Page 30

Julius grinned in agreement. “You might be a simple country lass from Stirling, but I believe, you begin to understand.”

“Heaven help me if that is the case! I do not wish to understand this nonsense.”

His levity faded like a candle snuffed. “I could not agree more. It tries one’s sanity to know how the ton thinks. Logic has little place in the beau monde.”

Audrey regretted the turn almost immediately. She had enjoyed seeing him smile. But perhaps this was not the moment for levity. She returned to the bedside and settled once more into the armchair, her expression quiet with thought. She kept her gaze on his face, determined not to let her attention drift. It was proving more difficult than she anticipated.

The distance she had maintained while he was ill—clinical, appropriate—was gone now. And in its place was a disconcerting awareness of him as a man. The older boy she had once admired from afar had grown into a compelling presence. Seven years separated them, she guessed, which explained the gulf of their acquaintance. Until now, their interactions had been little more than shared glances across long dinner tables or brief exchanges in drawing rooms. In the past twenty-four hours, they had spoken more than in the entirety of their shared history.

“While we wait for our breakfast,” she said, clearing her throat softly, “could you inform me of what this is all about? You mentioned a murder?”

Julius turned his head, gaze shifting to the window. Audrey’s eyes followed the line of his profile, the aristocratic slope of his nose and the firmness of his chin—hallmarks of his lineage. She took in the tousled curls that crowned his head and found herself once again wondering, not for the first time, why he had ever felt the need to powder or dye part of his hair.

“My chum, Brendan Ridley … his father was murdered a few weeks ago. On the night of the coronation.”

Audrey gasped. Her idle musings vanished, replaced by stunned concern. “I am so sorry.”

A flicker of a smile touched his lips, and he cast a glance her way before returning to the window. The morning sky beyond was crystalline, a few drifting clouds the only remnants of yesterday’s storm.

“Brendan was not close with the baron,” he continued. “It was the accusation that troubled me. They were going to charge him with the crime. A young lady came forward to provide him an alibi, at great personal cost. They were forced to wed to preserve appearances, but the true killer remains at large. Since the wedding, hired men have been sent to search Brendan’s house for evidence. The baroness was attacked during one such intrusion.”

Audrey’s mouth parted in shock. He had said the assailant in the street was brazen, but now, the full weight of his warning took form. A baron murdered. A baroness assaulted.

“We found the evidence,” Julius said. “It was a letter the late baron had written to the Home Office. Most of it was ruined by spilled ink but what we could read led to a list of six suspects. Over the weeks, we narrowed that list to four.”

“What was the note I delivered?”

“It was to inform Brendan that one of the three men I was investigating had committed the crime. The attack confirmed that the fourth man must therefore be innocent. It was imperative Brendan be informed, in the event …”

In the event Julius did not survive.

Audrey’s throat tightened. She exhaled slowly, grateful beyond words that her training and Julius’s formidable constitution, had carried them through the crisis. What would they have done if he had died?

A knock interrupted her thoughts. Audrey rose to answer and was pleased to see Rose entering with a tray. It was high time Julius ate, and her own stomach had begun to grumble in solidarity.

They ate where they were—Julius upright in bed, maneuvering his fork with ginger care. Audrey offered no commentary, only a smile of encouragement. She understood well the toll of fever and blood loss. It took energy to heal, and food was the body’s greatest ally. Though curious to hear more of the story, she allowed him to eat in peace.

Julius’s stomach rolled in mild protest, but he dutifully picked his way through breakfast. Bite by bite, his unease lessened, strength returning slowly to his limbs. The room seemed brighter, more vivid—the morning sun gilding the furniture and warming the wood beneath his bare feet. His senses stirred, and with them, his awareness of the young woman seated nearby, her presence steady and composed.

He might be wounded, but he was still capable of noticing a beautiful lady.

Audrey finished her meal and rose to pour another cup of the foul brew. She brought it to him without fanfare, and he drank it in obedient silence. Though bitter, it was not altogether unpleasant now that his thirst pressed harder upon him than his palate minded the taste.

By the time the last dish was cleared, Patrick had returned bearing fresh sheets and Audrey’s garments. The older servant helped Julius into the armchair, where he sat and observed quietly while the two of them stripped and re-made the bed with brisk efficiency.

When they were done, Audrey collected her clothing and stepped into a chamber down the hall to wash and dress. Patrick guided Julius to the washstand and assisted him into a clean pair of trousers and a loose linen shirt, which Julius managed to button with only a few winces.

Soon, the armchair was returned to the window, and Julius was settled in it. His side ached, but far less than it had earlier. He concluded that a few days of rest and decent meals might restore him entirely.

Audrey reentered, and for a moment, he forgot about pain altogether. Her golden hair was freshly combed and pinned into elegant simplicity, and her gray mourning gown—so modest, so unadorned—somehow enhanced the luminous quality of her skin and the soft silver hue of her eyes. Julius blinked once, then again, reminded sharply of how few women in his circle could look that radiant in such plain attire.

Her eyes caught him off guard. Clear, alert, and unflinchingly sincere. There was something about them that made him feel as though she saw more than she ought to.

He dragged his gaze away and reminded himself sternly, A wedding may be inevitable, but that does not mean a marriage must follow.

A real marriage. With hope. With companionship. With entrapment.

He had lived that life once, through the eyes of his mother. He had watched affection wither into resentment, silence stretch across dinner tables, and laughter vanish from hallways once filled with warmth. He would not repeat the pattern of Lord Snarling and his neglected wife.