Chapter 22
Chapter
Twenty-Two
It was the third cravat of the morning, and Hugh’s patience was deteriorating. Hugh stood in his dressing room, hands clasped behind his back, as his valet fussed with the neckcloth.
“If you do not settle on a knot, Basil, I will be forced to rip off both of your arms and beat you about the head with them.”
His valet did not flinch at the violent promise. He was far too involved in producing the finest mail coach knot he’d yet to tie in his many years of service.
“We will need several more neckcloths, my lord. I saw one in the loveliest shade of ecru at Bealman’s last week, the barest hint of embroidery to give it a bit of texture,” Basil said, his hands flitting about Hugh’s neck like a pair of frantic birds.
“Do not call me that.”
“You are wasting your breath, my lord. There is now only one ‘Sir’ in this household, and he is currently being fitted for proper livery.”
As Basil reached for a cravat pin, the door to Hugh’s bedchamber punted open and cracked against the wall.
“I ain’t gonna wear this dandy color, Baz. I’d rather dunk m’self in the Thames and eat a lungful of river water than be seen in these frilly threads!”
Sir stalked into the dressing room wearing unfinished versions of a coat and trousers in pale robin’s egg blue, trimmed by silver tassels and embroidering. Hugh tried, but failed, to suppress a snort of laughter.
“It truly is an awful color, Basil,” Hugh said. Sir tore off the pinned together sleeves and dumped them on the carpet.
“These are the established colors for Neatham livery!” Basil argued.
Hugh felt hot again, as he did every time he was reminded of the new state of his situation.
No longer was he Mr. Hugh Marsden, ward of the late Viscount Neatham, by-blow and blackguard disgrace.
Sir Gabriel’s man had found the recording of his father’s and April Barlow’s nuptials in the old parish church records.
It matched with the certificate of proof April Barlow had possessed, tucked inside a box under her bed at the finishing school.
And with no annulment on file, and April Barlow’s verification that they did not dissolve their marriage before Fitzgerald married Joanna, the Committee of Privileges in the House of Lords had been forced to make the wholly irregular and extraordinary decision to declare Fitzgerald’s second marriage bigamous, and to strip the title from Bartholomew.
“Things change, Basil. The Neatham livery can be another color.” Hugh tugged at the finished cravat; it looked worse than the first, in his opinion. He stepped away from Basil before he could fuss any further.
“What color do you like, Sir?” Hugh asked.
“That is not how things are—”
The boy cut Basil off. “Green. Like the moss what’s on rocks when the tide goes out.”
Hugh grinned at Sir’s sudden change of spirits. “Very well, green it is. Tell the tailor and be done with it.”
Basil glared at the boy as he whooped and ran off. Hugh left the dressing room, forgoing the morning coat his valet tried to chase him with.
“I know you are in raptures about this change in our circumstances, Basil, but please understand, you are alone in your ecstasy,” Hugh said as he left his bedchamber. He needed a drink, and he didn’t care that it was only noon.
“I am not completely unsympathetic, my lord,” Basil said, following him with less vigor now. “I’m quite aware that your rise in fortune did not come about without a great deal of turmoil. For that, I am deeply sorry.”
The old snob sounded sincere, and Hugh felt a twinge of remorse for threatening to rip off his arms. As vexing as his valet was, he was steadfast and loyal, and he took no pleasure in the disgrace of Bartholomew and Lila Neatham.
Neither did Hugh. He abhorred Barty, and after Lila tried to shoot him, Hugh didn’t quite like the wife either.
But total and complete ruination would be transferred onto their blameless young sons, and for that, Hugh was sorry.
Barty had not protested the Committee of Privileges’s decision.
The findings were irrefutable. Not only had April kept the certificate of her marriage to the viscount, she had also kept a copy of the parish record of Hugh’s birth.
The decision of the House of Lords was final.
Objecting would never have worked to Barty’s benefit, not with so much evidence in favor of Hugh—not to mention with the posthumous charges of murder brought against Thomas.
There had been too much scandal already, and Barty’s family was utterly tarnished.
Too damaged to withstand the scrutiny, by far.
In Hyde Park, Thomas had fired off his shot before Hugh could even grip Thornton’s pistol.
