Page 74

During the return journey to the Stirling townhouse, Brendan leaned back in his seat, hands folded, musing aloud. “He did not strike me as defensive,” he said. “Embarrassed, perhaps. But not guilty.”

Julius nodded, considering. “I think you are right.”

Brendan suggested that two of the runners assisting the investigation might pay a quiet visit to the physician’s surgery. One could distract the doctor with a minor ailment, while the other stole a look at the accounts book. If Montague’s billing records revealed a recent appointment for treatment, perhaps even the same barbaric blistering Audrey had so emphatically denounced, it might explain his discomfort.

If that were the case, and Montague had been incapacitated by the very remedy Audrey had once condemned, they could safely rule him out. A man enduring such agony was unlikely to slip out at midnight to bludgeon a baron.

The matter was nearly settled. Only Simon Scott remained, and they would confront him in a few days’ time. The case, at last, was narrowing toward a conclusion.

Which left Julius with no further distraction from the greater, more personal dilemma—his wretched, tangled betrothal.

He leaned his head against the side of the carriage and closed his eyes briefly, a sigh caught behind his ribs.

He missed Aunty Gertrude’s house. Missed the solitude and the peculiar, perfect charm of those strange days spent with Audrey. Days filled with unlikely adventure, heartfelt embraces, and unexpected laughter. It had been the most fun he had had in years. Simpler, too. Before expectations and scandal had wrapped their thorny vines around their strange and promising alliance.

Now it felt as though everything had shifted beneath his feet.

He wanted to seek her out. He longed to enfold her in his arms. But after his dreadful proposal—his appalling terms and colder-than-ice logic—he doubted such advances would be welcome.

He had ruined it. And he was not sure he knew how to mend what had been so briefly, so beautifully whole.