Indeed, she rather feared it had already gone there.
“One word, Hazel. Say it.”
She sighed. He would give her no quarter, as always. And she would expect nothing less. “Yes,” she grumbled. “Very well. I will accompany you on this excursion, whatever it may be. But only if I do not have to eat this nonsense.”
He grinned. “No one ever said you had to eat the kippers, my dear. Perhaps you ought to stop heeding your pride.”
She was sure her pride was the only thing she ought to listen to. But for now, there was only one voice her heart wanted to hear, and it belonged to the Duke of Arden.
Chapter Fifteen
Hazel knocked onLady Beaufort’s chamber door half a dozen times before she finally received an answer. She and Lucien had returned from a full afternoon of investigations and interrogations—questioning the staff of the hotel, the railway workers, and other bystanders and witnesses. Lucien’s aunt had been once more absent from dinner, and this time, Hazel had been too concerned to avoid seeking the older woman out to make certain she was well.
“I told you, Greaves, I am not hungry,” came the unmistakable voice of Lucien’s aunt at last.
“It is not Greaves, my lady,” Hazel ventured, bracing herself for the stinging censure Lady Beaufort would once more hurl her way. “It is Hazel.”
“Miss Montgomery?” Lady Beaufort’s voice was hesitant, edged with a note of disbelief.
Hazel suppressed a smile. Of course Lady Beaufort would refuse to refer to her with her given name. Formality was her mantle of protection. “Yes, my lady. It is Miss Montgomery. May I enter?”
“No.”
Well, she supposed she ought not to have expected any different. Still, she was nothing, if not determined.
“Please, my lady?” she tried, lacing her voice with sweetness. Even the English were susceptible to a drawl, she found.
There was silence on the other side of the door.
“I am mightily stubborn, Lady Beaufort,” she warned without heat. “And my constitution is hearty. I can stand here, asking for you to let me in, for the next few hours at least. Why, on one of my cases, I pretended to be an invalid and stayed at the home of a suspected murderer for an entire week, spreading droplets of false blood all over his hallway floors, until he finally confessed to his crime, believing he was being haunted for his sins.”
It was a true story, and one she was not necessarily proud of, for she preferred not to resort to trickery to wrangle her quarry. But as it turned out, it was just the bait she needed to dangle before Lady Beaufort.
The door opened.
Lady Beaufort faced her, pale and drawn. Her eyes were swollen, bloodshot, and even her hair was bereft of its usual severe—if outmoded—style of two loops worn over her ears. She was not even dressed in her typical mourning, but wrapped up in a plain gray robe, a simple cap on her head.
And she had been crying.
The realization took Hazel aback.
“Come inside, if you must,” Lady Beaufort announced coolly. “I cannot bear the notion of the domestics hearing you carry on about such vulgar nonsense.”
Therewas the Lady Beaufort Hazel knew. She flashed a smile, ignoring the insult as she entered Lucien’s aunt’s chamber. She noted at once the small nuances which told her this chamber must have belonged to Lady Beaufort for a long time.
The wallpaper was gray damask, but the walls were hung with a vast array of elaborate needlework framed in gilt housing, and portraits of a gentleman she could only imagine must be Lord Beaufort. From the coverlets to the smell of the room to the very carpet, every inch of the handsomely appointed chamber bespoke it was Lady Beaufort’s domain.
Lucien had clearly been taking care of his widowed aunt for years, and the knowledge settled in Hazel’s heart. It was plain to see he was a good man. But she had not sought out his aunt so she could fall deeper beneath the Duke of Arden’s spell.
Rather, she had come here to ascertain for herself the state of Lady Beaufort’s well-being. She spun about to face her ladyship, who was walking, as usual, with the aid of her handsomely decorated cane. But aside from her halting gait, there appeared no heightening of her illness.
“Why are you hiding in your chamber, my lady?” she asked.
Lady Beaufort’s chin snapped up. “I do not hide. I am ill. Can you not see?”
“I can see you have been weeping,” Hazel said. “Why?”
“Curse you,” Lady Beaufort spat with great feeling, her eyes—the same green, Hazel noted, as Lucien’s—brimming with hellfire. “How dare you speak to me with such impudence, you vulgar American vagabond?”
