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In the end, the duke had been proven innocent, and Bow Street had suffered a blow to its reputation. Already, the public was divided in their belief that they needed policing at all. Arresting yet another Sinclair for murder would draw more attention to Bow Street—so they ought to be completely certain he was guilty before clapping him in irons.

Grumbling, Sir Gabriel had reluctantly agreed.

A wood fire crackled in the hearth of the sitting room, warming them as they awaited Victor Messinger. Though it was coming up on the holidays, there didn’t appear to be any holiday trimmings strung up, as there were at his own home on Berkeley Square. Christmas, Hugh had discovered, was not something Audrey had ever truly enjoyed as a child. It wasn’t surprising, considering her mother had always treated Audrey like week-old tripe.

This would be their first Christmas together as husband and wife, and he was determined to make it the cozy holiday he recalled from his younger years, when his mother had been alive. Theirs had been a small, simple celebration of Christmas in their rooms on the upper floor of the Viscount Neatham’s home in Knightsbridge, where Catherine Marsden had been nanny to the viscount’s other children. While Catherine had not, Hugh discovered later, been his birth mother, she had loved and cared for him as if he were her own child. And every Christmas morning, without fail, she would make him trifle for breakfast, have a gift or two for him to unwrap, and they would spend the day making mince pies and reading.

Hugh did not think his wife would care to make mince pies with him, but he absolutely planned to have trifle sent up to their room for breakfast.

But those were happy thoughts for another time.

Hugh checked his pocket watch, annoyed that he and Sir Gabriel had been made to wait for nearly ten minutes now. Just then, however, Victor Messinger strode into the sitting room as if on a strong wind.

“Gentlemen, I hope you bring news regarding the poor young woman from last night,” he said in greeting.

He drew to an abrupt stop and peered at them, waiting for them to speak. Hugh did not often feel inclined to pull rank—being a titled peer was not his own achievement but something he’d been given—but the MP’s rudeness grated just enough for him to long to.

“Her name is Miss Penelope Harwood. Daughter of the Baron Harwood,” Hugh said, deciding not to react.

“Harwood, is it?” Victor murmured, brows pinching together as if trying to recall the name.

“You can stop pretending you did not know her, Mr. Messinger,” Hugh said. Tripping the man up in his lie was far more satisfying than pulling rank anyhow.

Next to him, Sir Gabriel crossed his arms as if settling in to watch something interesting. Messinger, however, balked.

“Pretending? What are you implying?”

“That you lied when you said you did not recognize the victim,” Hugh replied.

Again, the MP’s unhinged jaw conveyed shock. “How dare you?” He looked to the chief magistrate as if pleading for support. “What is this about, Gabriel?”

“Your son was courting the girl, Victor,” Sir Gabriel answered in his deep tenor, showing his friend no mercy. “Why didn’t you tell us this last night?”

If possible, Messinger’s jaw loosened even more. “Calvin? Courting?” He was lost for words after that. Messinger’s prickly attitude turned to disbelief, and he sought out a chair.

Hugh exchanged a glance with Sir Gabriel, who wrinkled his brow. They’d worked together long enough for Hugh to understand what the knight was thinking. It seemed they agreed that Messinger did, in fact, seem stunned.

“No. This is absurd. Calvin is not courting anyone, least of all Baron Harwood’s daughter,” he said while rubbing his temple.

“Least of all?” Hugh repeated. “Why do you say that?”

The MP scoffed. “Harwood is in dire financial straits. His estate has been dwindling for years. It is rumored his heir will need to entrench the family in the countryside after selling off everything they have here in London.”

That would explain the lack of staff at the Harwoods’ home and the sparsely furnished rooms.

It was crass to discuss money, perhaps, but in a murder investigation, no topic was off-limits.

“If your son planned to propose to Penelope Harwood and you believed she would accept, you’d have reason to want to prevent their marriage if she had no dowry,” Hugh laid out. Messinger’s expression hardened with insult.

“And you suggest I killed her for that reason? Then placed her in my own carriage house before summoning you?” He scowled at Hugh, then turned to his friend. “I thought you said Lord Neatham was your best agent.”

Hugh shifted his footing, the fire in the hearth warming him a bit too much. “I do not suggest you killed her. I am asking why you did not identify her last night.”

“Because I had never seen her before,” he answered without hesitation. “I had never heard my son mention her, either. Who told you they were courting?”

“A reliable source,” Hugh answered. He had no intention of naming Tobias.

“Well, they are mistaken,” Messinger snapped.