Chapter 3
“I will begin with this confession: whatever I have done in the course of my life, whether it be good or evil, has been done freely; I am a free agent.”
Giacomo Casanova
The streets were nearly deserted except for the hardiest of vendors, their carts huddled beneath sagging oilcloth awnings, and a few grim Londoners who pressed themselves into narrow shop entryways to avoid the unrelenting rainfall.
Dawn was only just breaking through the thick pewter clouds.
It was well before the usual opening hour for most establishments, and with the heavy, drumming showers, Julius expected the roads to stay empty for some time yet.
He stood in a narrow alleyway, the high brick walls channeling the damp cold around him as he remained out of sight.
From this vantage, he watched the modest coffeehouse where Stone was meant to meet his blackmailer, if Stone was guilty of murder or had committed some other heinous crime against the late Lord Filminster.
If the vicar arrived, it would confirm his involvement.
Julius had been awake since well before dawn, boots squelching through puddles as he moved from lookout point to lookout point.
This was the third location he had watched in secret that morning, every step through the muddy, rain-slicked streets soaking deeper into his stockings.
If Stone failed to arrive, it would mean his entire plan to draw out the killer had been for nothing.
And what then? Perhaps none of the three were involved at all.
Julius sighed in exasperation, the breath misting white in the chill.
He resisted the strong urge to rip off his damp glove and fiddle with his signet ring, a nervous habit ill-suited to the deluge.
Instead, he kept his chilled fingers stuffed as deep as possible in his coat pockets, where they remained—mostly—dry.
Water dripped steadily onto the brim of Julius’s hat with no sign of truce, cold rivulets sneaking down the back of his neck to soak his starched stock.
He grimaced at the trickle, shivering as he huddled further into his overcoat’s sodden folds.
He had not thought to account for the full ferocity of the London rain when plotting out this morning’s cunning scheme.
Julius was thoroughly damp, thoroughly cold, and thoroughly irritable.
He tugged on his fob, flipping open the watch to check the hour while wiping the spatter from its delicate glass dial with a gloved thumb. So much for keeping his hands safe from the unending, icy assault.
Unfortunately for his new chum Abbott, all signs now pointed to the guilt of his freshly acquired father-in-law, Mr. Frederick Smythe. Stone must be innocent. As were Scott and Montague.
Julius exhaled and considered his options. He had not been home in several days, wandering from club to club, but the family townhouse was only three or four blocks away. He felt miserable and ravenous.
Word was that Lord Snarling had left for the Continent this very morning.
Julius could risk returning to the grand, somber house, take advantage of a hearty breakfast prepared by the household’s excellent kitchen staff, and mercifully, change into dry clothing.
His current garments were unrecognizably limp after three or more hours in the relentless downpour.
He checked the time again and shook his head, water flicking from the brim of his hat in disappointment.
His last suspect had failed to appear.
There was going to be hell to pay when Abbott was forced to accuse Smythe of murder.
Despite Abbott’s protestations, his poor bride would never forgive him for tearing her family apart and sending her own father to the gallows.
Julius shuddered at the thought, grimly certain he would not wish to trade places with the other heir in that dreadful future.
Spinning on his heel, he departed his narrow hiding spot to head in the direction of his father’s townhouse.
The rain fell in cold sheets, soaking through the shoulders of his overcoat and turning the once-polished leather of his boots dull and sodden.
His damp stockings clung to his calves in clammy folds.
It felt as though the gods themselves were mocking him, sending this relentless deluge to drown his supposedly cunning morning scheme.
His good spirits of the night before had long since dissolved into the drizzle. Julius was weary. Weary of worrying on behalf of his stubborn friends. Weary of his tiresome family troubles. Weary of this whole smoke-choked city with its endless noise and grimy grandeur.
This situation must be resolved. And then—then—perhaps he would return to Italy. He exhaled at the thought. He had enjoyed himself in Italy once, felt alive there, though it now seemed a hundred years past since his Grand Tour.
