Chapter 18 #2
A child that had not been stillborn, as Eloisa claimed. She’d raised the child in the country. That was why Barty had forbidden her to come back to London. Because Eloisa had refused to give up her daughter. Barty had lied. He’d known the child hadn’t died.
Sir Gabriel sat forward in his seat. “Miss Neatham has a child? Does she have a husband?"
Hugh sealed his lips, belatedly recalling his company. Eloisa’s condition had never been made known. To anyone familiar with the scandal, she had only left London in shame for having been ruined by her own half-brother. Not that she had found herself increasing.
Even now, Hugh found his tongue growing leaden as he avoided discussing the unsavory truth.
He had not shared it with anyone, ever. Not even Thornton.
In fact, it seemed that whenever his mind even so much as approached the memories from those wretched few days, six years ago, it would immediately reject them.
He would veer in any direction but the direction of the truth.
“Why was the duchess here?” Hugh asked, again avoiding. He faced the magistrate. “You never said. Why did she come?”
Sir Gabriel was no fool. He knew his question was being circumnavigated. But he acquiesced. “She wants me to question Colonel Trenton.”
Hugh grimaced. “Thomas? Why?”
What had Audrey discovered? Hell, he hated that they needed to work apart. He’d been cut off from her, and he felt the breach keenly.
“At the ball where Eloisa was killed, she was running through the smoky brume when she trod upon a gold leaf charm. It pierced her slipper and her foot, but she tossed it aside after removing it. Today, at the military review in Hyde Park, she learned the same gold leaf charm is affixed to every officer’s dress sidearm. ”
“Including Colonel Trenton’s,” Hugh said, understanding.
“Indeed. He was not at the ball, however. I’ve had the guest list from Lord Reed.”
“No, but the following morning—”
“Yes, yes, she told me about seeing him at Lady Reed’s. His puffy eyes and reddened skin, his hoarse voice…all which could be attributed to a brother’s grief,” Sir Gabriel said.
“Or exposure to a caustic smoke bomb.” Hugh ran a hand through his hair; the strands were damp, the late winter rain having utterly soaked his hat through. Shivers gripped his body, tensing his muscles.
“He has motive,” Hugh said. “Both Trenton and Neatham. If they knew their parents’ marriage was null and void, if they knew they were illegitimate—”
“If they knew you were the true heir,” the magistrate inserted, assuring Hugh he was with him in his line of thought. “I need proof of it.”
“Miss Barlow has the certificate of marriage among her things at the Field Street school. And surely there will be record of the marriage in Reverend McClure’s register at the parish church,” Hugh said.
“I’ve already sent a man on the Great North Road to Gretna Green with instruction to check the records at the blacksmith’s as well as the churches. After Her Grace’s visit, I thought it would be prudent,” Sir Gabriel replied. “I will send another officer to Field Street to find that certificate.”
In a day already brimming with surprises, this one nearly overwhelmed Hugh. “You will?”
“Of course. I want that record. I want proof you are heir, which would give a motive for Neatham or Trenton to have wanted to silence their sister.”
Sir Gabriel was on his side. Hugh should have known he would be. The knight was a brusque and no-nonsense sort of man who could rip you to shreds with a set down before sending you out the door again with a pat on your back.
“What I don’t understand, however,” he went on, “is why Miss Neatham would wish to ruin her brothers so thoroughly. Why loathe them so much that she would also expose her own illegitimacy just to see them destroyed?”
Hugh walked to the hearth and held his palms to the flames. He wasn’t yet ready to give up that piece of the puzzle; as usual, even the thought of telling Sir Gabriel made his lips seal tighter.
“I will speak to Tyne—the real Tyne,” the magistrate added with a groan, “and have him speak to Colonel Trenton about that night. See where he was at the time. What we’ve discussed here, about April Barlow, will stay between us. For now.”
He stressed the last bit. Meaning there might soon come a time when it would be made known. When his legitimate birth was exposed to the House of Lords. When he would be declared heir.
“I don’t want it,” he said. “I don’t care about the title. I just want Eloisa’s murderer found. I want my life back.”
The magistrate made no comment. Likely because he didn’t believe the claim. Who in their rational mind wouldn’t want to be titled and heir to a wealthy estate? But it was true. Why else would the notion of it turn his stomach into knots?
Hugh took up his damp coat and hat and gloves. “Did the duchess say where she was going after leaving you?”
She would have a plan; some next step to get what she wanted—to find out where Thomas had been the night of the murder.
“She seemed concerned about the time,” the magistrate said. “Mentioned something about getting home to the duke before he discovered where she’d gone. The imp. Spunk in spades. Reminds me of my Rebecca,” he added with a wistful twitch of his mouth.
Sir Gabriel adored his wife, and she was indeed lively. Hugh sighed. He’d not planned to take the horse back to Violet House himself; visiting the same place too many times wasn’t wise, especially if any foot patrols were watching the duchess’s home.
“Are your men still watching Violet House?” Hugh inquired. The magistrate arched a brow.
“Give me an hour. I’ll send word to have the two assigned to Curzon Street pulled and sent to Knightsbridge—where I’ve just received word you were seen.” He rolled his eyes and waved his hand. “Go. But be cautious. I will deny this meeting ever took place if you are caught.”
“And risk allowing anyone to know you like me? Never,” Hugh said before leaving.
After all, he’d had plenty of practice keeping secrets.