Elysande had all but forgotten about that unfortunate incident. How mortifying to realize Royston had not. “I was a girl,” she defended herself.
“Yes,” her brother said agreeably. “One with foolish whims she allowed to lead her astray. I warned you your design was faulty, did I not? And you, too proud to admit your folly, told me you would show how harmless your trap truly was. It was not harmless to your pinky, was it?”
She winced, recalling the pain of the trap closing on her, the snap of her bone. To this day, she suffered an occasional ache in that joint whenever the weather was poor, and the digit remained tauntingly crooked. However, she often forgot about the reason for her broken finger, remembering merely that it had been fractured instead.
“The coil of the spring was a bit too strong,” she allowed. “But I did perfect the trap eventually.”
“Of course you did,” Papa interrupted. “You are only satisfied when you have perfected a design. You have always been stubborn and determined.”
“Nothing has changed,” she informed him.
“And I remain firm on the matter,” Hudson broke into the conversation, his deep baritone sending warmth to unfurl within her. “The choice of whether or not Ellie accompanies us is hers. She knows her mind and her abilities.”
Beneath the table, his right hand found her left, his fingers tangling with hers, his thumb giving her pinky an idle stroke as if to say this is the one. And he was right. It was. Just like that, one of her secrets was his. She wondered what others she would give over the course of their union. Strangely, the thought only filled her with hope. Sharing even her failures with this man would be a privilege.
He gave her hand a light, reassuring squeeze. A show of solidarity she appreciated every bit as much as his words.
“I am accompanying you,” she said firmly, grateful for Hudson anew.
Somehow, he had settled upon the crux of the conflict she inevitably had with her family. She loved Papa fiercely, and she was happy she had come of age beneath his encouragement and praise. When other girls had been making their presentation at court, she had been mired in books and learning, fingers roughened with calluses from tools, oil and dirt beneath her fingernails which her mother had despaired at. Her debut to society had been delayed, and as a result, so too had her marital prospects. It had never mattered until it had.
One day, Izzy had announced her intentions to marry Mr. Penhurst, the third son of Papa’s oldest and greatest friend, Viscount Leeland. And on that day, all the generous leniency Papa had espoused toward Elysande’s future had begun to systematically deteriorate. Like stones being removed from the foundation of an old castle wall, one by one, her freedoms had been taken. Her life had altered. Eventually, what remained crumbled. Her father had decided she needed to fit society’s mold for the benefit of the rest of her siblings.
And she loved Izzy and all the rest enough to accept.
However, she had never accepted the reason—that despite all Papa’s refusal to adhere to societal dictates, when it came down to his daughters, he was willing to make a sacrifice. Even if it had meant Elysande’s own happiness. She, Izzy, and the twins would forever be treated differently, held to a different set of standards, simply because they had been born his daughters rather than his sons.
Papa’s fingers were drumming on the table now, pulling Elysande from her thoughts. It was an old habit of his, one he engaged in whenever he was in the midst of designing his next invention. It invariably drove Mama to distraction.
“It is not fit for you to be there,” her brother grumbled in her direction. “I am only trying to protect you, Ellie.”
“I do not require your protection,” she countered. “I am stronger than you suppose.”
Hudson’s fingers tightened on hers once more. “My wife is stronger than anyone I know, and wiser, too. I suggest we bow to her decision and proceed with the day.”
If a person’s body were capable of glowing in the fashion of an electric light, Elysande was certain hers would be just now. Glowing and humming and far too bright. How good it felt to be the recipient of Hudson’s praise. How wonderful to sit at his side and feel appreciated in a way that had always been missing. Only, she had never noticed the glaring lapse until he had made his unexpected way into her life.
But now that he had arrived, she intended to do everything in her power to keep him there.
