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“What have you learned?” she asked. She would have invited him to be seated, but her sofa was a light cream, and he had the potential to dirty it.
He gave her a gap-toothed grimace. “You aren’t going to like it.”
She bristled at the gall of this man to predict anything about her but owned that he was likely correct. She’d sent him on an errand to discover how Arthur had died. If Mr. Boyle had been successful, then he was probably correct. She was not going to like hearing what he’d learned.
“All the same, I would rather get to the point.”
“No fooling around then, eh? All right then, ma’am. I’m no doctor, you understand, but I did think there was something unnatural about it all. I looked into your husband’s dealings the last few months, and I learned that he was sending his man out to procure laudanum regularly.”
Amelia nodded. She knew of this, of course. It was a necessity. “He needed it in order to fall asleep,” she explained. The war had done horrible things to Arthur’s sleep. He was fine in the light of day, but sleep was a necessity, and laudanum—in small quantities, of course—was the only way he had been able to come by it. She could hardly fault his use of the substance. Who would?
“P’haps you don’t know then, ma’am,” Mr. Boyle said, squinting one eye more than the other, “but too much of the stuff has been known to kill men.”
“Arthur was quite careful,” she said defensively, feeling the tide of protectiveness rising within her. “He would not have taken too much.”
“Not on purpose, p’haps,” he said carefully, “but I spoke to his valet, and I spoke to the man he bought it from, and they were supplying Arthur with more and more laudanum by the month. His valet was going out for weekly bottles the last few months. That’s worrisome, Mrs. Williams.”
Yes, it was. But Amelia was not about to reveal how readily she agreed with Mr. Boyle on this point. She did have some pride.
Mr. Boyle shrugged. “He wouldn’t be the first man to accidentally consume too much medicine. It could happen to anyone.”
Amelia scoffed. Because that was certainly a comfort.
“Arthur probably made a mistake in his dosing,” Mr. Boyle continued. “P’haps he took his dose and forgot and gave himself another one. There is no way to know.”
“No, there isn’t,” she said crisply. “I do thank you for your help, Mr. Boyle, but if that is all…”
He nodded, but his shrewd gaze didn’t miss much. Hitting his hat against his worn trousers again, he pinched his lips together and appraised her quietly. “You ought not to blame yourself, ma’am.”
She didn’t blame herself. Not directly, of course. But her own brother was a doctor, for heaven’s sake. She would certainly be checking these “facts” against his knowledge before she took Mr. Boyle for his word. She was not about to easily accept the idea that Arthur’s death was such a simple accident.
She stood. “If that is all?”
He stared at her for another hard moment before nodding. “If you need anything else, you send for me. I can’t read the mind of a dead man, but I’m good at sorting most things.”
Nodding, Amelia saw the short man to the door. He’d just delivered some of the worst news of her young life. She most assuredly would not be reaching out to him again.
* * *
Putting the finishing touches on her letter to Mr. Boyle, Amelia wondered faintly if he would even be willing and available to travel to Devon for this matter. He had been eager for work when they had last spoken, but that had been somewhere around five years ago now. Perhaps Mr. Boyle had found himself a better position, or—far more likely, she presumed—landed himself in gaol. She paused, her gaze stolen by the bright moon, and reminded herself that if anyone understood the significance of Howard, it would be Mr. Boyle. He’d been there with Arthur when he had acquired the horse.
Sanding the letter, she folded it, sealed it, and turned it over to pen the direction on the front. She should have written this a week ago, but Charles had been so persistent, his eyes so pleading when he’d spoken to her on the lane outside of the Greens’ house. She, for once, had not been able to refuse him what he’d asked of her. A point that had not occurred to her until this moment.
Crossing the room, Amelia paused at the door and lifted her letter, gathering Charles’s attention. Tabby had come in the room at some point during the last few minutes which made it possible for Amelia to slip out for a moment. “I will return shortly. I must get this off as soon as possible.”
He dipped his head in acknowledgment, kindly refraining from asking her why she didn’t simply hand it to Tabby. “Of course.”
Or perhaps the thought hadn’t occurred to Charles. He clearly had more important things to worry about at present, like the woman opposite him and her dire circumstances. Slipping into the corridor, Amelia ran her finger over the pointed edges of the folded missive. She needed to obtain a handle on her emotions.
The thought plagued her that at some point, Charles had grown into a thoughtful, caring man, and Amelia was dying to understand if the changes had occurred recently, or if he’d always been this way and she’d merely been too blind to notice.
It was a moment’s work to locate a footman and safely deposit the letter into his hands. When she returned to Mrs. Halpert’s room, however, she paused before the door, her fingers resting against the wall. She was unable to bring herself to enter it. The glances she’d witnessed passing between Charles and Mrs. Halpert appeared to carry more weight than earnest friendship. She’d wondered earlier if there was an attachment between them, but now it was without question. He clearly cared for this woman.
But how could he do so when all his time of late had been taken up by the pursuit of her stolen horse?
Had Charles stayed away from Falbrooke Court—from Mrs. Halpert—because of Amelia? Her chest went cold, and she rested her back against the wall outside Mrs. Halpert’s room, the reality of the situation weighing heavily on her heart. She had dug herself into an uncomfortable hole by refusing Charles so often over the years. By dismissing him so carelessly she had put distance between them, yes, but she’d also sacrificed the possibility of a friendship with the man.
And the more she grew to know him, the more it occurred to Amelia that she had made a big sacrifice, indeed. He was just the sort of gentleman she would like to call a friend. But was it too late now?
