping attempt in the Abbotts’ very home.
Lily craned her neck to peer up at the facade of the great house as she came to a halt behind Sophia.
It was large, but the drawn drapes prevented her from discerning anything more.
The only outward sign that something untoward had occurred within was the air of stillness that hung about the place.
Soon, the door opened, and Lily swept in behind her cousin, gazing around the dimly lit hall with open curiosity.
Sophia was eyeing the footman carefully.
Since her troubles the previous year, she always paid mind to the servants.
It was a heightened awareness Lily could not fault, given how narrowly her cousin had escaped with her life.
Chiding herself for being distracted by the furnishings, Lily turned her attention to the conversation unfolding before her.
The young footman was tall, with a pleasant face and a light dusting of freckles across his cheeks that matched the copper-brown of his hair.
“Have we met before?” Sophia asked, though Lily was quite sure her cousin had already determined that she had not.
“No, my lady.”
“What is your name, pray?”
“Wesley, my lady. I have worked at Ridley House for several years.” His tone was genial, unfazed by the scrutiny.
“Where is the butler, Michaels?”
“He is making arrangements in regard to our household’s change in circumstances, my lady.”
“Very well. We are here for the duchess.”
“Of course, my lady. She awaits you in the red parlor.” Wesley bowed and turned to lead the way down a shadowed corridor.
Lily scurried after them, nearly trotting to keep pace with the long strides of the countess and the footman.
She scarcely had time to notice the worn carpets and faded wallpaper before they came to a halt.
Wesley knocked once, then opened the door and announced their arrival before retreating. As he stepped back, Lily caught his eye and mouthed a silent apology for Sophia’s earlier interrogation. The news of the baron’s sudden death had clearly set her on edge, stirring memories of past danger.
The footman offered a small understanding smile before drawing the door closed. Lily exhaled, grateful he had not taken offence.
Michaels showed the coroner into the gloomy library, his expression stamped with mild distaste. Brendan growled beneath his breath, his irritation with the servant particularly sharp today.
He had never gotten on with the man, who until now had been the baron’s creature.
The butler’s disdain for the baron’s heir was subtle, yet unmistakable.
Brendan had never confronted him, but it had long been a source of aggravation during the years he had been forced to reside at Ridley House, after the baron had dispatched him to London.
Once the butler departed, Brendan turned his attention to the coroner—and his heart sank.
Mr. Arnold Grimes was of medium height, with severely cut, receding iron-gray hair and a close-cropped beard that lent him the austere appearance of a Puritan.
He wore a black coat and trousers, paired with a stark white linen shirt.
The overall effect was one of lifeless neutrality, made worse by the sour expression stamped upon his face.
His cold presence seemed to draw the warmth from the room, and even the runner, Briggs, shifted a few paces away with barely concealed discomfort.
Sniffing with affected gravity, the coroner addressed the duke and the earl. “Your Grace. My lord. I am honored to make your acquaintance.”
Brendan rubbed his temple. The words were correct, but the tone betrayed them, the sneering contempt was obvious. Grimes had not even bowed to the noblemen, which was a deliberate slight.
“Mr. Grimes, your reputation precedes you.” The duke gave a cool nod, his gray eyes sweeping over the man without flinching.
Halmesbury, ever the tactician, was composed and unreadable.
Whatever easy candor he had shown with the runner earlier had vanished, making clear to Brendan that his brother-in-law recognized a threat.
Brendan inhaled slowly, gathering his resolve, and then rose from his chair and stepped forward. It would not do to appear weak.
The coroner gave him a fleeting frown, then dismissed him without so much as a greeting.
“Briggs, let me hear the facts.”
Briggs cleared his throat and consulted his notebook.
“The baron appears to have been killed sometime around midnight. The butler states he returned home for dinner and was still in his attire from the coronation when he apparently encountered someone in the study. He was clubbed over the head with a statuette of a horse, which was found bloodied beside the body. Mr. Ridley returned home just after dawn to meet with his father and discovered the body at approximately twenty minutes past six.”
The coroner turned his stony gaze on Brendan, who had to steel himself against the ice revealed there. “And where were you?”
Brendan frowned, drawing himself up and responding in as haughty a tone as he could muster. This man plainly loathed the peerage—or perhaps simply loathed everyone.
“I was out.”
“Out?” Grimes repeated, arching a brow.
“Out.” Brendan refused to elaborate. He would not cede ground to this man.
Briggs cleared his throat again. “One of the servants should be able to confirm his arrival once I make my inquiries.”
“I certainly hope so.”
Brendan kept his expression impassive at the coroner’s pointed remark, but his stomach twisted with unease. What, he wondered grimly, would it take to convince Harriet to show mercy and offer him the alibi he so badly needed?
Lily poured a cup of tea for the duchess, adding a squeeze of lemon before handing Her Grace the cup and saucer.
The duchess accepted it with a faint smile of gratitude, her features pale in the dim room.
She was an elegant young woman, with a riot of chestnut curls framing her face and brandy-hued eyes that caught the low light, but her eyelids were puffy and red.
Observing the visible signs of Her Grace’s grief made Lily feel a twinge of guilt for having, even fleetingly, treated the situation as an escape from the monotony of her day.
Lady Halmesbury had just lost her father in a brutal, shocking manner.
And despite her usual facility for chatter, Lily could not summon a single word of comfort.
She glanced at Sophia, who stood by the window, staring out as if her thoughts lay a thousand miles away.