Something made Hudson stop. An instinct, perhaps. One honed over the course of so many years. He had never truly ceased being Chief Inspector Stone, and his return to London had taught him that, if precious little else.
There was something different about the room. He searched the shadows as he frantically lit the lamp he kept on a small table near the door. Light flared, bathing the chamber in a golden glow. Illuminating the spare contents of the room: table, rug, chair, small wardrobe, and…bed.
Bed.
An oath fled him, one that was so vicious and crude he would have blushed in shame were it not for the shock washing over him.
There was a woman in his bed. Unmoving. Lying face down.
His feet propelled him forward, legs possessing a mind of their own as dread clamped on him tight. He had seen corpses before, and there was always a surreal stillness to them, frozen in the violence which had last been visited upon them.
No doubt about it, the woman in his bed was dead. As he neared her, he took in the light-blue silk, the icy-blonde hair pulled free of its pins. One hand, stained with blood, was outstretched.
The dead woman in his bed was Mrs. Maude Ainsley.
“Maude,” he said, praying she was not dead.
Foolish, he knew. There was blood on her hand, a pool of blood on the bedclothes blossoming from beneath her. Forming a puddle on the floor.
“Maude,” he tried again.
No answer.
He reached out, gently rolling her to her back, needing to know for certain. If there was any way he could get her help, it was his duty. But as she landed on her back, the vicious stab wounds she had suffered were visible. The elegant bodice of her gown had been pierced with a knife. Her face was lifeless and pale, blood trickling from her mouth.
His gut heaved. Hudson was no stranger to death, but he had never seen someone he personally knew in such a state. In the peaceful stillness of death, yes. But the victim of a crime? Murdered? Never. And she was in his bed.
Questions hit him.
How?
Why?
Who?
Hudson promptly casted up his accounts all over the goddamn floor.
* * *
Elysande foundHudson awaiting her in the salon of the Belgravia residence she had yet to visit. How strange for the occasion of her first stay as the Duchess of Wycombe to have been forced by the news that another woman had been found murdered.
In her husband’sbed.
The hours since the terrible news reached her had been a blur of alternating disbelief, despair, and outrage. The facts she had been given had been sparse. Because of the investigation, Hudson had deemed it prudent not to return to Buckinghamshire. Instead, he had sent a trusted friend, Zachary Barlowe, to her with the news. She had been toiling in her sitting room workshop when Mr. Barlowe had called. Stained and wearing an old gown, looking as shabby and tattered as Brinton Manor had when she had first become its mistress.
She had not been expecting a caller. But when the butler had alerted her to Mr. Barlowe’s unexpected and urgent business concerning Wycombe, she had rushed to greet him. His grim tidings had robbed the breath from her lungs. For a moment, she had stood there in the formal drawing room, with its fresh wall coverings and the cheerful Axminster she had chosen, and felt as if someone had slammed a fist into her middle.
Mr. Barlowe had taken pity on her. Or perhaps her legs had begun to buckle. She could not be certain now. All she did know was that he had slid a solid arm around her waist, keeping her from falling.
“Steady, Your Grace,” Mr. Barlowe had urged, holding her upright. “All is not what it seems, I can assure you. Stone—er, Wycombe—is not to blame for the murder or Mrs. Ainsley’s presence at his rooms. I assure you.”
Words swarmed together like angry bees.
Murder.
Mrs. Ainsley.
His rooms.
