“Eldridge and Marsdale have helped by guarding the exits,” Adrian told Kendrick while Moorland strode off. Adrian then provided Kendrick with a quick summery of what had happened so far, from the moment Miss Brighton arrived in the ballroom and up until the present.
When he was done, he led Kendrick and Jackson to the conservatory. Holding a lantern high so the light enveloped as much of Mr. Keith Orwell’s body as possible, he sent the chief inspector a grim look. “As you can see, this case bears a striking resemblance to the one you described to me last week.”
16
The front parlor at Moorland House was comfortable, formal, free from clutter. Peter chose it over the study as the place in which to conduct his interviews. He now waited for the first person he’d asked to speak with, doing his best not to worry about what Miss Hastings would say when she learned he’d come here without her.
Possibly nothing, he assured himself. Being the reasonable woman she was she’d understand his decision. She’d be asleep at this hour. Going to fetch her — the disturbance that would have caused the rest of the household, never mind the delay — made no sense.
Yet somewhere deep inside, where worries sprouted and grew, he knew she’d be angry about it, that she’d probably blame him, and that there would likely be difficult days ahead. He sighed and considered the delicate wooden tray on the table before him. It held the cup of coffee he had requested from one of the maids. The notebook he’d brought along was placed on the seat beside him together with his pencil.
Was it stupid of him to consider getting attached to Miss Hastings? Or any woman for that matter? In roughly six months he’d gone from being a man with few concerns, besides the ones he found at work, to one who constantly wondered about his actions involving one particular female. Had he said the right thing? Why was she frowning? Because he’d offended her in some way or simply because she was thinking? It was exhausting and yet, he savored every moment he spent in her company.
A polite knock distracted him from these unproductive musings. Peter stood, the door opened, and Moorland’s butler led the first person of interest into the room.
Lady Edwina, the Duke of Wrengate’s sister, had an inquisitive look about her. Standing at nearly the same height as Peter, she was taller than the average woman. Her rounded features made it hard for him to judge her age as she seemed much younger than he believed her to be.
Plump cheeks, full lips, and a softly curved chin provided her with a sensual appearance many men would find enticing. Add to that her brother’s title — the connection one might form through marriage — and she could prove to be the most eligible woman in London right now.
Still, as they took their seats across from each other and he was permitted a longer assessment, his attention was drawn to the subtle shadows swirling within her gaze and the almost imperceptible lines marring her brow.
While most would probably see nothing more than a young woman eager to get on with life, Peter saw her exhaustion. The kind that came from years of fretting while doing her best to maintain a positive outlook. Not surprising if she had been her sickly sister’s primary companion these past…
He could not recall how long it had been since the duke and duchess had died. At least five years, possibly more. The fire that killed them had brought an abrupt end to what had otherwise been a lively Season. All remaining balls had been cancelled, and the new duke had withdrawn for a time.
None of his siblings had set foot in London since. Until now.
Peter picked up his notebook and opened it onto a blank page. He wrote the date and location, then raised his gaze to meet Lady Edwina’s. “I’ve been told you spoke with Mr. Keith Orwell this evening.”
“Yes.” She underscored the word with a nod. Her foot tapped lightly against the carpet, her fingers drumming in time to a silent tune. She cleared her throat. “We danced. He…” A quick shake of her head revealed that she wasn’t anywhere near as composed as she tried to appear. And then she expelled a big sigh. Her shoulders slumped. The lines on her forehead became more pronounced. “It was only a few hours ago that I held his hand in the first waltz of the evening. We smiled at each other, exchanged a few words and… He was so charming, so full of life I just can’t…I can’t believe he’s dead now.”
“It sounds as though you enjoyed his company.”
“I…I was hoping he’d call on me tomorrow.” She finally cracked, choking on the last of the words as tears filled her eyes.
Peter offered her one of the folded handkerchiefs stacked on the table, waited for her to collect herself, then asked, “What did the two of you speak of?”
“Banalities mostly, but in a playful sort of way.” A wobbly smile caught her lips. “He made me laugh.”
The way in which she said this made Peter realize how rare that must be. Keeping silent, he waited to see if she’d offer anything more.
“This was after he brought up Mama and Papa,” she said. “I think it was done in an effort to get past my family’s tragic history, so we could focus on simply enjoying each other’s company.”
“So you opened up to him?”
“It was surprisingly easy to do,” she confessed. “He was that sort of person. But when I asked him if he knew how to speak with broken people because he had suffered tremendous loss too, he changed the subject so quickly my head began spinning. And then we were dancing, our serious discussion from earlier completely forgotten.”
Peter made a few notes. “You never broached the subject again?”
She shook her head.
“Anything else you can think of?” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his thighs while holding her gaze.
She seemed to consider, and then, “He said he was glad to be out of the field and back to living a comfortable life. When I asked about it, I learned he was once in the army. It sounded as though it had been a brief change of pace for him — something he wanted to try until he realized how hard it was. I didn’t judge. As far as I was concerned, managing the expansion of his father’s import business is far more commendable.”
“Even though it technically makes him a tradesman?” When Lady Edwina frowned at that Peter clarified, “I believe your brother would rather you set your cap for a soldier.”
“As it turns out,” she said, her voice brittle, “we’ll never know. Will we?”
