Chapter Thirteen
Piers was genuinely surprised when April told him what she had done. They had found a moment of privacy outside the retiring room nearest to the drawing room, provided they spoke in almost whispers.
“I thought you didn’t trust Fosterson,” he commented.
“You do,” she said simply. “So you think it is a good idea?”
“Probably a vital one,” Piers said, and told her quickly what he had learned at the inn.
“So Troy could have rolled up here from the inn on Saturday night, full of jug-courage and...”
“He could have. Only how could he have been sure that Edward would be there?”
“Perhaps it was just luck. He knew Edward took his wife to the summer house so he would guess he must take other women there. We think his wife was lying about them both sleeping all night. And if Troy was in the taproom until after midnight, he couldn’t have got home much before one at best, three if he came up here and tried to croak Edward. ”
“Well, if it is Troy, at least we won’t have to worry about him sneaking into the house and smothering Edward in the middle of the night.”
“But you don’t think it was him, do you?” April said.
“It doesn’t feel right, though it could easily fit. I don’t think we should assume it’s Troy until we have evidence.”
“Meaning we should keep Edward’s waking quiet for as long as possible, and keep guard over him as much as we can without drawing attention to it?”
“Exactly. Though I think we should expand your circle of knowledge to include Stewart. That way, I can join the others in the library now, and you can sleep in your own bed.”
She gave a rare frown of irritation. “I am quite capable of—”
“I know. But we agreed at the beginning to give this child the very best chance we could.”
He didn’t say it in so many words, but she probably knew anyway. More even than for their unborn child, he feared for April in the hazardous business of carrying and birthing a baby. He watched the struggle wage across her face and since there was no one around, leaned closer and kissed her.
“Please.”
“Drat you, Piers.”
“By all means,” he said affably, relieved to have won her over. “It’s more than time I had a thoroughly good dratting.”
She grinned and pushed him toward the stairs. “Best tell Stewart then. He must be in your room or his own, for he’s not in the kitchen any longer.”
***
IT WAS BOTH A PLEASANT and a useful hour spent in the library after the ladies had retired and before the rest of the company did.
April’s faith in his opinion of Fosterson had clarified a few things in his mind, not least that he could trust his own judgement in such matters.
None of his friends could be guilty of this crime, whatever secrets they were keeping.
A vicious attack in the dark, particularly on a man beneath them in the social hierarchy, simply was not in their make-up.
Nor in Claudia’s, he was sure, however much of an enigma she seemed to have become.
Though he did not know Mrs. Hubb or Meg so well, his mind still boggled at either of them committing such an act, even in defence of their menfolk.
Whoever the culprit turned out to be, they needed to keep Edward safe from him.
Or her. It would also be best if, should Edward wake again, either Piers or April was with him at the time.
It was going to be tricky to arrange, especially in the daytime, without making it clear to the entire household that something had changed.
Retiring at the same time as the other men, he found April sound asleep and smiled.
He was glad he had insisted. Her notebook lay open on the bed beside her, the pencil in the gutter between the pages.
He picked it up and returned to the dressing room where he took off his cravat and quizzing glasses and changed out of his evening clothes and into an old and comfortable shirt, breeches, and coat.
When all was quiet in the passage, he slipped out of his chamber and went down to the kitchen to relieve Stewart, taking the notebook with him.
“Did he wake?” he asked the valet.
Stewart shook his head. “He whimpered once, and touched his head as if it hurt, but he didn’t wake. He didn’t when Dr. Fosterson changed his bandage either. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Get some sleep, Stewart. You deserve it.”
“Thank you, sir.” Stewart inclined his head, then said, “Oh. I managed to poke around Lady Temperley’s rooms during tea—both her bedchamber and the sitting room next door to it. I saw no signs of bloody or muddy clothes, or a bloody weapon.”
Piers wasn’t entirely surprised. “What about the servants’ laundry?”
“It’s due to be done tomorrow, but I saw nothing resembling blood amongst the stains.”
Piers sighed. “They’re not making it easy for us, are they? Thank you.”
When Stewart had departed, Piers settled onto the chair by the bed, put on his spectacles, and opened April’s notebook.
Her notes had always been concise, even when she recorded theories rather than simple facts.
