Shouts of anger and hatred followed him through the corridor and into his study, but while his chest ached, he ignored it. He hastily retrieved the letter from Jean and the informational handbill for Marie Tussaud’s exhibit, then returned to the parlour.
“This,” Jasper resumed his seat and held the old, wrinkled piece of parchment out for Francis to view, “is the handbill for an exhibit of death masks from the Reign of Terror, commissioned by Marie Tussaud. As you see, it opened in May, 1802. My father, Juliana, and I were invited as special guests to view the exhibit at our leisure for the entirety of the month, during which time we stayed in London.”
“Lies,” Francis hissed, his mottled face growing increasingly red. “You were in Derby when Jean was murdered.”
Jasper switched the handbill out for a creased letter. “I’m certain that you recognize this handwriting. This was sent to our estate while we were in London; it was forwarded to my father here, but by then, it was too late.”
Eyes reddening, Francis reared back in disbelief. “Impossible.”
“There were only three people who had the motivation to stop Jean from speaking with my father that day.”
The colour slowly drained from Francis’ cheeks. “Howdareyou? We wouldnever!”
“You and Miles mightn’t,” Jasper capitulated, “but would your father?”
His skin all but entirely ashen, the man lapsed into silence as he considered the answer. The desire to outright refuse must have been hot on his tongue, but the truth will out.
Jasper cleared his throat. “Now that we’ve established my father’s innocence, there are questions that I would like to ask.”
CHAPTER25
“Imust thank you again, Hydra,” Grace murmured as they took up positions outside the local magistrate’s offices.
Her long-time superior and mentor in His Majesty’s Secret Service, Hydra—Sir Charles Bradley—quirked a grin at her. “You were an exemplary spy and great friend; I shall always be happy to help you.”
Her chest warmed at his praise, but she shook the feeling aside. Now was not the time.
The outer rooms of the offices had been secured by Hydra’s men, leaving only Sir Ludlow Vaughan’s office unsecured. Grace pressed her back against the wall outside his door, with Hydra matching her stance on the other side.
Adjusting her grip on the flintlock in one hand and tightening her hold on the handcuffs in the other, Grace nodded her readiness to Hydra. Her pulse was steady and calm, but her abdomen was abubble with anticipation. She’d missed this.
He nodded in return and, as one, they moved, spinning on their heels as Hydra leaned back to kick down the door with one booted foot.
* * *
A great cloudof bergamot and lemons surrounded Maria, even as her arm smarted and every muscle throbbed. Her chest rumbled with a low groan, and fabric rustled at her side.
“Maria?” Jasper whispered, his voice pained.
She blinked slowly, taking in Jasper’s beloved features, creased with worry, and the firelit bedchamber beyond.
“Good morning,” she croaked.
He huffed a laugh, his warm eyes growing glassy. “Good morning.”
She moved to sit up and he hastened to help, bracing her back with a plethora of pillows and bringing the counterpane to her thighs.
Someone had evidently found her a previously owned frock, for she wore an overlarge day dress with short-capped sleeves. It was an old style, made with well-worn fustian, and she was very grateful for something to wear that was neither smoky nor bloodstained.
“Juliana found it in a wardrobe in one of the rooms,” Jasper explained, following her gaze.
She gave him a half-smile. “It’s a far sight better than what I was wearing.”
Thomas crashed through the opened doorway, bumping a tray of covered dishes against the door’s frame. “Blimey. I’ve brought us food, Jasper. And the doctor has—grunt, click—seen Francis, and says—holy Christ, Maria!” He set the tray on a nearby table and stood next to Jasper at her bedside. “How are—grunt—you feeling?”
“My arm hurts, and my body aches, but I feel rather well.”
“You lost a fair amount of blood,” Jasper said thickly.
