Chapter 12 #3
Halmesbury leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice.
“What if this is not recent at all? What if the cause lies buried in the past? Briggs suspects Michaels because of decades-old grievances, but what do we know of the baron’s history here in London?
Could he have made enemies … ones who might hold a grudge these many years? ”
The table fell into contemplative silence again, the soft clink murmur of conversation around them a contrast to the weighty thoughts now threading between them.
Brendan cocked his head, considering whom the baron might have encountered during the brief window he had spent in London prior to his death.
“He might have visited the tailor for a final fitting. His coronation garments were made in Somerset, but his valet could not say with certainty if he had any final alterations completed here in London. Naturally, he would have spoken with the household staff and the coachman, which Briggs has already been investigating. Beyond that, the only setting where he might have mingled was at the coronation itself. The lords were seated together at Westminster Abbey, were they not?”
“Like a gaggle of fops in our ridiculous trunk hose,” Richard replied dryly. “I was practically naked, with that much leg on display.”
“So every lord in London is a suspect, then.” Brendan lifted both hands, half in jest, half in dismay.
Halmesbury shook his head. “Not every lord. We could begin with those seated in his immediate vicinity, his row and perhaps the rows just in front and behind. It would have been difficult to exchange words with anyone farther off. That seems a logical starting point.”
Brendan cast him a questioning look.
“He was seated with the barons,” the duke clarified.
“Some of them may have been school or university acquaintances. He would not have known the rest. He had not visited in London for over twenty years. So the only men he would have recognized, or who might have recognized him, are those he knew from Oxford or Eton. And boys at school tend to band together by rank. That narrows the field somewhat. Many barons will be either too old or too young to have known him.”
Brendan nodded slowly. “Agreed. We need more information. If I could get a list of the men seated near him, I could make inquiries. They might recall something from that day. Briggs will not gain admittance to their homes, but they will not shut the door in my face.”
Halmesbury inclined his head. “I can obtain that list.”
“I will help you interview them.” Richard’s offer was quietly spoken but decisive.
Brendan’s shoulders loosened with relief. The thought of tracking down two dozen barons had seemed a formidable undertaking, but with Richard’s help, the task no longer felt so impossible. And far preferable to waiting in helpless uncertainty.
Lily had assumed that her husband would return home at some point during the day to explain, perhaps, why she was now being followed from room to room or, at the very least, send word to shed light on the matter. But the day had passed in its entirety without a word from him.
She had dressed for dinner and made her way downstairs, but still there was no sign of Brendan’s return.
Now, seated stiffly in the somber library, with the second John standing sentry by the door like some silent wraith, Lily felt tense with repressed frustration.
The sensation of being shadowed, no matter how discreetly, left her unsettled.
The indignity of visiting the necessary while a man lingered outside the corridor had been mortifying.
She could not help but wonder, did the first John never require such human necessities himself?
It was fruitless to stew over the situation, yet she found herself doing just that with increasing frequency. If protection was truly warranted, she would accept it. But the absence of explanation from her husband … that was what rankled most.
His absence from their gloomy residence only compounded her unease.
She had harbored such hopeful plans to foster a tender bond during the first days of their marriage, to build something genuine and lasting.
She had believed they had made progress the evening before.
That their laughter, their quiet communion, and their kisses had marked the start of something fragile and rare.
And then there had been the intimacy. Lily blushed at the memory, heat blooming in her cheeks, before forcibly steadying herself. That moment had meant something to her. Had it not meant something to him?
Now, she did not know where he was or when he intended to return. All that had sustained her throughout the long day was the belief that he would come home in time for dinner.
Out in the entry hall, the grand casement clock chimed the hour.
Lily’s shoulders sagged, the sound tolling like a judgment.
She was lonely, wretchedly so. She had roamed the house, hoping to distract herself.
Even a good book had failed to hold her attention.
A visit to the kitchen to acquaint herself with the cook and maids had passed a single hour, nothing more.
All the while, the women had cast wary glances toward the towering man who lingered like an ominous statue by the door.
From somewhere deeper in the house, she heard the soft opening and closing of a door, followed by the faint cadence of footsteps in the corridor.
Heart leaping, Lily sprang to her feet. She rushed to the doorway, ignoring the silent presence of the second John, her breath catching in her throat.
Was it Brendan?
As she reached the threshold, Michaels emerged from the shadows like a well-timed specter in a Drury Lane production.
“Dinner is ready, milady.” The simple announcement struck her like a slap. It was only the butler. Brendan had not returned.
Lily nodded and exited when Michaels stepped silently aside, his manner as unreadable as ever. She walked with composed grace toward the breakfast room, though inside, her composure frayed with every step. A tide of emotion threatened to crest into despair.
What could Brendan possibly be doing that was more important than returning home to dine with his wife?
As she crossed the threshold, the first patter of rain began against the windows. The soft drumming of water on glass mirrored her mood with uncanny accuracy, each droplet echoing the loneliness pressing in on her heart.
She took her seat at the long table, where the vase of flowers at its center offered the only burst of brightness in an otherwise joyless room. She stared at them, unseeing. Their vivid colors felt like an intrusion—unwelcome cheer in the midst of her rising sense of abandonment.
Until now, she had convinced herself Brendan must be engaged in some pressing matter, perhaps visiting a solicitor or tending to estate business. Something rational. Respectable.
But now, with dinner being served, his absence narrowed the possibilities.
The number of places he might be.
The people he might be with.
Stanley, one of the footmen Brendan had mentioned, approached to place a plate before her. He withdrew without a word, but his presence was a subtle reminder of everything unsettled in the house. She supposed his role was one reason the second John still stood at the door, silent and immovable.
Lily raised a trembling hand to her brow, her fingers cool against skin too warm with suppressed feeling. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. She fought to master them.
She would not—could not—allow herself to break in front of the servants.
But the thought rose, unbidden and merciless. Was it possible that Brendan was with Lady Slight?