Page 114 of The Marriage Method

Fawn-Purvis, Innes

From Hertfordshire to Brothel

Depot

Sleep/Tea

5000 pounds.

She had thought Innes might be another nobleman. Or possibly a villain in the fashion of Silas and Mrs. Pritchard. But he was neither. He was a servant. A butler. And not just any butler. He belonged to Lord Amstead.

After installing Lady Belwood and her maid in one of the rooms that lined the hall, Innes turned his attention to Nell and Miles. “Lord Amstead has put you in the gold room,” he said, opening a door several doors down from Lady Belwood’s. “It possesses a pleasant view of the duck pond.”

Nell entered ahead of Miles, doing her utmost to conceal her limp. It had already drawn far too much attention. She let her gaze drift over the bedchamber, hardly noticing the furnishings. All she wanted was a moment alone with her husband.

“A lovely room,” she said, though she’d taken in none of it. “We’re obliged to Lord Amstead for his consideration.”

Innes bowed. “A maid will return in half an hour’s time to escort you to the drawing room.”

Nell waited until the butler had withdrawn and his footsteps faded down the hall before turning to Miles. “The mysterious Innes!” she whispered.

Miles’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Amstead’s butler, of all people.”

“Is that why Mr. Cowgill grouped them in his notebook? Because they were working together to achieve some nefarious purpose?”

“It seems likely.”

“But what purpose?” she asked. “Something to do with young women and brothels, presumably.”

“And with something that happened on the twenty-eighth of March,” Miles said. “Nine days after the late baron’s death.”

Nell frowned in thought. “If this were a gothic novel, it would be connected to a murder and a forged will.”

Miles removed his hat, gloves, and overcoat. He tossed them over the back of a chintz armchair near the bedroom’s small fireplace. “But the late Lord Amstead wasn’t murdered. He was verifiably ill. And his son is a hereditary peer. No alteration to a will could have prevented him from inheriting the estate.”

Nell attempted to take off her own hat, but with only her left hand to aid her, the knot in the ribbons eluded her. “It might have stopped him from inheriting any money that wasn’t entailed,” she said, struggling.

Coming forward, Miles gently brushed aside her hand and untied the ribbons himself. “His finances aren’t public knowledge. Nor was the will.”

Nell ignored the tremor of warmth that went through her as his bare fingers brushed her skin. “In a house of this size, with dozens of servants, and a small village nearby, everything is public knowledge.”

Miles removed her hat. Her gloves came next, one careful tug at a time. “Meaning?”

“There’s always gossip, isn’t there? We’ve only to listen for it, and we’re sure to learn something. Mr. Cowgill must have done the same at all those house parties he attended. Unless he was such a clever reporter as to employ a more effective method—one that even you don’t know about.”

“He wasn’t.” Miles placed Nell’s things in the chair along with his own. “If I had to guess, I’d say he was tactless. Possibly bumbling. It’s how he ended up in the Thames.”

Nell shivered at the reminder.

Miles didn’t fail to notice it. “It’s not too late to take our leave. If you’ve changed your mind—”

“I haven’t,” she said quickly. “And you needn’t worry. We’ll be much more careful than poor Mr. Cowgill was.”

Miles didn’t seem reassured. He went to the mahogany washstand in the corner. It had been prepared with a ewer of water and a stack of fluffy white cloths. “I don’t like it,” he replied as he filled the basin. “The house is too remote. The weather pestilential. And if Amstead is in league with his butler—”

Nell came up behind him. “There are other guests here,” she reminded. “Lady Belwood, and heaven knows how many others. We’ll be safe enough.”

“Silas has already been arrested,” Miles said. “If Amstead is involved, he may well be frightened. Desperate. And desperation makes a man reckless.”