“Lady Kimpton survived the rain, I take it?”
Thorne flexed his hands and cupped his knees, when what he truly preferred was his hands around the man’s neck. The effort to remain calm was difficult. He abhorred his wife’s name coming from Maudsley’s foul mouth. “Pogue looked in on her last night. She’d taken a chill.”
“Ah, so Lady Maudsley implied. She herself is not up to par. A shame, that. Such a lovely day and all.” Maudsley pocketed his guinea and brushed off his coat. “She had a late night. Martindales’ party, you know.”
The tension surrounding Brock was so thick, Thorne could have sliced the air with a knife. “Yes, I believe I did catch sight of her at the Martindales’,” Brock rumbled. “I hope it’s nothing serious. She seemed fine last evening.”
Thorne winced at the thinly veiled threat.
Out came the coin as Maudsley narrowed his eyes on Brock. “I’m certain her customary good health will return within a few days.” Maudsley inclined his head. “Good day, gentlemen.”
Maudsley sauntered away, and Thorne glanced at Brock, his expression indecipherable. Maudsley was a bastard, and Thorne felt for his friend. But one did not interfere in another man’s affairs with his own wife. He made a mental note, however, to ask Lorelei to check in on her friend. “Perhaps we should stick to the problem at hand.”
With a curt nod, Brockway stood. “Harlowe’s, then?”
Twenty minutes later, Thorne jumped the fence to Harlowe’s garden with Brock at his back. He pulled out his handkerchief, prepared for the odor of death, and opened the door.
Nothing had changed since the last time they’d entered. The air was stale, though the stench had almost dissipated since the body’s removal from the night before. He shoved the cloth into his pocket.
In an unspoken agreement, they went up the stairs to the hall and stood between the three rooms.
“You say that Maudsley told Shufflebottom I’d put Harlowe on a boat?” Thorne said.
“Yes.”
“Then perhaps its Maudsley’s abode we should be searching?”
A feral gleam lit Brock’s expression. “Perhaps.”
Thorne wandered through the parlor, then moved to Harlowe’s bedchamber. The violence of destruction was disturbing. He saw nothing that indicated Harlowe had been forced from his home. The bedclothes were strewn haphazardly across the mattress. No indentations indicated anyone had been lying there when the knife had been taken to it. There was no blood. But also, nothing had been left unturned.
The wreckage fit that of rage. Was it rage? Or an orchestration made to look like rage? Thorne studied the scene.
Shirts, breeches, cravats all thrown about. The only thing ripped to shreds was the bed. The drawers from the dressing table were pulled out, contents spilled around the room in chaos, appearing almost… organized.
Thorne withdrew and found Brock in the studio. “I’ve almost convinced myself that this scene is posed for a specific purpose,” he said.
Brock righted an easel and positioned one of the nearby paintings atop it, though the canvas bore rips. “What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure, but I get the feeling that this destruction is designed to look like anger, when, in fact, it was nothing more than routine.”
“I don’t get your meaning.”
“Look around. To my eyes the whole scene looks more cold-blooded than genuinely angry.”
Brock stepped back and circled slowly. “Yes, I see what you mean. The slices with the knife in these works look deliberately placed, not shredded out of some passionate hatred.” He pointed to the slash that started near one corner, then picked up another painting. “The cut is identical, as if someone went through each one methodically.”
“They must have been in here when Marcus arrived home, then killed him before they departed. My guess is that the culprit or culprits had almost finished their task when he returned. Which has me wondering—did they already know Harlowe wouldn’t be coming back?”
“Interesting indeed,” Brock said.
“Let’s see if there is anything else before we head to Kimpton Manor. Those works that Harlowe has been gifting my wife have me quite curious.”
Nine
L
orelei blinked. Had she woken at her own funeral? She prayed not. She was not that fond of the color pink. Everywhere she was inundated with pink. Pink blooms, pink swirls, pink beads, everything pink.