By some miracle, neither he nor Thornton had been struck.
Hugh’s answering shot had flown true, and the lead ball had burrowed into his chest. Thomas lived long enough to confess to the murders of Eloisa Neatham and Lady Reed, and in the presence of the soldiers Sir and Carrigan had fetched from the barracks, no less.
There had not been enough life left in Thomas for him to elaborate about why he’d killed Eloisa, or anything having to do with the child, and in the end, that might have been a blessing—at least for the child.
The correspondence with Mrs. Susan Smith that April Barlow had kept at her finishing school led Hugh to a small town in Gloucestershire, where Eloisa and her five-year-old daughter, Rosalie, had been living under false names and circumstances.
Apparently, Susan Smith was a widow. Her close friends had been caring for Rosalie while her mother was in London to see to some “family business”, or so Mr. and Mrs. Bailey had been told.
The farmer and his wife already had three children of their own, but when they learned of Eloisa’s death, they petitioned with Hugh to continue raising Rosalie.
Hugh was in no position to deny them. To be raised in the countryside, sheltered from the truth of her birth would be the kindest of prospects.
The Bailey family were good people and truly seemed to care for the little girl, and though they insisted it wasn’t necessary, Hugh would financially take the girl on as his ward.
She would want for nothing. Except, of course, her mother.
As for Lady Reed’s murder, Hugh and Audrey, before they’d parted ways after the incident at Hyde Park, had pieced together what must have happened.
Thomas told Audrey that he’d seen and spoken to Eloisa at some point in the days before the soiree, whereupon Eloisa must have mentioned her plan to visit Lady Reed.
Thomas would have known about the soiree, having been invited to it, but Eloisa had not.
He’d followed her there with the smoke device he’d pilfered from the supplies designated for the military review.
He’d seen the crowd not as a deterrent, but as an opportunity for chaos.
After speaking to Lady Reed the next morning, he must have become convinced that Eloisa confessed to the marchioness about Thomas and the child she’d born.
So, he had silenced Lady Reed too. And when Audrey started asking questions about the gold leaf charm at the military review, Thomas must have realized his was missing from his sidearm, and that the duchess, who had found Eloisa’s body, knew something. Appropriately, he’d panicked.
A part of Hugh had wished Thomas had lived long enough to hang for all his crimes, but at least his confession had exonerated Hugh.
“It will take me some time to grow accustomed to everything that has happened, Basil. I only ask for your patience,” he said as he descended the stairs to the ground level. His timing was pure shite.
As he came off the last step, Mrs. Peets opened the front door, admitting Sir Gabriel Poston into the foyer.
“Oh, good, you’re in,” Sir Gabriel bellowed, handing over his walking stick and hat to the cook, who fumbled them.
“We will also need competent footmen,” Basil whispered to Hugh as he walked by to help Mrs. Peets.
“Neckcloths and footmen. The list is growing,” Hugh muttered, gesturing the magistrate into his study.
Many of the Neatham household staff had given their notices, Hugh had learned in the days following the upheaval.
Only the butler and housekeeper and some grooms had stayed on; the rest had been unwilling to be associated with such scandal.
If only Hugh, too, could give his notice and be on his way.
Unfortunately, he could not disclaim or renounce the title.
It belonged to him, for better or worse.
“Whisky?” Hugh asked the magistrate as he was already pouring himself one.
“It’s noon.”
“So?”
Sir Gabriel grumbled, and Hugh took that for a yes. He handed the glass to the magistrate, who tossed it down his gullet.
“There is no point delaying. Best to be out with it,” he said as Hugh moved to pour his guest another. “You are relieved from your duties at Bow Street, effective immediately.”
The words landed the same as a fist to the gut.
He had anticipated this but had not fully allowed himself to think on it.
These last few weeks, every time Hugh arrived at Bow Street, Sir Gabriel had told him to sod off and get his affairs in order.
But there had been a look in the magistrate’s eye that had hinted that it was more than just a temporary lull in his duties.
“I am a damn good officer,” Hugh said now, then downed his whisky in a single gulp.
Sir Gabriel scrubbed a palm over his moustache and chin. “You are one of my finest, but you are now viscount, and viscounts are not Bow Street officers.”
