Page 58

Julius sat back, whistling low between his teeth.

It fit.

Everything fit.

He looked again to Lady Hays’s portrait.

“I think we found our man, Aunty.”

Audrey stirred, the coolness beside her rousing her more than any morning light. She blinked into the darkness, frowning as her fingers met only a hollow in the sheets where Julius had lain.

The air was still, the faint scent of soap and spice lingering on the pillow—him, but not him. The lamp had been extinguished, leaving only the soft outline of shadows across the chamber.

She sat up slowly, brushing the tousled fall of hair from her face.

He had gone.

Of course he had.

Audrey had always known this was temporary, an interlude on the edge of danger and duty. But part of her, the part that dared to hope, had imagined waking to the brush of his lips once more. Just once. A farewell kiss. Something she could carry back with her to Stirling. A memory softened with tenderness.

She pressed her fingers to her eyes, willing away the sting.

Did he regret it? Allowing her to fall asleep in his arms?

Would there ever be another chance to feel the safety of his embrace?

The door creaked open, and Audrey startled. Light spilled into the room, casting golden silhouettes against the far wall. She blinked and drew the sheet higher, her breath catching as Julius entered—bootless, his nightshirt billowing. His broad shoulders were shadowed by the soft glow of the oil lamp he carried.

Relief bloomed so fast it left her lightheaded.

“I think I know who did it!” he announced, closing the door with a click before striding back to the bed, every step filled with energy. His eyes were bright with revelation, his expression alive.

Audrey watched him with mingled affection and bewilderment as he placed the lamp on the table, then perched beside her, his weight dipping the mattress. The scent of ink and old leather clung to him.

He held up a thick volume of Debrett’s Peerage, bound in worn brown leather.

“Simon Scott!” he declared, grinning. “That is our man! We just need to confirm it.”

Audrey blinked, her thoughts still caught between dreams and the echo of his absence. “Scott?”

“Simon Scott,” he said again, shifting to face her. “Younger brother of Lord Blackwood. But here is the important bit—he does not share the same mother. Blackwood and his second brother, Peter, were born to their father’s first wife—a Sussex lady, by the records. She died, likely in childbirth. The father married again, but that wife died without issue. And then”— he leaned in, his eyes gleaming—“he married a third time. Lady Isla Scott.”

Audrey’s brows drew together. “That name …”

“She was Lady Isla Campbell,” Julius said triumphantly. “Scottish viscountess. There is the link. The tartan you saw, the Campbell pattern. Simon Scott must be the killer!”

Audrey’s gaze dropped to the book, then returned to him. “You are certain?”

“Not yet,” he admitted, but his grin did not dim. “But it ties in too neatly to ignore. The tartan, the livery, the second son … disinherited perhaps? Or resentful? We need only one more thread to pull, and we shall unravel the whole rotten tapestry.”

Audrey let out a breathless laugh, torn between admiration and the quiet ache in her chest. This was Julius. Brilliant. Unpredictable. Spirited.

He was back. And though she had awakened alone, she now understood she had not been abandoned.

Not yet.

Audrey leaned forward, squinting at the spidery writing where Julius was pointing in Debrett’s Peerage. “So Simon Scott is descended from the Campbells,” she murmured. “But, as you said, there are infinite Campbells.”