Chapter 7 #3
His voice broke then, and his shoulders dipped under the weight of his helpless affection. “She is the very best of sisters. If I could restore her reputation with my own hands, I would. But I cannot. You must help her.”
Brendan raised a shaky hand to rake it through his hair. He had not eaten properly in days, and now the sheer weight of this muddle threatened to pull him under.
He had no idea how to repair the damage he had wrought. But he could not walk away from this … or from her.
“I will try to make it right, Abbott.”
It was not much. It was not nearly enough. But in his exhausted, unraveling state, it was all Brendan could summon.
When Sophia left, Lily followed her downstairs, trailing one hand lightly along the polished banister for balance.
After bidding her cousin goodbye with a soft smile, she turned toward the fateful drawing room, the very room where she had not only seen Mr. Ridley exit Lady Slight’s home, but had also awaited his proposal … and then rejected him.
A chill passed over her shoulders as she entered. Her mother was seated in Lily’s favorite spot by the front window, peering through the lace curtains as if she could will propriety back into their lives. At the sound of Lily’s approaching footfalls, Mama flinched and turned sharply.
“Lily!” she cried, rising so swiftly the hem of her gown tangled about her slippers.
She crossed the room and pulled her daughter into an unexpected embrace.
Lily froze, her cheek pressed into her mother’s shoulder, her arms stiff at her sides.
The floral lavender scent of her mother’s toilette enveloped her, and her heart stumbled in confusion. What was happening?
“We shall find a way through this,” Mama whispered fiercely. “I cannot believe what Mr. Ridley said to you! I was so relieved when Sophia arrived … I would have come upstairs, but I did not know what to say. I thought perhaps she might address it better than I.”
After a long moment, Lily lifted her arms and returned the embrace, pressing her face into the familiar silk of her mother’s bodice as fresh tears prickled at her eyes.
The unexpected shift from criticism to comfort was more than welcome.
She had feared she would carry this disgrace alone.
“Sophia and I had a good talk,” she murmured. “Thank you for … Thank you.”
They broke apart awkwardly, neither quite meeting the other’s gaze.
“Mama, I would prefer not to attend the Townsend dinner this evening. Perhaps you might inform them I have a headache?”
Something flickered across her mother’s face, too swift to read, before she schooled her features. “Our invitation was … rescinded.”
A wave of remorse twisted in Lily’s belly. So the whispers had begun. Sophia had warned her how quickly scandal spread among the ton. “I am sorry.”
Mama shook her head with brisk defiance. “I never liked Lady Townsend that much anyway.”
Lily offered a wan smile, unwilling to contradict the claim. Her mother and Lady Townsend had been thick as thieves for as long as she could recall, but truth would do no good here. “Sophia informs me that I was mentioned in the gossip rags.”
Mama sighed heavily, blowing out her cheeks. “Sophia was minimizing the truth. There was a drawing of you … in an inappropriate state … with Mr. Ridley.”
Lily swallowed hard, mortification washing through her in waves. “I am so sorry, Mama.”
Her mother’s eyes glinted with a mix of grief and steel. “We will prevail. Perhaps Sophia will talk some sense into Mr. Ridley.”
“I hope so,” Lily said quietly. “I truly do.”
“Briggs is here.”
Michaels’s disapproving tone rang out like a cracked bell in the somber stillness of the study.
Brendan gritted his teeth. The butler’s animosity remained an enigma, a grievance born not of recent events, but present since Brendan’s very first night in London.
That night, just after his twenty-first birthday, he had arrived fresh from Baydon Hall, dismissed without ceremony by the man who was both his uncle and father.
He ought to be immune to Michaels’s disdain by now. And yet, now that he was to inherit the barony, perhaps it was time to consider retiring the supercilious servant altogether.
“Show him in,” Brendan said coolly.
The duke shifted in his seat near the hearth, long legs crossed and gray eyes sharp with thought.
Across the room, Richard stood beside a towering stack of musty books, his hands clenched behind his back.
The earl had been glaring at those tomes since his arrival, his posture a portrait of barely leashed frustration.
Though still seething over Miss Abbott’s plight, Richard had kept his word and joined the meeting with the Bow Street Runner.
With Brendan cleared of all suspicion, the identity of the true killer now demanded swift discovery.
Brendan rubbed his temples with slow, deliberate pressure. Each pulse behind his eyes felt like the toll of a bell. He had not slept. His encounters at the Abbotts’ home had drained what little strength remained in him. But this—this inquiry—could not wait. He needed resolution. And soon.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway, and then the runner appeared in the doorway.
“My lord,” Briggs said with a brief bow.
Apparently, now that Brendan was no longer in custody, the man had resolved how to address him. That, at least, was something.
“Please, have a seat,” Brendan said, gesturing toward a well-worn leather chair across from the library table.
The runner stepped into the room, looking visibly uncomfortable. His eyes darted about before he removed his battered hat and took the proffered seat beside the duke, its leather creaking under his weight.
The duke cleared his throat with quiet command. “We wish to hire you to pursue the matter of the baron’s death.”
Briggs nodded once, firm. “I was hoping you would, because I have concerns for Lord Filminster’s safety.”
