Chapter 13 #2
The door creaked open, and Audrey startled.
Light spilled into the room, casting golden silhouettes against the far wall.
She blinked and drew the sheet higher, her breath catching as Julius entered—bootless, his nightshirt billowing.
His broad shoulders were shadowed by the soft glow of the oil lamp he carried.
Relief bloomed so fast it left her lightheaded.
“I think I know who did it!” he announced, closing the door with a click before striding back to the bed, every step filled with energy. His eyes were bright with revelation, his expression alive.
Audrey watched him with mingled affection and bewilderment as he placed the lamp on the table, then perched beside her, his weight dipping the mattress. The scent of ink and old leather clung to him.
He held up a thick volume of Debrett’s Peerage, bound in worn brown leather.
“Simon Scott!” he declared, grinning. “That is our man! We just need to confirm it.”
Audrey blinked, her thoughts still caught between dreams and the echo of his absence. “Scott?”
“Simon Scott,” he said again, shifting to face her.
“Younger brother of Lord Blackwood. But here is the important bit—he does not share the same mother. Blackwood and his second brother, Peter, were born to their father’s first wife—a Sussex lady, by the records.
She died, likely in childbirth. The father married again, but that wife died without issue.
And then”— he leaned in, his eyes gleaming—“he married a third time. Lady Isla Scott.”
Audrey’s brows drew together. “That name …”
“She was Lady Isla Campbell,” Julius said triumphantly. “Scottish viscountess. There is the link. The tartan you saw, the Campbell pattern. Simon Scott must be the killer!”
Audrey’s gaze dropped to the book, then returned to him. “You are certain?”
“Not yet,” he admitted, but his grin did not dim. “But it ties in too neatly to ignore. The tartan, the livery, the second son … disinherited perhaps? Or resentful? We need only one more thread to pull, and we shall unravel the whole rotten tapestry.”
Audrey let out a breathless laugh, torn between admiration and the quiet ache in her chest. This was Julius. Brilliant. Unpredictable. Spirited.
He was back. And though she had awakened alone, she now understood she had not been abandoned.
Not yet.
Audrey leaned forward, squinting at the spidery writing where Julius was pointing in Debrett’s Peerage. “So Simon Scott is descended from the Campbells,” she murmured. “But, as you said, there are infinite Campbells.”
Julius flashed a triumphant grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the warm lamplight.
“Indeed. But how many among them possess an entire household of liveried servants whose coats are lined with Campbell tartan? It is a new fashion, only in the last few years, this ostentatious display of clan affiliation among the beau monde. Few families have adopted it, and fewer still have taken it to the extent of lining their staff’s overcoats. ”
Audrey’s brows drew together. “So you think the man who attacked you might have been wearing such a coat?”
He nodded. “The assailant wore his own garments rather than formal livery to avoid identification as a servant, but he must have simply worn the only overcoat he had available. One from his servant’s wardrobe. One lined, as I saw at Scott’s house, with Campbell tartan.”
Her lips parted. “You are certain?”
“I saw it with my own eyes,” he confirmed.
“Abbott and I managed to attend a gathering there, following a friend of his. The tartan had caught my attention even then. I thought the livery rather outdated, but not unattractive—navy with gold braid. And when one of the footmen turned, I saw the lining flash green and blue. At the time, I dismissed it. Now, it feels relevant.”
Audrey tilted her head thoughtfully. “And this design choice … do you believe it was his?”
“Doubtful,” Julius said. “From all we gathered, Scott’s mother, Lady Isla, manages the household. She is a Scottish peeress in her own right, from Clan Campbell. She may have designed the livery in honor of her heritage. He likely permitted it out of indifference or filial duty.”
“She is a viscountess, you said?”
He nodded again. The soft glow of the oil lamp highlighted the strength in his profile—the elegant slope of his nose, the defined cheekbones, the determined line of his jaw.
“I know it seems unusual,” he added, “but many Scottish peerages are entailed to allow female succession if there is no male heir. Lady Isla is the eldest of four daughters and the title passed to her directly.”
“I see,” she murmured, distracted by his mop of curls, broad and golden in the lamplight.
“There was another book,” Julius continued, drawing a second volume from beneath his arm and placing it beside the first. “A genealogical registry. Lady Isla’s family is listed here—clear as anything.
It all aligns. I cannot yet prove Simon Scott’s guilt, but in my bones, Audrey, I believe it is him. ”
She lowered her gaze to the page, the weight of his words sinking in. This meant the danger might soon pass. That they might return to London. To reality.
That she would return to Stirling.
Their time was nearly at an end.
She drew a steadying breath. “So … there is nothing more that must be done tonight?” Her voice was low, far softer than she intended. A touch breathless. Something within her braced for his reaction.
Julius stilled. Then returned to the bed to hold her in his arms. It was a night for memorizing the way two souls felt when they shared time together without pretense or social rules. For pretending, just for a few quiet hours, that she might have married this man.