The trip to Hudson’s former rooms had gone better than he had expected. Almost too perfectly, in fact. Leydon and Royston, after being persuaded that Elysande should, in fact, accompany them if she wished, had not posed further opposition to the notion. He had been relieved, for keeping her near was more comforting than the fragile hope that her father’s method of comparing his handprint to the bloody print on the headboard of the bed in his old bedchamber would lead to his exoneration.
Still, despite the progression of the day, the burning coal of worry had yet to be doused. His experience as a detective had shown him that his instincts were scarcely ever misguided, and if the knot in his gut was any indication, the early promise of the morning would soon lead to complete and utter hell.
That was the way of it in an investigation. For every promising clue, there was an equally damning counter. Leydon’s preliminary examination of Hudson’s print along with the print left by Maude’s killer had suggested there were dissimilarities between them too obvious to deny. Which meant, of course, that the second call they needed to pay would proceed as poorly as a ship with a leaking hull in the midst of a maelstrom.
His suspicion was confirmed when they arrived at Barlowe’s home to find a rather unexpected assemblage in the drawing room. He should have known better than to seek Barlowe without warning, he acknowledged as he stood flanked by his wife, brother-in-law, and father-in-law at the threshold of the elegantly appointed chamber.
He also should have encouraged a call to the Marquess of Greymoor instead, who could also attest to Hudson’s presence at the Black Souls. Or perhaps even the owner of the club himself. But when the door to Barlowe’s Mayfair residence had opened and they had been greeted by a butler who appeared as if he may be in his cups, Hudson had decided to remain and attempt to pay a call.
Next time, he would not be so foolish.
“This is your bloody witness?” Royston hissed beneath his breath as the four of them stood there in shocked horror, witnessing the unfolding homage to indulgence.
He could not blame Elysande’s brother for the disgust in his voice, even if the viscount was apparently something of a ne’er-do-well himself, should Ellie’s comments prove any indication. No, indeed. He was as flummoxed as any of them.
There was every indication the room’s inhabitants had been drinking since the evening before and had yet to find their beds. It was nearly noon, and their revelries showed no signs of impending cessation. In true Barlowe fashion, women were everywhere. Ladies in their evening gowns, sleeves slipping down their shoulders, coiffures undone. Wine bottles in hand, feet bereft of slippers. Christ, a bare breast to his left, just by the mullioned window. He looked away. But there, near the settee, was the flash of feminine limbs. They were bereft of stockings and drawers, accompanied by a glimpse of that unfortunately sotted lady’s quim.
She giggled wildly, a riot of blonde curls falling around her face. “Darling, I need more wine,” she slurred. “My bottle is qui…very…quite empty. Emptyish. Quitish empty. Oh dear, am I speaking Latin? Et tu, Brute? It has been so long…”
She punctuated her rambling with a hiccup. And then another.
“The ladies are not my witnesses,” he managed.
Bloody hell, he knew Barlowe possessed something of a wild nature and a complete disregard for polite society, but this was a drunken fête that looked more like an ode to Bacchus, or—for Christ’s sake—an orgy, than anything else. He would have thought such a spectacle beyond his friend. They were of an age, and while Barlowe was damned rebellious, he had been rather somber of late. Calm and
sober enough for Hudson to entrust his own wife to him!
Which was a decision he regretted increasingly by the moment…
And just where the devil was Barlowe, anyway?
He searched the room and saw more nipples and ankles and knees, along with some lascivious kissing between a clearly drunken gentleman and lady. At last, he spied his friend in the corner, a half-empty bottle of wine in hand, a female in his lap. The lady was straddling him, sucking on his neck. Barlowe’s necktie was hanging limply over one shoulder, his coat long since shucked, his waistcoat gone. The top few buttons of his shirt had been plucked free of their moorings, and his wheat-blond hair looked as if every lady present had run her fingers through it.
What the hell?
“Hudson!” Barlowe called, without rising or bothering to remove the woman from his lap. “Join us.”
