Thankfully, Lady Darby remained oblivious that Madam Bouffanthad been Lord Eamont’s lover and not a widow from France. But her comment seemed to resonate with a few of the other guests, who glanced at one another, and unsettled Lady Eamont, who promptly closed her mouth and pushed her plate away as if she’d ingested a spoiled egg.
Lord Eamont’s mood was difficult to decipher because he kept a stiff upper lip and ate his food while showing no sign of his earlier distress. But Bridget noticed the sparkle in his eyes that had been evident whenever he’d gazed at Madam Bouffant had disappeared.
She glanced at Jefferson. His face was pale, and he toyed with his food. Like Bridget, he seemed to have been severely affected by the death that morning, and she would have respected him for it if it weren’t for his earlier comment about Madam Bouffant having broken her neck. He’d spoken with such authority as though he’d known for certain what had happened. But how could he have known that detail? Could he have been the one to have caused it?
Everyone else at the table, including Lord Frederick, appeared to have a healthy appetite. And why wasn’t Frederick upset? At the very least, Madam Bouffant had spent a fortnight with him when they’d journeyed to the Lake District in the same carriage. Yet here he sat, eating his kippers as though nothing had happened.
Bridget put down her fork and eyed the guests, watching each one with suspicion as they ate their breakfast and gossiped amongst themselves. Suddenly, they all seemed like heartless killers—just like the people who’d driven a stake through her papa’s heart.People are capable of immense cruelty. And anyone sitting at this table could be a murderer.
The smell of bacon and kippers rose to Bridget’s nostrils, making her nauseous. She could not stomach staying in the breakfast room a second longer.
Pushing back her chair, Bridget stood up and barely managed to excuse herself before exiting the breakfast room. She retreated to thelibrary, which had long been her sanctuary. Thankful to find it empty, she sat on the window seat and gazed out at the garden, hoping Windermere’s calm waters would erase the haunting image of Madam Bouffant’s battered body from her mind. The actress had been so animated and vivacious in life that the sight of her broken and bloodied body at the bottom of the stairs was almost impossible to comprehend.
Guilt gnawed at Bridget. She should have told Magistrate Hunt about the ring incident. Lady Eamont had framed and falsely accused Madam Bouffant, and she’d been keenly aware of the courtesan’s relationship with her husband. Bridget didn’t blame Lady Eamont for her jealousy or anger. Madam Bouffant and Lord Eamont had done her a grave injustice, but that was no excuse for murder.
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Bridget looked up to see that Nate had entered the library with Bijou in his arms. “May we join you?”
Bridget’s heart warmed on seeing her dog, especially cuddled next to Nate’s chest. She smiled and stretched out her arms to receive him. “Of course, you may.”
Nate placed the terrier in Bridget’s arms and sat down beside her. “I bumped into Eliza as I was coming downstairs. She’d brought him back from the garden. And I told her I’d deliver him to you myself. Although, I must say she didn’t seem too pleased about handing him over to me. One would think I’d asked her for her firstborn.”
“Never mind Eliza.” Bridget kissed Bijou’s head and inhaled his scent. He smelled like fresh grass. “She takes her responsibilities quite seriously, and she knows how much I cherish Bijou. How good of her to remember to take him outside, even with all the commotion today.”
“And how are you?” Nate asked. “I noticed you left your breakfast untouched.”
“I still can’t believe it. I can’t stop thinking about her—lying thereon that cold, hard floor. I can’t imagine what she must have been feeling during her final moments as she tumbled down those stairs. Was she frightened? Did she feel pain?” Bridget spoke about Madam Bouffant, but even as she did, she thought of her father—alone, distressed, and friendless in his last moments and beyond. She cradled Bijou, and he tucked his head in the crook of her arm, bringing her instant comfort.
“We’ve all had a terrible shock this morning. But it will pass,” Nate said.
Bridget shook her head. “No, it won’t. Not unless we tell Magistrate Hunt what we suspect. He needs to investigate this death. We must tell him what transpired between Madam Bouffant and Lord and Lady Eamont.”
“Do you think the magistrate will take your suspicions seriously? One doesn’t go about accusing a viscountess of murder without any proof. And evenwithproof, it’s not something that can be done lightly. Your magistrate doesn’t seem like the type to risk his position for a courtesan’s death.”
“You’re right.” Bridget caressed the now-sleeping Bijou. “It grieves me that Magistrate Hunt lost all interest in Madam Bouffant the moment he discovered she was a courtesan and a mistress. And to think he then had the temerity to scold me on the caliber of guests I allowed into my papa’s house. I am ashamed that I felt I owed him an explanation as to why that poor woman had been permitted to stay. It’s as though her death doesn’t matter to anyone at all. But I cannot simply erase her from my mind as though she’d never existed. Courtesan or not—if Lady Eamont or someone else pushed her, then that person must be held accountable, or I will not be able to rest.”
Nate ran a hand through his thick, dark hair. “Lady Eamont or someoneelse? You suspectallour guests then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. There’s some reason to suspect Mr. Jefferson.”
“Jefferson! Why?”
“It was something he said. Lady Luxton made a rather cold comment about the big commotion that had been made in the wake of Madam Bouffant’s death—quite callous.” Bridget saw Nate wince and felt pleased that he seemed to agree with her sentiment. “To which Jefferson replied, ‘She broke her neck. Of course, there’s a ruckus.’ Then later, when Doctor Elias examined the body, he pointed out that Madam Bouffant had, indeed, broken her neck.”
Nate frowned. “That doesn’t prove anything. Mayhap he deciphered that she broke her neck from the way she was lying and all the blood.”
“But that’s not everything. I heard him mumble something about Andrew—‘It’s Andrew all over again,’ or something to that effect. What do you think that means? Could ‘Andrew’ have been another one of his victims? And then there’s the implication from Lady Luxton that he might have been one of Madam Bouffant’s patrons.”
“That seems a bit far-fetched,” Nate said.
“I shouldn’t doubt it. He seemed extremely anxious at breakfast. He hardly touched his food, and whenever he picked up his fork, his hand trembled.”
“Perhaps the other guests are unfeeling. Jefferson is a rather sensitive person, I think.”
Recalling Jefferson’s blanched face and quivering hand, Bridget nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. How long have you known him?”
“About a year. He’s a close friend of Dodsworth. That’s how I met him. Decent chap.”
