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“Chancery Lane.”

Mr. Harwood, who sat stiffly on the settee next to his wife, held a clutched fist to his mouth, as if he felt he might be sick. But then, he cleared his throat and said, “I left here around half five or so for my club. Marsham’s,” he added. “My sister assured me that she would remain at home to care for our father. Most nights, I or Jessamin—my wife—see to his care; however, Penelope would as well from time to time.”

“Does the Baron not have a nurse?” Hugh asked.

It did seem strange that the care would fall to the baron’s own children, even if they were in reduced circumstances.

“My father is unable to communicate now, but before, when he was still able, he insisted that only family care for him. It was a matter of pride,” Mr. Harwood answered. His tone on that last word—pride—sounded a touch sneering, but Audrey merely tucked this thought away for the moment.

“And when did you both return here?” Hugh asked.

“I arrived this morning,” Mrs. Harwood answered. “Around eight o’clock.”

Considering the distance to Chancery Lane, which was within the city proper, Mrs. Harwood would have needed to leave her mother’s home shortly after seven.

“That is rather early,” Audrey said. Usually, those with means did not rise until later in the morning. Then again, Audrey had risen early this morning as well. Though only because she could not sleep after her argument with Hugh.

Mrs. Harwood looked toward her husband. “My mother’s maid woke me shortly before seven. An urgent message from Morris had arrived.”

“I realized Penelope was not at home,” he explained. “When I came in from my club last night, it was close to eleven. I went straight to bed. Nothing seemed to be amiss.”

“Did you check in on the Baron?” Audrey asked.

He drew back and sounded offended when he answered, “Of course. He was sleeping peacefully. I assumed Penelope was in her room across the hall, though I did not check on her. There was no light coming from under the door. I didn’t wish to wake her.”

“But you woke early this morning?” Hugh said, prompting the man to continue with his account.

“Yes. I don’t usually sleep past dawn. I again checked on my father and noticed something I hadn’t the night before: His supper tray had not been removed. He had no water in his glass on his bedside table, and he was uncomfortable in his bed because—” Here, he paused with a glimpse toward Audrey. “Forgive me, Viscountess, but he had not been assisted to the commode.”

She nodded in understanding; the baron had wet the bed.

“I went to Penelope’s room, rather upset with her for ignoring our father, but…she wasn’t there. Her bed had not been slept in.” He rubbed his forehead and, again, seemed to droop with the knowledge that his sister had not been there because she was dead.

He lowered his hands and clasped them. Firming his jaw, he met Hugh’s eyes. “Who has done this? Was it that rake, Sinclair? If it was him, I want him arrested. I don’t give a damn that his brother is a duke!”

Shock shuddered along Audrey’s skin, lifting the hair on her scalp. “Lord Tobias Sinclair? Why would you suggest him, Mr. Harwood?” she asked, crossing a startled glance with Hugh.

Penelope’s brother shot to his feet. “He wished to court Penelope, but my sister didn’t return his feelings. Perhaps he was offended or angry, I don’t know. But I want him questioned. Find out where he was last night!”

Understandably, Penelope’s brother was agitated, his grief transforming into anger. A ripple of panic went through Audrey at his charge to find out where Tobias had been the previous night.

“Did Miss Harwood have any other suitors?” Hugh asked, adroitly bypassing Mr. Harwood’s command. “Anyone else in her life who might have wished her harm?”

“No, no one,” Mr. Harwood swiftly answered.

Audrey peered at his wife, but she pressed her lips together and looked to the side of the room, avoiding Audrey’s gaze. If she knew something her husband didn’t, Mrs. Harwood didn’t intend to reveal it.

“What about friends or acquaintances?” Audrey asked. “Any young ladies Miss Harwood would have trusted?”

If Penelope’s brother and wife did not know about any suitors, it was possible a friend might.

“Lady Susan Ritchson,” Mrs. Harwood answered. “She and Penelope are—were—very good friends.” She dipped her chin, which quivered.

“I will need her address,” Hugh said, then rose to his feet.

“Of course. She lives with her parents, the Earl and Countess of Tenney, on Alfred Place,” Mrs. Harwood said as she, too, stood.

Audrey, more slowly, pushed up from her chair, her round belly cumbersome. However, she wasn’t ready just yet to leave. “May I ask, do you have a glasshouse here? An orangery?”