CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Stand acquitted or condemned by your own hearts.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Another decanter, if you will, Cruik.”
The butler raised a brow.
Hugh raised one in return.
“Of course, Sir.” And the study door closed, leaving Hugh in the muted glow of the fireplace and the lit Ormolu candelabra on the desk.
Stretching upon the dark-green chaise, he shut his eyes. He’d drunk too deeply of the whisky but frustration nipped at him. Progress on justice for Ross and Phoebe was too damn slow and he felt no closer to discovering anything significant on the Brotherhood of Ravens.
This hunt was not official business so he’d forgone the endless form-filling at the army headquarters and instead used a cod of blunt to get what he wanted: all the service records of the Ravens’ members and any military offences.
Most had kept their noses clean during their service, although Cleavers had been reprimanded for fighting – within ranks rather than with the enemy.
The sole two oddities were the leader Roberts and the hard-eyed Darnell.
Darnell’s file had been there but devoid of documentation while that of Roberts had not been found at all. Could their charismatic leader have not even fought in the war, fabricated his rank and record? Could he merely be a subversive who used lieutenant as a cloak to delude the other Ravens?
Hugh considered a while but came to the conclusion that Roberts’ demeanour, knowledge and command made that unlikely.
With luck, their next meeting would bring something, anything, to light, as he needed to find the source of these bloody leaks from the Home Office before someone else got killed.
Scowling, Hugh got to his bare feet, stretched his arms aloft and then ambled to his study desk.
As a rule, he did both his work and drinking upstairs but tonight the chaise had appeared inviting and the desk…
A small smile quirked.
’Twas two nights ago now, and yet he could still see her there. Could still feel her against him, and if he closed his eyes, he could still taste her.
He opened the top drawer and drew out the silk curtain tie which had bound her wrists. Smiling, he brought it to his nose and swore he could smell a hint of rose.
Cruikshank had endeavoured to keep an eye on the minx but she’d done nothing suspicious yesterday, naught to cause alarm today either. Indeed, Cruik had remarked how content Miss Thornton had appeared.
A knock on the door and he bid Cruik enter, slinging the curtain tie to the chair Miss Jones had sat in for her interview.
Gads, the butler was worth every penny of his fifty quid a year, as not only had he fetched a full decanter but also a plate of cold meats, cheese and chutney.
“Will that be all, Sir?”
“Yes, Cruik. My thanks. I’ll lock up and set the cord as I may be here some while.”
A nod and the trusty butler turned on his heel.
Hugh poured another whisky, ambled back to the chaise and reclined, hand behind his head.
Earlier this evening, he’d pursued his other line of enquiry: the list of ladies in Ross’ notebook.
Lady Tremlach, the last on the list, had been hosting an art soiree, so he’d requested an invite, done the pretty with a few guests and then turned attentions to his quarry. They’d discussed Gainsborough versus Reynolds, Turner versus Constable, and she’d appeared most amenable, inviting him to view her private collection.
At which point, he’d made his excuses and returned home.
