CHAPTER 15
As soon as they reached the street, McClellan trailing behind them with the majolica rooster cradled in her arms, Charlotte tightened her grip on Jeremy’s arm and turned away from the waiting carriage. “Let us take a walk around the square before the driver takes me home.”
He looked unhappy about the request, but surrendered with a sigh.
“I’ve really nothing more to report from my private time with Miss Merton,” he murmured, once they had crossed to the central garden and passed through the wrought iron gates. “Benedict didn’t return home last night, and aside from expressing anxiety, she had no specific reason as to why.”
“But it does seem ominous, doesn’t it?” pressed Charlotte.
Jeremy lifted his shoulders in sudden exasperation. “The devil take it, Charley—I don’t know! Grief grabs people in different ways. Perhaps he’s drunk himself into a blind stupor, or perhaps he’s sought solace in the bed of some willing wench.”
He quickened his pace, sending a spray of pebbles skittering into the grass. “I’m not sure there’s any need to panic.”
“But Miss Merton seems awfully alarmed,” pressed Charlotte. “And she knows him very well.”
“Not,” replied Jeremy through clenched teeth, “as well as I do.”
Charlotte stole a sidelong glance at his profile and felt a frisson of alarm. After darting an involuntary look behind her, she demanded, “What is it you’re not telling me?”
“Bloody hell—don’t badger me!”
She stumbled and nearly lost her footing. Never in all their years of friendship had Jeremy sworn at her.
He caught her arm and steadied her steps. “Dear God, forgive me.” Remorse tightened his voice to a hoarse whisper. “It’s just that some secrets should stay hidden.”
Dread clenched in her belly, turning her insides to ice.
Sensing her reaction, he blew out a harried breath. “It’s nothing to do with me, or my sordid secret, if that is what’s worrying you.”
How can I not be worried—nay, how can I not be terrified?
They walked on in uneasy silence. She dared not press him. Their friendship—now hanging by a fragile thread, she feared—was worth more than the information.
Let Wrexford wield the spade if he wished to dig for the truth.
“I’m not angry with you,” Jeremy finally murmured, forcing a ghost of a smile. “I’m angry at the twist of Fate that will unfairly resurrect the past and perhaps send Benedict to the gallows.”
Charlotte kept her gaze locked straight ahead. It was up to him to decide how much to confide.
“I know as well as you do that long-buried secrets have a way of coming back to life,” he explained. “Given the publicity around Ashton’s death, it’s inevitable that someone will speak up.” He swallowed hard. “Benedict made a terrible mistake in his youth . . .”
Crunch, crunch. The sound of their steps on the gravel seemed to echo the ragged thumping of her heart.
“Like me, he hadn’t a feather to fly with at university. It’s difficult to be poor, scrabbling for the bare necessities while your peers have bagfuls of blunt for the pursuit of idle pleasures.”
Still she remained silent.
Jeremy released a sigh, which was quickly swallowed in the soft swishing of the leaves stirring in the breeze.
“He desperately needed textbooks for his chemistry studies. Expensive ones. So late one night, when he saw one of our wealthy friends in the throes of drink stop in one of the narrow lanes and remove his overcoat in order to take a piss . . .”
Charlotte could well imagine the scene. Drunken laughter. Hide-and-seek moonlight. A moment of temptation.
“Benedict wasn’t thinking straight. He’d just come from the room of a fellow student, who had plied him with ale,” went on Jeremy.
“On impulse, he rushed in to riffle the pockets and found the man’s purse.
It took only a moment, but unfortunately he was recognized by two other students as he turned and fled with the money. They gave chase and caught him.”
The path forced them to circle back toward the gate.
“Luckily, I heard about the incident right away, and as I had several influential friends willing to help me, I was able to convince the victim not to press charges,” said Jeremy, rushing his words.
“I also arranged a small loan for Benedict, enough to purchase the books. He finished his studies and left Cambridge several months after the incident.”
Oh, Jeremy. A loyal and stalwart friend, no matter how ugly things appeared.
“I know how remorseful Benedict was about his mistake,” added Jeremy. “He was desperate to get his education and do some good in the world with his scientific gifts.” A pause. “He would never—never—have betrayed Ashton’s trust in him.”
Her friend had the gift of seeing the best in people. As he had with her. Charlotte only hoped that in this case he hadn’t let the wool be pulled over his eyes.
“Did Mr. Ashton know of this incident?” asked Charlotte. Recalling Octavia’s frightened face, she added, “And does Miss Merton?”