His stomach growled rudely, a sharp reminder of the rich breakfast he hoped to find waiting.
He squelched through puddles, cursing the way cold water seeped around his toes.
Mud sucked at his boots with rude familiarity, and he imagined with grim amusement the horror on his valet’s face when confronted with the state of his fine Hessians.
Leaping over a particularly daunting puddle, he landed only to find himself ankle-deep in mud that yielded like custard beneath his heel. He tugged at his boot, teeth gritted, pushing his cane down into the sludge for leverage as he yanked himself free.
“Gadzooks, this is rubbish!” he muttered under his breath.
He had brought the cane along for protection.
He was attempting to unmask a murderer this morning, after all.
It had seemed wise to have something solid in hand, even if his plan was to remain discreetly out of sight.
Thankfully, it now served the dual purpose of helping him navigate the treacherous London street, churned into muck by the morning’s merciless rain.
Faith! Londoners are accustomed to rain, but this is ridiculous!
With relief tightening his shoulders, he turned onto the street where his father’s grand townhouse stood in solemn Georgian symmetry and Aunty Gertrude’s home sat primly across the way, both facades darkened with dripping water.
He straightened with delight at the prospect of dry rooms and the promise of eggs and ham served by the competent staff who somehow remained unruffled by the family’s constant drama.
Picking up his pace, he splashed forward and mounted the slick steps, pressing his gloved fingers around the cold, wet brass of the knocker.
As he took hold of it, something flickered in the edge of his vision. He twisted sharply, boots skidding slightly on the slick stone.
A tall, cloaked figure was bearing down on him, dark against the gray morning.
Thunking back against the heavy door in surprise, Julius raised his cane in defense just as a glinting knife flashed through the wet air, slashing toward his heart.
Audrey sat perched on her trunk in the lavish entry hall, the cold edge of the brass fittings biting lightly through her gown’s fabric.
All around her were bronze sculptures—Roman warriors, hunting dogs, serene goddesses—gleaming in the shifting gray light from tall, rain-blurred windows.
Antique swords and daggers hung in elaborate displays on velvet-backed panels, their intricate hilts catching the dim glow of the polished wall sconces.
Gray-green walls with crisp white trim created an air of muted elegance, while burnished wood banisters gleamed like rich mahogany, reflecting candlelight even in this dreary morning.
Delicately painted frescos adorned panels on the ceiling, pastoral scenes of rolling fields and ancient ruins that made the vast space feel even grander, though no less cold to her homesick eye.
Audrey pressed her gloved hands into her lap, fighting a queasy twist in her belly. Lord Stirling had left in his carriage at first light. She knew this because she had watched from the window of her small bedchamber, chin propped on the sill, rain sluicing down the panes in steady rivers.
Sleep had eluded her for most of the night.
Every hour had seemed to stretch endlessly as she turned over her worries, twisting the ties of her night rail in restless fingers.
Soon, she would be collected by Lady Astley, a woman whose very name made Audrey’s spine straighten with defensive dread.
The peeress embodied everything she found tiresome, suffocating, and needlessly cruel about London society.
How she longed instead for long rambles along Stirling’s country lanes, where oaks and maples tossed their branches in gentle breezes and birds trilled unseen in green canopies.
For idle chitchat at the village shop counters, where gossip was warm and familiar, and the air smelled of flour and fresh-baked bread wafting temptingly from Mr. Rogers’s ovens.
Not for stiff-backed conversation about etiquette and lineage, or ladylike pursuits meant to improve nothing except her future marketability under the disapproving gaze of an embittered biddy of the upper classes.
When she had worked side by side with her father, she had never let herself imagine the future without him. His presence had filled every room with certainty. The past five months had brought home a harsh reality she was still learning to bear.
The moment she reached her majority, she would go home to Stirling, back to the land and people who needed her.
With luck, she would have her guild membership and be able to practice medicine openly.
If the guild refused her, as they well might, being the closed-minded collection of old men they were, then she would find another path.
Herbalism. Midwifery. Whatever might allow her to serve and heal.