Brendan had not been listening closely, his thoughts dulled by fatigue, the unrelenting ache at his temples acting like a vise about his skull, but the runner’s words cut through the fog. He sat up straighter, pulse flickering.
“What?”
“Before I raise my concerns, I must ask … Would your father have answered the door himself?”
Frowning, Brendan gave his head a weary shake. “Never. The baron would not lower himself to fulfill the duties of a servant. He was … a vain man.”
Briggs exhaled slowly. “I was afraid of that.”
From his armchair, Halmesbury leaned forward, forearms braced against his knees. “What are you thinking, Briggs?”
“Lord Filminster”—the runner inclined his head respectfully toward Brendan for clarity—“spoke of being let in early in the morning. None of the servants admitted to being the one who opened the door for him. That is suspicious in itself, but …”
Brendan’s nerves, already frayed to threads, snapped taut. Sleep deprivation and mounting dread had stripped away his tolerance. His voice emerged clipped, roughened at the edges.
“But?”
Briggs tugged thoughtfully at his mustache, the motion slow and deliberate, betraying his reluctance to speak aloud the conclusion. “The baron was murdered by one of the servants, or a servant knows who killed him, because they provided the killer access to your home.”
Brendan groaned and dropped his face into his hands, pressing his fingertips against his eyelids as if physical pressure might forestall the rising tide of dread.
Of course. He had been so consumed by scandal, guilt, and exhaustion, he had failed to apply the most basic logic.
Yes, the murder had to be solved, but he had not considered that the guilty party might still be under his roof.
Or worse, that betrayal had flourished among those who served him.
“Blazes,” Richard muttered under his breath, jaw clenched. “We have been contending with family pressures, so we did not stop to think about the implications.”
The duke sighed, long and measured, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.
“I, on the other hand, have had time to consider it. That is why I insisted we meet with Briggs. Annabel reached the same conclusion. The baron would never deign to open the front door himself. Michaels also confirmed that the door had been locked and checked, given recent reports of break-ins in the area.”
Briggs nodded. “I do not wish to cause panic, but I believe it is imperative that the servants be questioned again. With Grimes overseeing the investigation, I was not free to act independently. However, now that he is preoccupied with the inquest and displeased with how things have unfolded, I may proceed without his supervision. I wish to interview the household quietly and compile a list of suspects.”
Brendan drew a slow breath, his hands falling back to his lap, palms open in surrender. “What of Grimes? Is he likely to pursue me further?”
Halmesbury shook his head slowly. “Fortunately, since Miss Abbott has provided you with an alibi, I was able to persuade the Home Secretary to intercede with Grimes about pursuing proper lines of inquiry.”
A breath Brendan had not realized he was holding escaped him in a rush. The anxious knot in his chest began to loosen, and for the first time in days, a flicker of control returned to him. “Briggs, you may have whatever you need. The safety of my household must be secured.”
He made swift arrangements with the runner, offering him double his usual fee along with a generous bonus so he might turn over his other cases. The matter of the baron’s murder could no longer be deferred or shared. It required singular focus.
Once Michaels returned and escorted Briggs away to see to his needs, Brendan found himself once again alone with the duke and the earl. Silence fell like a weight across the room. It was an expectant hush, the air thick with the shift in subject, the unspoken name hanging there between them.
Miss Abbott.
Brendan resumed his seat with a low sigh, rubbing at his burning eyes. He waited, knowing what must come next.
“When is the wedding?” Richard’s voice cut through the quiet like a whipcrack—sharp, accusing.
“There is not to be one.”
The earl’s expression darkened instantly, his features twisting into a scowl. A low growl escaped him, primal and dangerous. Brendan rose, moving behind his chair, bracing as if for a second attack, though this time it would be made with words, not fists.
“What happened?” The voice came not from the storm, but from its calm center.
Brendan turned, startled anew by the duke’s quiet interjection. He had nearly forgotten Halmesbury’s presence, so focused had he been on Richard’s fury. But the steadiness of the duke’s tone was a balm, cooling, stabilizing.
“There was a misunderstanding. I … may have … accused the young woman of deliberately trapping me,” Brendan admitted, voice low, eyes trained on a knot in the wall paneling.
Silence followed. A silence broken only by the unmistakable sound of a snarl from Richard’s direction.
Halmesbury sighed deeply, long-suffering but not without sympathy. “What do you plan to do?”
“I do not know. Miss Abbott refused my offer.” Brendan hesitated, shame curling like smoke in his lungs. “I must confess I was relieved. I am not ready to marry a child.”
“You are the child, Ridley! And it is time for you to grow up!” The words were thunder as Richard’s voice rose with fury.
At that moment, a knock sounded at the door.
Michaels stepped inside, impassive as ever. “Lady Saunton is here.”
Richard froze, startled, his eyes cutting to the entrance.
Sophia entered with quiet elegance, gliding into the room like moonlight through heavy curtains. Her eyes settled on her husband, and the anger drained from him.
“Sophia! What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice a shade of the tempest it had been.
The countess tilted her head, offering him a serene smile that belied the steel beneath it. “I am here to speak with Mr. Ridley about Lily, of course.”