And yet, there was a hint of anger to Adrian's words. Maybe even regret or some other emotion Edward couldn’t quite pinpoint. Something must have happened during that wedding trip. An argument perhaps? Or something else?
Whatever the case, it was none of his business and also seemed to have been forgotten by the time Samantha came to join them. The affection Adrian showed his wife could not be disputed. More than one kiss was dropped to her cheek before dinner was over. He doted on her, allowed himself every chance he could find to compliment her one way or the other. It was lovely to see, even if it compounded his own sense of loss.
In Edward’s estimation, love wasn’t easy for Adrian. Despite their decades-long friendship, Edward suspected there was more to him than met the eye, that he kept a large part of himself hidden. A necessity for the sake of preserving the bond they’d forged with each other. For although Edward knew his friend to be a dependable man of principle who would tear the world apart for those dearest to him, Adrian was rumored to have done things that Edward could never accept.
But as long as there was no proof, as long as Adrian did not confide these deeds in Edward, then he could pretend there was no substance to it. He could tell people they were wrong to suppose that Adrian had a hand in Clive Newton’s death.
“I realize what I’m about to say may not be well received,” Adrian told him after dinner when Samanthahad taken her leave and a footman had brought a bottle of sherry for them to enjoy. “But I need to tell you this.”
“Tell me what?” Edward prayed his friend was not about to make some heroic confession. That his conscience was not suddenly prompting him to give Edward a difficult choice.
And yet, this was precisely what he believed Adrian planned until he said, “I want you to know that I would not blame you if you were to start considering other marital prospects.”
Bloody hell. This was worse.
Edward stopped breathing. His cravat was too tight and it felt like his heart might explode from the pressure forced upon it by the relentless squeezing of his chest. His palms grew sweaty and a vein started pulsing against his right eye.
He shook his head. “No.”
“You're past your thirtieth year and you’re also the Earl of Marsdale,” Adrian pressed on without remorse, though his gentle tone proved he knew how sensitive the subject was. “You’ll need children. Heirs. And the opportunity to find the woman who’ll—”
“Stop.” He was suddenly at the window, peering out at a part of the garden that flanked this side of the house - a collection of bushes and trees vaguely distinguishable in the darkness. Pulse racing, he struggled to catch his breath. “There's no replacing your sister. There never will be and for you to suggest as much is—”
“Watch what you say,” Adrian warned, the suddensteel in his voice prompting Edward to turn and face him. The harshness in his eyes was unmistakable. “I would never suggest replacing her, Edward. All I'm saying is that you are free to find love again, which is what I know you deserve, and what I pray you will do, if only because Evie would want for you to be happy.”
The words nearly broke him. Standing there, faced with his friend’s permission to move on completely, Edward feared an attempt to speak would end in tears. So he chose to say nothing, the only indication he acknowledged what Adrian said, a very slight nod. Upon which he grabbed his glass and tossed back the contents, desperately hoping that it would block out the pain.
21
In Peter Kendrick’s experience, being summoned by the chief magistrate invariably led to an unpleasant conversation. It certainly had last week when he’d been yelled at for failing to locate Lady Eleanor’s murder weapon during his first visit to Orendel House. Mentioning the rain hadn’t helped. His ears had burned by the time Sir Nigel finished his rant.
So as Peter entered the chief magistrate’s office again, he wished he were anywhere else. Hell, having to work a shift in the dockyard appealed to him more than this.
He closed the door and addressed his superior. “You asked to see me?”
Sir Nigel, who’d been perusing a file, glanced up in response to Peter’s voice. Dense strands of gray lay neatly against his scalp. Cheeks, sagging a little with age, creased the corners of his mouth. The chair inwhich he was seated squeaked as he shifted his heavy frame. An unnervingly sharp gaze made him appear slightly hostile.
Peter resisted the urge to break eye contact, choosing instead to take a step closer.
“Prinny has requested our presence at Clarence House within the hour. Viscount Carver will be there too, so I’m sure you can figure out what this matter pertains to.”
It wasn’t difficult. With the Prince Regent’s close advisor in attendance, it had to be about the murder.
Not wanting to sit unless Sir Nigel asked him to do so, Peter clasped his hands behind his back. “They want a progress report on Lady Eleanor’s case.”
“And what will you tell them?” Sir Nigel raised a narrow pair of eyebrows. “As far as I know, it’s been three days since you learned anything new.”
“On the contrary, I acquired some more information this morning.” He’d meant to hold onto it – had wanted to double check it first – but Sir Nigel’s comment spiked his nerves and compelled him to prove his competency. “Orendel has shared additional details about his daughter with me. Turns out, there was a man in her life before Mr. Lawrence. A Mr. Michael Hutchins, who was very intent on marrying her. Orendel fears he may have reacted badly when he realized she’d never be his.”
“Not very substantial, is it?”
“I believe it’s worth looking into, regardless.”
“Of course.” Sir Nigel’s loud inhalation filled theroom as he pushed himself to his feet. He retrieved his pocket watch and studied the time. “We’ve got to go if we’re to avoid being late. You can issue the order on our way out to have this Hutchins fellow brought in for questioning.”
Having never visited Carlton House before, Peter found himself soaking up every detail. The wide mansion, overlooking Pall Mall and St. James’s Park, struck him as excessively opulent. The building expense must have been enormous considering all the marble and gold leafing adorning each room. Hell, there was enough plaster molding on the ceiling in the foyer alone to decorate his own house twice over.
He and the chief magistrate followed the butler, a tall man who looked to be ten years too young to hold such a vital position, up the sweeping staircase. Their footfalls were muted by plush red carpet edged in gold thread.
