He ought to have been firmer with her, damn it. Clearer in his determination to remain faithful to his wife. If she had not gone to his rooms, she would still be alive, and he would not find himself mired in this damnably tenuous position. Guilt skewered him as he poured some water into a bowl and splashed his face. It, too, was cold. But the chill scarcely compared to the ice in his soul.
Hastily, he finished the routine of his morning ablutions and then dressed, foregoing a shave because he did not bloody well feel like the scrape of a razor on his face. If he looked dreadful, he didn’t care. He was living in a Purgatory of his own making, and it may as well show.
Determined to have his customary coffee and leave for Scotland Yard, he left his room and descended the staircase. This, too, was in need of repair. The wood required polishing and perhaps a fresh stain. Several of the pictures hanging on the damask walls were askew, revealing the original, vibrant color of the wall hangings. Time and sunlight had faded them, rendering the once brilliant emerald green more a faded, pale jade. So many items to fix. Not the least of which was himself.
He never should have nearly made love to Elysande in the library the night before. But he had been raw as a fresh wound, torn open and tender. And his attraction for her was as strong as ever. He had not been prepared for the effect her presence here in London would have on him.
Hudson reached the bottom of the staircase and the undeniable scent of breakfast reached him. His stomach, traitor that it was, grumbled its objection to a mere coffee in response. He had reverted to his bachelor days when staying in his rooms, which meant coffee until a late luncheon, procured at a tavern or a Finch Lane chop-house. Usually a roast leg of mutton or sausage and mashed potatoes had been all he required to stick to his ribs. But his time in Buckinghamshire had spoiled him in more ways than one.
And at the scent of poached eggs, some manner of pastry, and bacon, he found himself striding toward the breakfast room despite the intentions that had driven him from his chamber. To his surprise, Elysande was within.
She was dressed in a simple lavender-and-cream morning gown of cotton and lace, her chestnut hair piled on her head in an artful chignon. A handful of curls framed her lovely face. She paused in the act of directing a servant bearing a covered tray to the sideboard.
“Good morning, Wycombe,” she greeted him, offering a curtsy.
He wished she would have called him Hudson, but he understood she had been born and raised to this world, where ceremony and titles and the proper seating at a bloody table mattered more than air.
He returned a cursory bow, which felt damned silly, but what else was he to do? This was a formal breakfast, presided by servants, and he was suddenly ravenous enough to eat all the food on generous display. Where the devil had all this glorious food been hiding yesterday?
“Good morning, Ellie,” he said, just because he could.
And just to see the answering rise of pink in her cheeks that told him she recalled when he had decided to use her shortened sobriquet himself.
The servant relieved himself of his burden, bowed, and left them alone in this small but shabbily elegant room where the table had been painstakingly set with porcelain that appeared too dainty and frail to be used. Was it his? He supposed he had inherited it along with the threadbare carpets and the half-empty library.
“Did you arrange all this?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Of course she had. Elysande was nothing if not capable, and not just that but intelligent also. Her letters to him, accompanied by the reports from Saunders, had painted a picture of a woman dedicated to restoring Brinton Manor to some of its former glory. All while he had returned to London and the life he knew and loved best.
Only, the strange realization had hit him at some point during the course of his exile that the old life which had once seemed so fulfilling, which had ruled his every waking thought and action and sometimes his sleep as well, was no longer as compelling. With each passing day, he had missed his wife. Perhaps not the countryside itself, though there was a certain appreciation to be had for the quiet and solitude of Brinton Manor. The sound of all those birds. A lake in which to swim. A wife awaiting him.
“Are you displeased?” she asked, frowning. “Mrs. Evans told me that you preferred not to take breakfast during your short stay here, but you cannot intend to traipse all over London with an empty stomach.”
A smile quirked at the corner of his lips. “You sound so very wifely this morning, love. But I assure you, I do not traipse. I move with caution and deliberation.”
Just as he had last night, only then, he had been using his tongue.
The deepening color in her cheeks told him she sensed the wayward direction of his thoughts. Or perhaps she was merely embarrassed by his comment that she was wifely. Although the role suited her well, it was not one she had taken of her own accord, and he knew he must not forget that.
Just as he had not wanted to become a damned duke.
He could only hope her resentment and frustration did not match his. Or else, they were doomed to suffer a most unhappy union.
“I am most certain you do,” she said in a tone he imagined resembled that of a governess chastising her charge. “However, regardless of the manner in which you move, I must insist that you have something to assuage your hunger before you go. You do intend to go, do you not?”
How well she read him, and he was amazed by her astuteness, despite her having spent so little actual time within his physical presence.
He inclined his head. “I do intend to seek out a former colleague of mine. Three days have passed without any word as to the state of the investigation into Mrs. Ainsley’s murder. I also have a handful of loose ends to follow in the hopes one of them will lead me to Croydon.”
She shivered. “I do so wish you would not involve yourself in cases, Hudson.”
“My involvement is temporary.”
At least, he hoped it was. If he were to be charged with Maude’s slaying, his involvement would be permanent. But then, he had to believe that his testimony, along with his prior connections to Scotland Yard and his newly inherited title would aid him. Moreover, he had witnesses who could vouch for his presence at the Black Souls.
Hope was a fragile beast.
“Will you take breakfast with me?” she asked, frowning at him as if she disapproved of his response.
