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“That doesn’t mean he couldn’t have purchased an old ring at one of the dozens of antiquities shops spread out over London,” Hugh said.

Audrey said nothing as Carrigan opened the door to the carriage.

“I don’t want to think Tobias killed her,” Hugh said, extending his hand to help her up. “However, we both know he was with her last night shortly before she died. We need to talk to him.”

But first, they’d pay Mr. Harwood a call and see what he could tell them about his sister.

Chapter

Five

Thankfully, Hanover Square wasn’t too far north, so Audrey did not have to endure her husband’s cool silence for long. When she’d arrived at Grant’s residence, Hugh had been aggravated, just as she’d expected he would be. However, as they’d assessed Miss Harwood’s body, his hackles had lowered considerably. And he hadn’t objected when she’d announced that she would join him to inform Mr. Harwood of his sister’s death. If not for the fraught quiet in the carriage, Audrey might have almost thought she’d dreamed their argument earlier that morning.

He shifted in his seat on the bench next to her. Audrey sighed; he only ever fidgeted when he had something to say and was holding back.

“Out with it,” she commanded.

He turned toward her, eyes narrowed. “Out with what?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Hugh. You want to say something, so say it.”

He groaned and leaned his head back against the cushion. A moment later, he muttered, “I apologize.”

Audrey stared at his profile, taken aback. “Oh.” She hadn’t expected an apology. On the contrary, she’d thought he would defend his outburst about the ring, which might be a souvenir from the Continent, as Grant had suggested.

“I lost my temper. I shouldn’t have accused you of underhanded behavior. I just…” He looked at her again. His eyes dropped to her abdomen. “I want to keep you away from any undue stress.”

Hugh didn’t need to explain why he worried so. Audrey was well aware that he’d seen Grant Thornton through the darkest time of his friend’s life, after the tragic loss of his wife and infant daughter. Grant’s experience was not altogether rare, and Audrey would be lying if she said the possibility didn’t weigh down her own thoughts from time to time. But she could not live in fear.

She took her husband’s hand, which rested on the bench between them. “Then the best thing for me is to remain at your side. I don’t often feel worried when you are near.”

Hugh lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. “I prefer you at my side, too.”

Although their quarrel might not have been completely resolved, she let it rest. It was over for now, at least.

The carriage pulled up along the western curb at Hanover Square. Considering they did not have an exact address for the Harwoods, Carrigan got down from the driver’s bench, went to a residence, and asked the servant who opened the door to direct him to the proper number. He learned that the Harwoods, in fact, resided on Shepherd Street, one street off the square. So, a few minutes later, Audrey and Hugh approached Number 17, a handsome, three-story redbrick town house.

They stood on the front step for a full minute after knocking not once, but twice. Audrey was contemplating having to leave, unsatisfied, when at last, the sounds of locks disengaging reached them. The door opened, and standing before them was a woman in her late twenties or early thirties. She wore a long-sleeved dress of fine cotton batiste, done in stripes of cream and marigold. Two ringlets of dark blonde hair framed her face, the rest piled high on her head and speared with a short peacock feather. The style wasn’t ostentatious, but she was most certainly not a servant.

“May I help you?” she asked, eyeing Audrey and Hugh with aloof curiosity.

Hugh removed his hat and presented his card. The card was a formality but one that aristocracy and landed gentry alike adhered to.

“I am Viscount Neatham, and this is my wife, the Viscountess. We would like to speak to Mr. Morris Harwood.”

The woman took the card between fingers that were soft and unblemished, her nails perfectly buffed and trimmed. She peered at it briefly, then at Audrey and Hugh with marked skepticism.

“Do come in, my lord, my lady,” she said, with a small bob of her head. They stepped into a foyer. Despite the home being in a somewhat fashionable area of Town, the interior did not match. The dark wood paneling was decades out of fashion, and the parquet flooring lacked shine.

“I am Mrs. Harwood,” the woman said, peering from Audrey to Hugh. “Forgive us, but my husband and I weren’t expecting guests. Would you care for tea?”

“That is kind of you, Mrs. Harwood, but it isn’t necessary,” Audrey replied, not wishing to put the woman out.

She nodded. “My husband will join us momentarily, if you will be so kind as to wait in here while I find him.”

Mrs. Harwood led them into a drawing room to the left of the foyer, and then with an awkward and stiff half-curtsy, she left the room.

Audrey turned to Hugh. “Do they not have servants, I wonder?” she asked softly. It was strangely curious for a woman of some circumstance, residing so close to Hanover Square, to have answered her own front door.