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Matthew pulled them closer, flattened them, and his eyebrows arched as he read. He looked up at Lewis, a rush of relief filling his chest. “This is a record from the Crewood butler?”
The runner nodded. “Former butler. He resigned after the title changed hands. Seems the new lord brought his own—”
“How did you find him?”
“I asked the locals to talk to the staff again. Many a’em are new, but one of the maids suggested they talk to the former butler. He works here in London now. Left service. Joined his brother’s millinery business.” He shifted, waving a hand at the papers. “He were firm about the old lord being an opium fiend and how he was that morning. How he’d died. Right nasty scene it were. His valet found ’em, and the butler gave me his name too. The valet. Thought if I could get both a’em on the record, it would be enough.”
Matthew thumbed through to the last page. At the bottom, the butler’s signature and two witness signatures, including the local vicar. “Has Crewood seen this?”
“No, sir. They’s just two copies. One in our records. One goes to the magistrate. If I can get the valet’s statement to the magistrate, I suspect he’ll tell Crewood to go jump in the Thames.”
“You do that, and the money is yours.”
Lewis grinned. “Yes, sir.
Matthew mulled over what the papers had said as Stephens escorted the runner out. Written in a clear hand, the former butler had been precise and detailed about the earl’s condition that fatal morning, details that underscored what Havers had indicated: Lord Crewood had allowed his own foolish obsession to end his life. No poison. No murder. Mere stupidity.
“You look well pleased this bleary morning.” Mark sauntered in and helped himself to the tea service the footman had left on a side table.
Matthew glanced out the window, which was streaked with rain. “I am. Are you not going into breakfast?”
“Done and done. While you were gabbing with Lewis. You really should shut the door. I almost had to tether Mother to her chair to keep her away.”
“Where is she now?”
Mark settled into an armchair. “Upstairs. Probably napping. She waited up for you until after three, when she fell asleep on the settee. I rang for her maid and carried her upstairs. What time did you return?”
“Near five.”
“Was it all you expected?”
“It was Almack’s in all its glory.” He gave a general accounting of the experience, including the encounter with Lady Catherine, the many dance partners of them both, and Sarah’s change in mood, which had created a strange worrying in his gut.
Mark took it all in, sipping his tea. When Matthew stopped, Mark hesitated, then asked, “Wasshethere?”
Matthew stared down as his now frigid teacup. “No.”
“Did you want her to be?”
That was the much harder question. Had he scanned the crowd to see the face he had not seen in fifteen years? Yes. Had hewantedto see that face, those pale curls and wide blue eyes?
Oddly... “No.”
“Hm.”
“She is married. A baron, I believe. I am not sure she is still in London.”
“Marriage is no obstacle. Just ask any of Almack’s patronesses.”
Matthew stood and returned his cup to the tea tray. “It would be for me.”
“All or nothing?”
He nodded. “All or nothing. At least with her.”
“Will it be all with Lady Crewood?”
Matthew dropped back in his chair, glaring at his brother. “Why would you ask that?”
