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“That, and I wonder about the furnishings,” Hugh replied, his attention traveling the room.

The drapes were closed, blocking direct sunlight, but Audrey understood what he meant. The room was sparely furnished, with only one settee and two chairs in which guests might sit. The only other pieces were an occasional table, a large mirror on one wall, and a small writing table and bookshelf with a framed portrait of Mrs. Harwood and a gentleman, whom Audrey presumed was her husband, on display. There were empty hooks remaining on the faded papered walls, from which it appeared paintings had once hung.

“Perhaps they are in the process of moving,” Audrey whispered. Hugh’s arched brow told her what he thought of that supposition. He was right. Paired with the lack of a servant to open the front door, she rather thought the Harwoods were experiencing reduced circumstances.

Her palms began to sweat inside her kid gloves. The news of Penelope’s death would bring Mr. and Mrs. Harwood anguish, and a cowardly part of her wished she did not have to be privy to it. However, she and Hugh had a duty. At least her husband would be the one to deliver the news, and rightly so; he had more experience in the handling of such matters.

Mrs. Harwood returned, and with her was a man who looked to be in his early thirties. He was tall and wiry, with a pair of spectacles and a head of thick, dark brown hair. A curious, though polite, expression lit his eyes and face.

“Viscount, Viscountess, welcome,” he said in greeting. “I am Morris Harwood. My wife informs me you’ve come to speak with me?”

Here, Hugh stepped forward and bowed his head slightly, even if as viscount he did not need to show deference for a baron’s son. The bow was out of respect and sympathy, Audrey suspected.

“Yes, Mr. Harwood. I am afraid we bring bad news,” he began. He went on to explain that before becoming viscount, he’d been a principal agent at Bow Street, and that the previous evening, he’d been summoned by Chief Magistrate Gabriel Poston to attend the scene of a crime.

As Mrs. Harwood went to a chair to sit, suddenly looking weak and ill, Hugh explained that Lord Thornton had identified the body of a young woman as being that of Penelope Harwood.

Mrs. Harwood stifled a sob and covered her mouth with shaking hands. Her husband’s shoulders drooped, and his head ducked forward. Audrey could not make out his expression, especially as he, too, covered his face with a hand.

“No. This cannot be,” he murmured, his voice constricted.

Mrs. Harwood stood from the chair and went to his side to grasp his arm. A show of support, Audrey surmised, considering she said nothing and only peered at him with agonized concern.

“Lord Thornton?” Mr. Harwood peered up at them with a grimace of pain—and fury. “What does he have to do with this?”

Hugh held up his hands. “As you may know, he is a physician. I asked him to view the body, and he recognized your sister. That is all.”

“But what happened? You said it was a crime?” Mrs. Harwood asked, still clinging to her husband’s arm. “Where did you find her?”

“She was discovered in a carriage house at the home of Mr. Victor Messinger. Miss Harwood appears to have been murdered,” Hugh said somberly.

Mrs. Harwood staggered back a step, as if the words had shoved her. Mr. Harwood moaned and ducked his head again. “No. You are wrong. Lord Thornton is wrong.”

“I can bring you to his home on St. James’s Square,” Hugh offered, “if you would like to confirm that it is your sister.”

Mr. Harwood lowered his hand and nodded jerkily. “Yes. Yes, I think that would be best.”

“Certainly,” Hugh said. “However, if I may ask you a few questions beforehand, Mr. Harwood?”

The man breathed in deeply, eyes still shuttered, as if trying to find the will to be strong. He nodded. “Yes, of course, Lord Neatham. What do you wish to know?”

Audrey gestured to the chairs and settee. “Shall we sit?”

Everyone took a seat, though Mr. and Mrs. Harwood moved sluggishly, no doubt slowed by shock and grief.

Once they were settled, Hugh began. “First, do either of you know Victor Messinger?”

“Is he involved? Did he do this?” Mr. Harwood asked, his voice breaking, even as it rose in anger.

“We have no reason to believe Mr. Messinger is responsible for your sister’s death, but he is being questioned. Now, do you know him?”

They both shook their heads weakly.

“When was the last time you both saw Miss Harwood?” he asked next.

Mrs. Harwood spoke first. “I saw Penelope late yesterday afternoon, just before I left to visit my mother. She is ill, and I will often stay the night with her.”

“Where does your mother reside, Mrs. Harwood?”