“I know Benedict, and I can’t imagine that he didn’t tell them. Despite what I just told you, he is honest to a fault.” His eyes closed, but not quite quickly enough to hide a ripple of doubt. “But I don’t know for sure.”
Good Lord, what a coil.
“I think it wise for you to find out,” counseled Charlotte.
He nodded bleakly.
She didn’t have the heart to add that it would also be wise for him to consider that his friend might well be guilty. For all his worldly wisdom, Jeremy’s heart was achingly vulnerable. While she had long ago made peace with life’s disillusionments.
Or have I? Charlotte dared not look at him.
“By the by,” he said a moment later. “Miss Merton was quite upset about her rudeness to you. She intends to send an apology.”
“Her discretion was laudable,” murmured Charlotte. “One can’t be too careful.”
The remark didn’t lighten his mood.
They waited at the gate for McClellan to catch up with them, and as soon as she did, Jeremy wasted no time in escorting Charlotte to the waiting carriage.
“I shall walk back to my residence,” he murmured, handing her up the steps.”
“I will help in any way I can,” she replied softly.
The angle of his hat hid his face. “I’m not sure what any of us can do.”
She hated hearing him sound so defeated. “Come, it’s not like you to sound so Friday-faced,” she chided. “If Mr. Hillhouse is innocent, we will prove him so.”
That drew a grudging smile. “Or God help the devil who stands in your way.”
“Yes, well, I’ve made it my mission in life to cut devils down to size.” She squeezed his hand. “Semper fortis.” Always brave.
“Semper fortis,” he repeated. “Would that I had your innate courage.”
As soon as she took her seat facing McClellan, Jeremy closed the door and called for the driver to be off. The whip cracked and the carriage lurched forward, joining the cacophony of wheels and iron-shod hooves clattering along the busy street.
Charlotte sank back against the squabs, and pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to compose her thoughts.
Worry for her friend set her blood to throbbing.
She could feel the slow, rhythmic pulse of heat begin to burn through the thin kidskin gloves.
The facts so far certainly seemed to cast a grim shadow of suspicion over Benedict Hillhouse.
His disappearance, coming on the heels of another murder, roused all sorts of questions.
Including ones about the motive of her dear friend.
She couldn’t help recalling Octavia’s first outburst—I fear something has gone dreadfully wrong. It seemed a strange phrasing, one that could imply a plan had been in place.
Wrexford, she was sure, would pounce on that.
The taste of bile rose up in her throat.
A jolt of the wheels caused her foot to bump against McClellan’s sturdy half boot. Reminded that she wasn’t alone, Charlotte hastily looked up. The maid was staring out the windowpanes with an aura of unruffled calm that helped soothe her own inner turmoil.
“Thank you, McClellan,” she murmured.
The maid turned, and once again Charlotte was struck by the bright intelligence in her mouse-brown eyes.
“For adding the duties of farmhand to your original assignment,” she quickly added, indicating the majolica rooster nested firmly in McClellan’s lap.
“Just as long as I’m not expected to pluck any feathers or prepare it for roasting. I’m all thumbs when it comes to kitchen work.”
Somehow Charlotte doubted that. “I’m also grateful for you not peppering me with questions,” she added truthfully.
A flicker of sunlight caught the twitch of the maid’s lips. “It’s not my job to do so, Mrs. Sloane.”
“Ah.” She decided to test McClellan’s sangfroid. “But likely it’s your job to answer them, if your employer decides to ask.”
“I doubt that His Lordship would,” replied the maid.
An astute answer. “But if he did?”
“Then I should recount what I have seen. Which has been mostly the backsides of three well-dressed gentry morts out for an afternoon stroll.”
Charlotte couldn’t hold back a laugh. “I trust Lord Sterling’s posterior helped keep boredom at bay.”
“He’s a very fine-looking man,” agreed McClellan with a straight face. “Well-fitting boots. They look to have been fashioned by Hoby.”
“No doubt,” said Charlotte dryly. Jeremy did have long, shapely legs. “He has exquisite taste in clothes. So I imagine he would choose only the best.”
They shared a quick smile.
“As for what you’ve heard . . .” Charlotte smoothed at her skirts. “Might I ask what sort of talk was going on in the kitchen?”
McClellan took her time in answering. “The recent murder of their houseguest has things in a humble-jumble downstairs. The servants are all aware that there’s bad blood between Mr. Ashton’s widow and his two assistants.
And it seems that one of them—a Mr. Hillhouse—stayed out all night, and has not yet been seen. ”
“Did they speculate as to why?” asked Charlotte.