“Here, sir,” Oswald said.
“Get the man a tow—”
Oswald held out a towel pinched between index finger and thumb. Thorne snatched it away, shooting his high-and-mighty butler a glare. He handed off the towel as Brock stepped from Thorne’s study—alone. He lifted a brow in a silent question.
A smirk marked his friend’s mouth. “She is preparing her person for the Martindales.’ I’m to escort her.”
Splendid. He hoped Brock had sense enough not to let anyone see.
“I know the risks,” Brock growled under his breath.
Thorne shot a quick glance at the constable. His head was down; Thorne nodded sharply. Maudsley might be the worst lecher in theton, but it was another thing altogether for his wife. Thorne clamped his jaw tight. Anything said before the constable and the servants could prove disastrous for Lady Maudsley.
“Beggin’ yer pardon, my lord.” The constable shifted his weight and glanced at Oswald and Andrews. “If’n we could speak private-like?”
“We’ll talk in my study, sir. Brock, you might as well come along.” Thorne ignored Oswald’s blank expression that surely masked his inward pain as the constable started forward, shoes squelching with each step.
Brock held back in front of Oswald and bit out, “Donotallow Lady Maudsley to sneak away, Oswald. She’s liable to get herself killed in this foul weather.”
“Very good, sir.”
Thorne leaned in, unable to stop himself. He spoke quietly. “Are you out of your head? Everyone knows Maudsley’s nicked in the knob. The bastard’s a jealous cur.”
“You think me a fool? But of course you do. We can’t send her out unescorted in this weather. I’ll take your rig. Once we arrive, I’ll send for hers with no one the wiser.”
The fool plan might work, and regardless, Brock was right—under no circumstance should Lady Maudsley travel alone in this downpour. And if she failed to attend the party? No telling what Maudsley’s pea brain would conjure up and react to.
“It might work,” Thorne groused. He turned to the constable. “This way, sir.” He led the way into his study. Shutting the door behind them, he turned to his guest. “Well, sir, let’s have it.”
“There’s been a murder.”
Thorne narrowed his eyes on him. Brock stilled beside him. “That so?”
“Aye, sir. At none other than Lord Harlowe’s apartments.”
A surge of red edged his vision. “And did you happen to impart this information to my wife?”
The constable’s inscrutable features scrambled into confusion, then shock, settling into something of a comedy of horror. “No! No, yer lordship. I’d never—”
The blaze of rage slowly ebbed. But his pulse throbbed and the oxygen seemed to fall short of what his brain required to operate efficiently as his hands formed fists that desperately ached to strike…
Brock pushed Thorne aside, clearing the slight fog. “Explain yourself.”
“Lord Lunacy—” He stopped and covered his mouth in an embarrassed cough. “Uh… beggin’ yer pardon, sir, er, uh, Lord Lumsford, ’e’s Lord Harlowe’s neighbor, ye know…”
Thorne gathered his bearings and forced himself to remember that Lorelei was home. Home and safe. “Go on.”
The constable cleared his throat. “The smell was affectin’ the neighbors.”
“Are you saying Lord Harlowe was murdered?”
Thorne shot Brock a quick glance. They both knew Harlowe was not the one who’d put out the pungent odor.
“Well.” The constable scratched his greasy head. The sight made Thorne itch to wash his hands. “We don’t rightly know who the dead bugg—er, dead ’un is.”
Thorne met Brock’s gaze. “When are you likely to know?”
“Well, that’s the thing, mind. We’re needin’ someone to identify the body.”
