“Not one. He was alone,” Fenton said.
“Robbed?”
“No. Still had his watch, fobs and his wallet.” Viscount Bramsten took the seat next to Andrew. “The darndest thing. A white lily had been laid on his chest.”
“A lily?” Andrew stared around at the worried faces. “What the devil does that mean?”
“We have no idea,” said Bramsten, “But I have a feeling we are going to find out.”
Andrew tossed back the whiskey welcoming the reviving burn in his throat. “You think this might have something to do with that dissident group the prince warned us about?”
“Too early to say,” Fenton said. “Might be something personal. Perhaps a misstep with a lady whose husband sought revenge.”
Andrew shook his head determined to defend his friend. “Richard and his wife were close. Elizabeth will be devastated. She spent a good deal of time in Vienna with him over the years. I must pay my respects to her.”
“You can never be sure about a man’s secrets,” Bramsten said. “But should it be some kind of message, I daresay it will be made known soon enough. While we shouldn’t begin jumping at shadows, it is best to increase the guards around your London home. Until we find out more.”
“And don’t wander around London on your own at night, as Winslow did,” Fenton added.
“Be armed at all times.” Castlereagh pulled back his coat to reveal the pistols he always carried.
Andrew viewed his sensitive, melancholy friend with a measure of sadness. The burdens imposed on him as foreign secretary were taking their toll. He had been behaving out of character since the abortive Thistlewood plot to assassinate the Cabinet last year, and during the trial of Queen Caroline, when he took up residence in the Foreign Office for greater safety.
When Andrew finally departed for Mayfair, and Harrow Court, the distress of his friend’s death made him weary to his bones. London skies were gray with low cloud. The air dense with smoke from the hundreds of fires lit to ward off the dank cold. He found himself eager to return to the clear skies of Castlebridge.
He now regretted a shoot had been planned even though it was long overdue, the frosts of the past month having delayed it. The proper upkeep of the woodlands was vital to its health and indeed, the future of the estate. He was only too aware of the important role he had in the care of his huge inheritance. Despite the enormous staff that served him, a number of responsibilities rested on his shoulders. There was an accumulation of important matters to attend to since he’d been away, and it would be wrong of him to evade his responsibilities.
Dusk had fallen when he descended from the carriage onto the sweep of white gravel before his London residence. Lights were being lit in the street. He wondered fleetingly how well Miss Harrismith was coping with his son. It pleased him that she’d developed a good rapport with both of his children. Clearly, William required a tutor, but it would take time for Andrew to select a good one able to gain his son’s respect. He recognized himself in the boy, that firm chin and upright carriage, that stubborn streak. All the Harrows, himself included, were a determined lot.
In the salon, Greta ordered her maid from the room. “Did you have a pleasant day?”
“No, merely business.” He decided not to mention Winslow’s death, as he came to kiss her hand. “Did you enjoy your visit with friends, madam?”
She smiled. “Oh so much! We have been invited to see a play at Drury Lane tonight.”
Not a keen theatregoer, Andrew disliked the idea. “Ah, that sounds…”
After a knock, the footman entered and handed Andrew a note from Castlebridge. Andrew tore it open and read it. “Good lord!”
Greta put down her glass of madeira. “What is it?”
“It’s from my secretary. I must return to Castlebridge. My son’s governess has informed Bishop that a shot was fired very close to William while they were out riding this morning.”
She raised her eyebrows looking incredulous. “A governess’ overreaction to a hunter’s stray shot would send you rushing home?”
He nodded, uneasy with Winslow’s murder still fresh in his mind. “I can’t dismiss it out of hand.”
“What about the theatre? It’s Edmund Kean as De Montfort.”
Andrew frowned. “Surely, my son is of more importance than the theatre?”
“Of course he is, but you can hardly trust the word of a governess. They are more than capable of embroidering to increase their importance. My mother detested them.”
“Nevertheless, I will leave shortly for Castlebridge, Greta. Please, stay another night or two. I should not like you to miss the society you so enjoy, or Kean’s performance. I’ll send the coach for you. Let me know when you wish to return.”
Greta rose gracefully to her feet and cast him an uncertain smile. “I’m sure I shan’t enjoy the play without you, Harrow.”
“But you’ll stay?”
She placed a hand on his shoulder and gazed up at him, imploringly. “It’s only for one night. I hope you won’t miss me too much.”
“I shall. But I’ll be comforted by the fact that you’re enjoying yourself, when until the guests arrive for the shooting party, I fear you find the country rather dull.”
In the coach on the way back to Castlebridge, Andrew tried not to give way to disappointment. He was perfectly happy for Greta to stay and enjoy the theatre, and she may well be right, the governess could be making a mountain out of a molehill. But still, he had expected Greta to understand, and at least offer to return with him. She seemed to prefer London, and he feared she might not wish to share the life he’d planned. He shrugged and pushed the troubling thought away, folding his arms. Instead, he thought of Winslow. A man he’d liked, and the horrible way in which he died.
His thoughts then turned inevitably to William. He wanted to reassure himself that the boy was all right. But it would be too late when he arrived home tonight. And he did not wish to disturb Nanny. It would have to wait until morning.