Bloody hell. Hugh set down his whisky glass, and with more restraint than he’d ever shown, managed not to punch a hole in the wall.
“I never wanted this,” he said, unable to look at Sir Gabriel. “I’m not qualified or prepared at all. It was never supposed to be mine—the estate, the land, the tenants. How am I to be steward of something I hold such bloody disdain for?”
If there had been any way at all around exposing Barty’s illegitimacy, Hugh would have done it, and gladly. But Thomas’s motive to kill his sister hinged entirely upon it.
“I don’t imagine you held any great respect for the criminals you arrested in your time at Bow Street,” Sir Gabriel said, “and yet you always followed proper procedure. You never let emotion or prejudice stand in the way of your duty.”
“I made plenty of mistakes,” he said, thinking of Fournier and how he’d arrested the duke for a murder he had not committed.
Hugh had observed Miss Lovejoy’s torn nails, received as she’d fought off her attacker, and yet he’d failed to observe that the duke had no defense wounds upon him. His hatred for the ton had blinded him.
“Don’t I know it!” Sir Gabriel laughed. “But my boy, mistakes are not made with intention, and you have always been unswerving in your intention to do what is right.” He came up to Hugh and clapped him on the shoulder in a show of either support or commiseration.
“You are exactly the sort of gentleman the Neatham title needs at this time. You will give it the same dedication you gave me at Bow Street.”
It was both a vote of confidence and a direct order. Hugh shook his head and grinned. “Yes, sir,” he said, pouring himself another whisky.
“Good. I often have need of a contact with influence, you know,” Sir Gabriel said. “You will hear from me again, don’t worry.”
He walked the magistrate back into the foyer, and as they entered, a light rap came at the front door.
Basil had stationed himself there with Sir Gabriel’s hat and stick, and now whisked open the door as well.
A pair of inquisitive, dark blue eyes connected with Hugh’s.
The spring of his pulse was immediate. Audrey’s lips bowed into an unreserved smile, then smoothed again when she saw the magistrate.
“Ah, Your Grace,” Sir Gabriel said merrily, though he took a furtive glance toward Hugh, as if savoring the moment of finding the duchess on his doorstep.
“Good morning, Sir Gabriel,” she replied as she and her maid entered the foyer. “Have I called at an inconvenient time?”
“No,” Hugh answered just as the magistrate said the same.
“Not at all, I was just on my way.” He accepted his stick and hat, but then, with a clearing of his throat and a cocked brow, continued. “Your Grace, I find myself in a most unusual position.”
Audrey looked between Hugh and Sir Gabriel. “What position is that, Sir Gabriel?”
“The one in which I feel obliged to thank a lady of the peerage for her assistance in an investigation. Your observations regarding Colonel Trenton were indeed correct.”
A stiff wind could have knocked Hugh over. By her look of surprise and her parted lips, the duchess felt the same way. He had never once heard the chief magistrate thank a woman for her help in anything. Hell, he wondered if he’d ever thanked any of his officers or constables.
“I was happy to assist,” Audrey replied, the apples of her cheeks coloring with pleasure.
Sir Gabriel tipped his hat before leaving. Basil ushered Greer toward the sitting room, to await her mistress. Hugh and Audrey remained in the foyer, an awkward silence blooming.
They had not seen each other since the night in Hyde Park.
He’d taken her home to Violet House, where the duke had swept her away for care.
Hugh called on her the following afternoon, but she hadn’t been receiving.
A few more weeks passed, but there was always something keeping him from Curzon Street.
Namely, the duke. Who was now one of Hugh’s peers. As was Audrey.
“I should have sent a note ahead,” she said just as he blurted out, “Would you like something to eat?”
He wasn’t sure where the offer came from; he wasn’t even hungry. And he ought to have offered her tea, not food. But as Audrey blinked and pursed her lips against a grin, he realized why he’d said it. To keep her here, with him, for at least a little while.
“That depends. What have you got?”
“I haven’t a clue.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “Shall we go nettle Mrs. Peets?”
“Viscounts aren’t supposed to nettle,” she replied.
He held out an arm, gesturing toward the back of the house. “I suppose I’m not your typical viscount.”