Chapter Twenty-Seven

H ettie awakened alone. She was disappointed initially. But then a wave of nausea overtook her. As she had no desire to suffer the indignity of casting up her accounts in front of Joss, she conceded it was for the best. Not to mention that the servants were already up and about. While Honoria's household might be less than conventional, having her very recently widowed sister entertain her lover in their home might be pushing the limits of what certain staff members would tolerate.

When her stomach was entirely empty, she lay back on the bed, exhausted and pale. Once she had caught her breath, she sat up again, moving slowly, testing the degree of dizziness and nausea very cautiously. Finally, when she was certain she wasn't about to retch or fall over, she moved to the wash basin and began her morning ablutions. She preferred to dress her own hair and see to her own toilette. But she did ring for her maid when it was time to dress. Foster had come with her. The girl's loyalty to her would have made her a target had she remained in the house after Simon assumed the title. If Simon assumed the title. Though she supposed it did not matter, as someone, even if Simon was proven to be responsible for Arthur's death, would be taking possession of the house.

A moment later, as Hettie placed the very last pin in her hair, Foster came bustling in with another black gown. Honoria was slowly giving up her widow's weeds and Hettie was inheriting them. Not that she minded. In truth, if it wouldn't be such a scandal, she wouldn't don black at all. But at least for the time being, it was to her benefit to appear the grieving widow. Otherwise, she would simply be fueling the fire of Inspector Bates's suspicions.

Once she had donned the latest of her hand-me-down gowns, she moved toward the door. "Foster, I won't be needing you for the remainder of the day. Why don't you take the rest of the day off? I know you'd like to see your mother and sister. And it might be best if you inform them in person of the recent changes in our situation."

"Will you be keeping me on, my lady? I know that things will change for you... financially, now that you're a widow."

"You'll be staying with me, Foster. I'm not paupered by Arthur's death. My social calendar will become very slim, I'm afraid. And depending upon where I wind up living, your duties may change, but you will always have a position with me if you desire it," Hettie reassured her. "You were very brave in retrieving the ransom letter and taking it to Honoria. I will not forget that. You saved my life as certainly as Mr. Ettinger did."

The maid blushed and ducked her head. "I been with you ever since you married Lord Ernsdale... it weren't right the way you was treated. I'm not the only one what thought so. But my mother raised me not to turn my back on someone in need. I reckon when they took you, you was definitely in need. I did what was right."

"You did. But at great risk to yourself, and that is what courage means, Foster. Do not ever think that I am not grateful to you."

"Go get your breakfast, m'lady. I'll tidy up in here and then go to see my mother."

Hettie would have said more, but it was very apparent to her that the young woman was embarrassed by the praise. So she kept her silence and exited her chamber, making for the breakfast room. But when she entered that room, it became immediately apparent to her that something was terribly wrong. Vincent and Honoria had abruptly stopped speaking, and the tension in the room was palpable. The fact that neither of them would make eye contact with her was far more revealing than they might have realized.

"What is wrong?" she demanded, her stomach knotting with fear.

"Possibly nothing," Vincent answered. "Or possibly, Joss may be in trouble."

Hettie's steps faltered. "What sort of trouble?"

"That is undetermined at this point," Vincent said. "He wanted to visit a particular establishment where Simon Dagliesh may have procured assistance in his scheme."

"Where he hired someone to kill Arthur, you mean," she fired back rather pointedly.

"Yes, that is what we suspect. If not kill him, then to watch him and alert Simon to any opportunities to do so. After all, no one can watch a man twenty-four hours out of the day. Especially not if he is forbidden entrance into his house. Why did you inform your late husband that Simon was not welcome there?"

There had been any number of reasons. His drinking. His gambling. His leering glances and grasping hands. For the duration of her marriage, she'd endured his advances—his offers to provide her the passion her aging husband had been unable to. Repeated refusals had not curbed his efforts. It had gotten to the point that Hettie had always made certain she was never alone with him. She didn't know that he would have forced the issue, but she'd certainly been smart enough not to give him an opportunity to try.

"He's a cad. A worthless libertine who does not understand the meaning of the word no or that every woman who crosses is path is not available to him," Hettie explained. "And that is all I mean to say about it."

Vincent said nothing for a moment. Honoria's spine had stiffened to a degree that Hettie feared her sister might actually do herself irreparable harm. "I see," Vincent finally managed. "So, in short, the death of your husband was to line his pockets and give him a title. Pinning it on you is petty revenge for having been denied what he saw as his right."

Hettie blinked in surprise. "It had not occurred to me, but I suppose that is possible. Convenience and a bit of vengeance all in one would certainly appeal to him. Are you going after Mr. Ettinger?"

"I have men scouring that area of the city. If he's there, he will be found."

"Alive?" Hettie demanded.

Only silence greeted her question. Sometimes no response was all the response that was required.

Wordlessly, Hettie sank into a chair at the table. And there they all remained, silent and waiting. Waiting for him to return or waiting for the awful possibility to be confirmed that he would never return at all.