But remembering that in the morning, he must confront his traitorous heir and then start searching for another acceptable relation to take charge of the estate and start looking for a new abode so the Leonards would be safe. . . a bath and a brandy seemed the best he could do,
But it wasn’t bricks he wanted in his damned bed.
Thirty-nine
Eleanor
Unable to sleep, El had worked far into the night, finishing fresh pages to replace the ones they’d sent off, revising the latest ones Grey had written, and then, finally falling asleep over a research book looking for a quote he needed.
Friday morning, she woke late and cross and not at all certain what she should do next.
She accepted the sprigged muslin Peg laid out, because she was trying to become Future Eleanor, Gravesyde Scribe.
But when she went downstairs, she found Rafe holding the interview notes she had neatly copied out and left on the table, and Grey waiting impatiently to go to the manor. She balked. Now was the time to set about establishing her independence. They did not need her to take notes at the manor.
“Has Mr. Bradford been fed? How did he fare in the cellar?” She poured herself tea and ignored their impatience.
“He’s fine. Andrew has already taken him up to the Priory. We’re just waiting on you.” Grey began pulling on his gloves.
Even prisoners were allowed to eat. “Did he find anything in his digging?” She deliberately took a seat at the table and picked up a piece of toast. She was starving.
“A carving knife and similar tools, plus a book on butchery. Bradford was quite happy to have them, since he’d been learning the trade. One assumes his grandfather stole the neighbor’s valuables after he died, possibly assisted by the carving knife. Come along, they’ll feed you at the manor. Let’s have this day done with.” He yanked on the other glove.
“Women do not belong in courtrooms. I’ve had quite enough of brawling. You don’t need me. Go on with you.” She added jam to her toast.
Grey froze and stared at her, then shook himself. “You are not safe here alone. At least go with us and stay in the library.”
She knew he was just being stubborn and wanting his way. She could do the same. She waved him off. “Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly fine. There is a houseful of servants. I should plan a menu and go to the market.”
Rafe impatiently interrupted Grey’s impending tirade. “She is quite correct that a lady should not be subjected to foul language and rough behavior. Walker will be there to take notes.”
Eleanor tore her gaze from the array of painful expressions crossing Grey’s face before he masked them with his usual indifference. No matter how he hid it, she was hurting him as well as herself, but not for the same reasons. After last night’s horror, she understood better why he respected loyalty.
But it wasn’t loyalty she was feeling anymore.
Without the men, the house grew quiet. She ate her porridge in peace. Afterward, she consulted with the cook over the menu, then agreed with the housekeeper about purchasing more towels. After that—she found herself at a loss. She had completed all Grey’s work in last night’s frenzy.
She really would have to go to the market, once it opened. She’d never been much of the housewifely sort, but she knew how to feed herself and Andrew. It was just a matter of multiplication to supply a household, she supposed.
Mr. Russell had her neatly copied notes from last night’s proceedings. She made a fresh copy for herself, then puzzled over them for a while. Percival was a town gentleman, brought up among the gentry, as had been Comfrey. The Bradford sisters had done well for themselves.
Which meant. . . How likely was it that either Comfrey or Percival knew the purpose of a grappling hook? Or were likely to even recognize one if they saw it lying about? Because a journalist and a banker didn’t go about carrying sailing equipment.
Their older Bradford cousins, however—if Miss Fields was to be believed—had remained in Gravesyde on their own land, until they lost it. They knew the river. They went out at night. Mort and Tiny too?
Sailors, and river pirates, used winches and grappling hooks. She couldn’t see artists using them but. . .
That rowboat. . . Had that been Mort using it that first day when Grey had been knocked down by the river? Not Blackie? It had been a bit of a distance and she hadn’t known anyone then.
Mort, the artist, a river pirate? Did that make him a killer too? He was Comfrey’s second cousin. There wasn’t any chance that the banker would leave him anything, even if he knew of his cousins’ existence. Why would Mort kill him? For the purported money in the couch? That didn’t quite add up.
Only. . . when she’d been teaching perspective to the boys, one of the oils she’d used was a landscape that had depicted the river from a height. From a roof, perhaps? Had that been Mort’s work? Would he have been the worker on the roof?
That might make him a suspect. . . except Mort wouldn’t need a winch to haul a body.
She wasn’t meant to be a constable or Bow Street Runner.
But someone ought to take a look at that painting. And she was the nervous ninny with a nagging notion that they were missing important evidence. Grey relied on her research for a reason—she was a stickler for detail. She was never satisfied until she’d dug out every last relevant fact available.