She giggled and bit his ear. Was her bodice pulled down and her corset undone? She shifted, and Hudson was treated to the unfortunate sight of a nipple, confirming his suspicions.
Good, sweet Lord in heaven.
“The three of you may wish to await me in the carriage,” he said to Elysande, her father, and brother with as much calm as he could muster.
In truth, the sight of his trusted friend deeply in his cups, surrounded by women of questionable morals and scarce clothing, shook him. Yes, Barlowe was indeed his most trusted witness. His most trusted friend as well. They had met by chance one evening, when Barlowe had been thoroughly soused and nearly robbed and stuck with a blade for his attempts at fighting off the thief intent upon enriching himself.
Hudson had defended him, and while Barlowe was a member of the aristocracy, he had not even made that discovery until several years into their friendship. They had met for ale at taverns, had convened at chophouses and anywhere else they could manage. Neither of them had asked questions of the other, and for some time, their friendship had been anonymous. Barlowe had not known Hudson was a Scotland Yard detective, and he had not known Barlowe was the brother of an earl, third in line to inherit. It would not have made a difference, but the length of time it had taken the two of them to share their true names and paths had solidified their friendship.
Certainly for Hudson, it had cemented his trust in Barlowe.
A trust he was beginning to wonder whether or not, given the current state of his friend’s life, had been grievously misplaced.
His wife’s hand was on his elbow, her grip tight. “Hudson?”
How to explain? There was a scene before them he had not anticipated. One he did not understand. Barlowe was not the sort to succumb to excess in such outrageous fashion. At least, Hudson had not believed him to be.
“Go to the carriage,” he urged her. “I shall speak to Barlowe myself.”
“Something is wrong,” she said, echoing his thoughts.
“Damned right it is,” Leydon clipped. “If this man is indicative of the quality of your alibi, I despair for you, Wycombe.”
“Come, Ellie,” Royston was saying to Elysande, attempting to steer her away from the hedonism on display before them.
But it was too late, and his wife was not the sort of lady who accepted the decree of anyone. Most particularly not her brother or father. He could not say he blamed her. Indeed, he admired her persistence, her strength. Hell, he admired her. Full stop.
“Mr. Barlowe seems distressed,” Elysande was saying.
“He isn’t Mr. Barlowe any longer, love,” called the blonde who had been flashing her nether bits without a hint of shame. “He is Lord Anglesey now.”
“Anglesey?” Hudson frowned, that sinking sense of dread digging deeper.
Surely it could not be. His friend had two older brothers, one of whom was the current earl.
“You heard it,” Barlowe said, raising his bottle of wine. “My brothers died in a boating accident yesterday morning. Some stupid bloody yacht race, a bad batch of wind, a crash with another boat, and they were sunk. Or was it two yesterday mornings ago? Christ, I’ve forgotten. They’re both quite dead, however. You are looking at the current Earl of Anglesey.”
Hudson viewed the scene of dissipation before him with a new clarity. Barlowe—make that Anglesey—had been estranged from his elder brothers. Despite that, their sudden deaths must have come as a tremendous shock.
“I am sorry,” he told his friend. “If there is any way I can be of service, please do let me know.”
“All I want to do at this moment is to get even more soused,” his friend announced, squinting at him. “Devil take it, how many of you are standing there?”
“I would wager you are soused enough,” he said grimly.
“We should take our leave,” Leydon was saying, his tone laced with disapproval.
“Poor Mr. Barlowe,” Elysande said at his side. “Losing two brothers at once must be quite a shock.”
His friend merely took another swig directly from his bottle of wine. A shock indeed. But given his current state, and his company, there was nothing Hudson could do for his friend just now.
“I will speak to him later,” Hudson decided. “For now, perhaps it would be best to seek Greymoor instead.”
“Death seems to follow you, sir,” observed Royston as the four of them made a hasty retreat to the carriage.
Hudson would have corrected him, but he was alarmed to admit his brother-in-law was not wrong.
