Thirty-Six
Gabby directed Mabel to a small library down the hall that also served as Hope House’s business office. They settled in two chairs that faced the hearth. “I’m sorry, Mabel. I didn’t find Miss Groves this morning.”
“That doesn’t surprise me, miss,” she said on a sigh. “Flo can be flighty. ’Twas good of you to try.”
The door opened and Rebecca entered, holding a contented Lady Macbeth. Rebecca wore an aura that was sure to be red if one were able to assign a color.
Gabby retrieved her dog. “Is everything all right?” she asked her carefully.
“Ryleigh and Huntley are leaving.” Her annoyance choked the chamber.
“Leaving. You mean you and Ryleigh,” Gabby said, quite forgetting Mabel sitting there.
“No. Ryleigh is accompanying your husband to find out who—” Rebecca stopped, casting a telling glance to Mabel. “Forgive me, Miss Clark. I shouldn’t air my irritation with the duke so openly. Frankly, I’m not good at hiding my anger at all.”
Gabby shared no such restraint. “Where are they going?”
“Perhaps we should have this conversation in private,” Rebecca said.
Gabby closed her eyes. She truly had been the bane of her sisters and brother’s existence. “Yes, of course. How thoughtless of me.” She tapped Mabel on the hand. “Rest assured, I’ll do my best to locate your friend, Mabel.”
Mabel stood. “Thank you, milady.” She went to the door.
“By the bye—” Gabby stopped her—“when did you last hear from Miss Groves?”
“Yesterday, milady. The minute I received the note from her, I sent word to you. Just as you instructed.”
“Thank you, Mabel.”
She dipped a quick curtsey and left, her footsteps ringing on the floor planking.
By mutual and silent agreement, Gabby and Rebecca waited to speak until Mabel’s steps faded up the stairs and beyond.
Rebecca speared Gabby with her newly affected “duchess stare.” But Gabby had not only known Rebecca since years before she became a duchess, Gabby had grown up in a duke’s household and was rarely intimidated. “It won’t work,” Gabby said.
Rebecca deflated, then quickly stiffened her spine. “What the devil is going on, Gabs? We had word that Stanford was killed. We went to see Rose this afternoon, but she had taken to her bed and would not see us.”
“I had a note from Mabel this morning that Florence Groves wanted to meet with me at the Royale. When I arrived, I-I—” she stumbled, almost losing her nerve. “I found Stanford. He’d been stabbed.” Lady Macbeth, ever so faithful, licked her hand.
“Good God,” Rebecca breathed. She fell back onto the settee. “What is Huntley up to?”
“He thinks I killed Stanford,” Gabby said glumly.
That brought Rebecca up off the settee. “Surely, not.” Her loyalty was heartening. She paced to the windows and looked out into the darkness. There were no gaslights on this stretch of Hope Street. It was an obsidian pool of nothing. “So, where would they go at this time of night?”
Gabby grimaced. “I don’t know, but I need to speak with Rose.”
“But she's taken to her bed.”
“Ha! She’s likely afraid to permit visitors in the event she breaks out into relieved fits of laughter.”
Rebecca turned around, facing her, astonished. “Truly?”
Gabby stroked the soft fur atop Lady Macbeth’s head. “No. Still, the man was a womanizing libertine. I think we should see her. She might have some insight into who actually murdered him.”
“Impossible,” Rebecca said. “Sebastian took the carriage with Huntley. I’m afraid we’re stuck.”
“Or not…” Gabby rose and hurried from the room.
