Hudson set his teeth on edge and wondered how much damage he would cause to his knuckles if his fist were to connect with Barlowe’s jaw.
“Ellie is what my family calls me,” Elysande explained quietly, her gaze seeking his, searching. “Since Mr. Barlowe is a close friend of yours and we were traveling together, standing on ceremony seemed quite silly.”
Traveling together.
Yes. He supposed they had done that. He had been too buried in questions—being interrogated had been the devil of a thing. He knew it was necessary. He knew, too, that as a duke and a former Scotland Yard detective, that he was not being treated nearly as harshly as he otherwise would have been. Perhaps being a duke mattered after all.
Still.Ellie.He could not like this familiarity between Barlowe and his wife. Even if he was grateful to his friend for having brought her to London so that Hudson could face the grim prospect of explaining to her how a former lover had been found murdered in his own bed.
“You never askedmeto call you Ellie,” he pointed out, trying to keep the edge of irritation from his voice and failing miserably.
It was beastly of him to be so nettled. He had no right, considering the hellacious mess in which he currently found himself embroiled.
“Perhaps I would have, had I been given the time,” she countered, before taking a delicate sip of her own soup.
Her stare was settled upon the bowl before her, but the crispness in her dulcet tones contained a reprimand. A reminder that he had left her in haste just after their wedding day.
He smiled, feeling as if his face were about to crack. “You requested that time, if I recall correctly.”
In some darkened alcove in his brain, Hudson knew this was not the discussion to have in the presence of Barlowe. Despite Elysande’s avowal she believed in his innocence, there clearly remained a great many terrible, tangled knots between them. Could he untie them all?
It was too damned soon to tell.
“Had I known the result of my request, I may have changed my mind,” his wife said, before taking a lengthy sip of her wine.
Stilted table conversation swimming in a sea of spirits. How ducal he felt. The barb of her words remained steadfastly lodged in the vicinity of his heart.
“I believed I was doing what was right,” he told her, and that much was true.
“There is where you veered from the course,” Barlowe interjected, humor lacing his voice. “Everyone knows there is no reward in doing what is right. When in doubt, do what is wrong instead. It almost always feels better.”
He wondered if Barlowe truly believed that. Knowing his friend, it was entirely likely he did.
“I do not suppose I will be taking moral instructions from you,” he drawled.
“Wise man.” Barlowe grinned, then offered him another mock salute before draining his wine glass. “Considering I have no morals at all.”
“Surely you possess a few,” Elysande said, looking up from her soup to frown at his friend. “You were most gracious in escorting me to London.”
“A favor for Stone,” Barlowe said. “The man has saved my arse more times than I care to recall.”
Hudson did not bother to correct his friend. He was still Hudson Stone, damn it. Even if he had also been forced to don the mantle Duke of Wycombe as well.
“He is an enigmatic man, my husband.” His wife’s smile was small, her gaze finally drifting back to his.
He saw the questions lingering there. He could not fault her for having them, but he was not altogether certain he could answer them. Not only had he proven himself unprepared for marriage and having a wife, but this half life he had been leading, partly a duke, partly a detective, had been a mistake. All he had managed to do was muck up his life even further. And now, a woman had lost her life.
Because of him?
It was difficult to say. Certainly, if he had not been in London, and if he had not attended Barlowe’s dinner, and if Barlowe had not invited Maude… The string of possibilities trailed on, but he was helpless to change them. Maude had been murdered, Reginald Croydon was still roaming free, and justice had yet to be served.
“I would hardly call myself enigmatic, my dear,” he said with a bitter smile. “A failure would be more apt at the moment.”
That was the bloody truth. Thus far, he had failed at being a duke, failed at being a husband, failed to find Croydon, failed to protect Maude… And now, here he was, failing at dinner conversation. It seemed rather poetic.
“Do not be so hard on yourself, old chap,” Barlowe said, having replenished his wine. “You were the best damned man Scotland Yard had.”
Past tense.
