CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
“No one can long sustain an assumed character.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Hugh took a gulp of his tannin-laden brew, grimaced, stretched his legs and…
Waited.
A warm spring day had at last prevailed and Sir Edmund’s office was stifling; even the pot plant looked to be wilting. Hugh muttered to himself as he sat kicking his heels, a lack of sleep causing a vague head pain to gather.
Impatience seethed within, to confront the culprit, for it to be over, and his thoughts spun to last night, when he’d viewed that name upon the regiment ledgers.
Were they right?
Were all Ross’ nights spent hunting in the Rookery, and then his own, soon to be worthwhile? Would the treachery and death soon end?
A light-headedness overcame him at what that end would signify.
The recognition Ross deserved. A father Phoebe could be proud of. And for himself, a missing sense of peace, allow the memory of Ross to rest at last.
Then, he could begin a new chapter in his life…
He’d vowed to sweep Amelia off her pretty toes and declare himself, whisk her off to Wales with its verdant cool hills and crashing cold sea.
He wiped perspiration from his forehead and–
“Oh, pardon me.”
Hugh glanced up and narrowed his eyes. “Ah, Thomas, how are you?”
The man hopped from foot to foot. “Quite well, Sir.”
“Working your way through Sir Edmund’s papers, I see.” Indeed, one could actually view the leather baize of the desk.
“I’m endeavouring, Sir, but ’tis a monumental task.”
“Hmm. And how’s Lady Thurwood? I’ve not seen her in Town of late.”
“F-fine, Sir… Our family are attending the races together next week.” A ruddy flush enveloped the chap’s cheeks. “Excuse me, I hear my name called.” And the young man fled.
Hugh took another gulp from his mug, paused with it at his lips and–
“Such a good lad, yer are,” wittered Mrs Benson from the door. “I added sugar as yer look a mite under the weather to me.”
With a grin, Hugh tipped his mug to her, swigged down the remnants, leaves included, and then frowned at it. “Odd taste today, Mrs Benson.”
“Must be the sugar. Smidge expensive, so don’t tell His Nibs. I gave yer two spoonfuls.”
“Hmm. And the arsenic?”
Her head jerked. “Eh!” Beetle-brown eyes widened as her hand clutched her chest. “Come again?”
“Arsenic, Mrs Benson. In the same manner Ross Thornton was murdered. Or was it your son…John Robert Benson who gave him the fatal dose?”
Her bosom rose and fell in agitation, fingers plucking at her apron as she lurched forward, shutting the door behind her. “What on earth yer talkin’ about?” Her voice rose, cloudy brown eyes bulging. “I adored Mister Thornton, I did.”
