With no choice, Conrad gave a terse summary of the carriage collision.
“You should have reported the incident, sir,” the constable said, frowning. “We could have taken precautions for your safety. Perhaps this latest attempt could have been avoided.”
“I’ve taken precautions, including hiring investigators to look into it.”
Brows knitted, Gigi didn’t look happy that he’d failed to mention his plan. But she couldn’t say more with her kin breathing down their necks. Given that they were supposed to be mere acquaintances, she shouldn’t know about his business.
“I handle my own affairs,” Conrad said. “Tell me about this latest attempt. Do you know who was behind it?”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Rawlins replied. “However, thanks to Lady Georgiana, we have a clue. She saw that whoever pushed that statue was wearing a white glove and black-sleeved jacket, which matches the uniform of the waiters. The cutting of the metal bands indicates the villain had advance access to the spa. As the waiters helped to set up for the gala a few days before, this lends further credibility to her theory. To that end, I obtained a list of the serving staff from Miss Letty and conducted interviews with the five who live in Chuddums.”
“You have been busy,” Conrad said with grudging approval.
“As my mama was wont to say, never put off until tomorrow what can be done today. After speaking with those five fellows, I do not believe the culprit is among them. However, this leaves seven candidates to interview, some of whom are scattered throughout the county. In the interim, I wanted to ask present company if anyone noticed anything unusual last night. Even seemingly unimportant details might lead to a clue.”
Glances were exchanged around the room.
“This probably doesn’t mean anything, but since you mentioned muddy footprints…well, Lord Fiddleston arrived with mud on his shoes.” Lady Blackwood pursed her lips. “I only know this because he was complaining so much. His carriage got stuck—an axle broke, I believe—and he had to help his groom push and ended up soiling his favorite footwear. However, he was wearing a blue evening coat and no gloves.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Rawlins jotted in a small notebook before turning to Conrad. “To your knowledge, would Lord Fiddleston have reason to wish you harm?”
“Not that I am aware of,” Conrad replied. “The fellow is not one of my company’s clients, and I am not acquainted with him personally.”
“If Fiddleston had it in for anyone, it would be Lord Valmont,” the marquess said dryly.
Rawlins paused, pen poised above his notes. “Why is that, my lord?”
“Valmont and Lady Fiddleston have been rather indiscreet,” Lady Blackwood explained. “They were flirting by the pump.”
“Ah.” Rawlins crossed something out. “Any other instances of note?”
The discussion continued, with the Harringtons sharing a plethora of observations. Given Gigi’s cleverness, Conrad was unsurprised by her family’s acuity. The Earl of Manderly overheard a pair of lordlings expressing curiosity about the cordoned-off upper gallery, while Lord Ethan reported that one of the ladies had been caught filching one of the souvenir figurines. Xenia Harrington, who’d apparently been her husband’s housekeeper before their marriage, was particularly observant about the staff.
“There was this one waiter who captured my notice,” she mused. “A good-looking fellow with brown hair.”
Manderly shot her husband a devilish look. “Better watch out, old boy.”
“Very amusing,” Lord Ethan muttered.
“It was because of how the fellow carried himself,” Xenia protested. “He oozed confidence but was terribly incompetent at serving.”
“Around six feet tall?” Lord Owen said suddenly. “Thick eyebrows?”
“You noticed him too,” Xenia said with an eager nod. “Flirting with the ladies appeared to be his main skill. He kept spilling drinks and mixing up requests from the guests.”
“That wasn’t why I noticed him.”
“Oh. What grabbed your attention?”
“He had the eyes of a predator.”
At the shadow that came over Lord Owen’s face, Conrad felt a chill seep through his veins. Apparently, he had something in common with this brother of Gigi’s. Once one looked into the eyes of a brute, one never forgot.
Rawlins was writing busily. “This waiter does not sound like one of the men I interviewed thus far. Did either of you catch his name?”
“I think it was John,” Xenia said.
She looked to Lord Owen for help, but his gaze had shuttered.