Chapter 16
Elysande was in the drawing room with her sisters and mother when Chief Inspector O’Rourke arrived. The man’s return had been inevitable, but she could not deny the sour suspicion unfurling in her stomach at his obsequious appearance. He fawned over her mother and sisters and herself quite nicely. She supposed he only reserved his scorn and suspicion for Hudson.
But why?
One thing was certain, she did not trust him.
“My husband is not at home, Chief Inspector O’Rourke,” she offered when the niceties were complete.
Hudson, her father, and her brother had paid a call to the Black Souls Club to make further inquiries after their earlier interview with the Marquess of Greymoor had revealed Chief Inspector O’Rourke had not questioned him to confirm Hudson’s whereabouts on the night of the murder. The omission had been as telling as it was troubling.
“Fortunately for me, you are the one I wished to speak to rather than the duke,” he said, addressing her in an unctuous tone. “Forgive me for the intrusion, Your Grace. I was wondering if I might have a word with you in private.”
She had no desire to be alone with the man. “Surely anything you wish to say may be spoken freely before my mother and sisters, Inspector.”
He gave her a patronizing smile that did not reach his eyes. “Unfortunately, it is customary for all Scotland Yard interviews to be conducted independently. As much as I would like to honor your request, in the interest of preserving the integrity of the case, I cannot.”
An interview? What in heaven’s name did Chief Inspector O’Rourke possibly think she had to offer in the case of Mrs. Ainsley’s murder? She had not even been present in London at the time. She hesitated in her response, looking to Mama and Izzy and the twins.
“If the inspector requires confidentiality, then your sisters and I shall be happy to go,” Mama decided. “We will be expecting you and Wycombe for dinner this evening.”
She wanted to rail against their departure, but she also did not want to give the inspector any ammunition. Since Papa’s town house had been prepared, Elysande was no longer playing hostess, and there was no reason for her mother and sisters to remain.
“Of course,” she said, feigning serenity.
Izzy caught her gaze, giving her a telling look as they took their leave. Elysande gave her shoulders a slight shrug. What else was she meant to do? If she refused, she was likely to only increase the inspector’s suspicions. She had nothing to hide, and neither did Hudson.
He was innocent.
Reminding herself of that important fact, she faced Chief Inspector
O’Rourke after her mother and sisters had retreated from the drawing room.
“Would you care for tea, sir?” she asked calmly, as if he were paying a true social call.
“No, thank you, Your Grace,” Chief Inspector O’Rourke denied. “However, you may wish to be seated for this conversation.”
“I prefer to stand, sir,” she said, because the notion of sitting near to him pretending as if he were a welcome visitor, was odious.
This man was trying to charge Hudson with murder, she reminded herself.
Furthermore, he had hopelessly bungled his investigation of Mrs. Ainsley’s death. He had already decided upon the killer’s identity, and he remained determined to pursue his theory, regardless of how thoroughly wrong he was.
“As you wish, Your Grace.” He inclined his head, his mien becoming grim. “Undoubtedly, you are aware of the witness who offered her testimony in regards to the presence of the Duke of Wycombe at the scene of the murder.”
Her testimony?
Something inside Elysande froze. “A female witness? I was only aware of Mr. Seward, the apothecary’s apprentice, who was responsible for allowing Mrs. Ainsley to enter the rooms that night.”
“Ah.” His expression turned pitying. “I trust His Grace did not make you aware of the reason for my prior call, then.”
She swallowed against a rush of suspicion. He was playing a game, she thought. Feeding her information in small allotments, watching her closely for her reaction. Hudson had failed to mention an additional witness to her, but she could not be certain if Chief Inspector O’Rourke was lying to bait her, or if his words were true. And even if they were true, and if there had indeed been another witness that evening, Hudson had friends aplenty who could testify he had been in their presence for most of the evening.
The Detective Duke (Unexpected Lords Book 1) Page 23