Once this had been due to her difficulty in writing, but it had become a valuable discipline, presenting him with uncluttered facts and succinct possibilities.
She had updated the pages to include Piers’s information from the inn, and Edward’s brief awakening.
He added Stewart’s searches with the scrap of pencil.
Then he read everything through twice and still felt annoyingly unsatisfied.
They were missing something or did not know something. Unless April was right about Troy.
Then why this Saturday of all others? According to taproom gossip, Troy got drunk every Saturday night. Nothing had changed for him in several weeks.
So what had changed?
Edward’s love life. Peggy had caught him making up to Becky and thrown him over.
Who did that affect besides the maids themselves?
Peggy’s previous suitor, Bert Godley, who might well have taken umbrage on her behalf, and whom Piers had discovered in this very room with his fingers around Edward’s throat.
Perhaps, on the night of the attack, he had tried to speak to Edward and Edward had just laughed or taunted him until he lashed out.
Who was Edward going to meet at the summer house?
Some woman they didn’t yet know about? Had he persuaded one of the maids to at least talk to him there?
Becky had certainly been up and about, and was possibly more persuadable, but she claimed she had been attending Lady Temperley.
Where was Peggy? Asleep, she claimed, and no one had said otherwise.
What is Fosterson hiding from me? he wondered suddenly. He didn’t doubt his friend’s innocence of the main crime, but it was more than possible he was keeping to himself something vital that could incriminate—or exonerate—someone else. Who would he defend? A friend?
A woman.
Peggy?
Piers would have to press him. It was too urgent now. To prevent another attack, they needed to know everything.
He closed the notebook and held it on his lap while he stared at nothing and settled into some serious thinking.
As often happened, he lost track of time. He might even have nodded off for he had the feeling he actually opened his eyes when he became aware of the change in Edward’s breathing.
Edward lay with his face toward Piers, his eyes fixed on his face.
Piers sat up. “Edward. Welcome back.”
“Where?” he croaked. “Where am I?”
“In Mrs. Ballam’s sitting room. It was the easiest place to take you. You’ve had quite a long sleep.”
Edward licked his lips in a clearly unsatisfactory way. Piers rose and poured some water from the covered jug. The footman let out an involuntary groan as Piers carefully raised his shoulders, but he reached eagerly for the water with his lips and took a couple of hefty swallows.
Piers lowered him back to the pillow, and Edward closed his eyes. “My head’s swimming. It hurts.”
“It will do, I’m afraid. It’s a nasty wound. There’s some laudanum if you can’t bear it.”
“You’re Lord Petteril,” Edward said suddenly. “I woke up before, or at least I think I did, and she was here. Lady Petteril. I think.”
“She was.”
Edward’s gaze drifted away, though his eyes remained open. Piers guessed he was thinking, remembering, and gave him a moment.
“What happened?” Piers asked softly. “Who hit you?”
The footman’s eyes came back to his, full of pain. Impossible to tell if it was only physical. He said nothing.
“Don’t you remember?” Piers said. “You were on the path to the summer house, late on Saturday night—the early hours of Sunday, in fact. And someone hit you.”
“Did they,” Edward said vaguely. It wasn’t really a question.
“Did you see who it was?”
“I’m tired,” Edward said. “Really tired. Can I have some more water?”
Though he suspected it was at least part distraction, Piers could hardly deny him. He lifted him again, and this time one of Edward’s hands came up as though by instinct to grasp the cup.
Once he was lowered again, and the cup back on the bedside table, Piers said, “Did you see who hit you?”
Edward’s eyes closed. “No.”
Even the victim, it seemed, was lying.
Piers let him sleep some more.
***
AT DAWN, FOSTERSON appeared, and Piers told him quickly about the brief awakening and the water.
Fosterson nodded. “Excellent. Mrs. Riley stashed a bowl of gruel in the larder. I’ll bring it in before the servants come down.
He should eat something if he can, but nothing more threatening for now.
..” He vanished again and returned with a bowl and a spoon.
“Off you go, Withy, if you want to get a couple of hours sleep.”
But their voices seemed to have disturbed the patient, who opened his eyes.
“Good morning, again,” Piers said affably. “You remember Dr. Fosterson? He’s been looking after you and will continue to do so. Have you remembered who attacked you?”
Edward began to shake his head, changed his mind and said, “No,” instead.