Page 31

“Possibly.” Or, as Hugh had said earlier to Audrey, a piece like it could have just as easily come from one of the city’s popular antiquities shops.

He’d cleared half his plate but, with the elements of the case swirling through his mind again, was no longer hungry.

“She hasn’t been moved, has she?” Hugh asked, referring to the body in the cellar.

“I know better than that,” Thornton replied. “You really think Morris should be in attendance? He was rather cut up yesterday when he arrived to view her. And don’t worry. I didn’t leave him alone with the body,” he tacked on before Hugh could ask him if he had.

It would be difficult for Harwood, but it was imperative that everyone who might know something about the crime in question be present. Thinking of Miss Harwood’s brother and of how Thornton was acquainted with him gave Hugh a notion.

“You recognized Miss Harwood from a gathering you had attended,” he said. “When and where was this?”

Thornton frowned in thought. “It was about a month ago, I believe. Maybe a little longer since. Freddie Cheevers was hosting one of his art soirees.”

Hugh had heard of these art soirees, though he had never attended one. Cheevers, the third son of the Earl of Dennison, wasn’t an art connoisseur by any account, but he openly admired both the male and female figure. He would hire models to be living statues, their bodies painted to look like stone or alabaster, the scant clothing that draped them dyed to match. Partygoers could look at them but not touch. Although as Thornton had told Hugh before, the living statues themselves were free to do as they wished among themselves, and often, the display became an erotic performance for those gathered.

“Had you seen Miss Harwood at other parties?” Hugh asked.

Thornton shook his head. “This was the first. She arrived with a band of others,

none of whom I knew except that they’re rumored to frequent the carriage races in St. James’s Park.”

Carriage racing was not only illegal but dangerous. Light, quick rigs driven by male and female whips alike would race poorly lit courses by moonlight, when they were less likely to be caught and dispersed by the police. The stakes were high, and not just with the risk to life and limb. Plenty of observers bet small fortunes on who would win or lose, and even who might die of injuries sustained in a crash. During the years Hugh had been a Bow Street officer, he’d attended several accidents, and after viewing mangled horses and human bodies alike, he held nothing but contempt for the so-called sport.

That Miss Harwood might have been involved with these races wasn’t too surprising. She had, after all, been Tobias Sinclair’s lover, and it was just the sort of thing the young, raffish lord would place steep wagers on, and perhaps even participate in.

“So, out of her group, you only knew Miss Harwood?” Hugh asked, sensing that he was missing some piece of information.

“I didn’t know her at all,” Thornton replied. “If you recall, I explained that I heard her name being spoken, and that is how I realized she was Morris’s sister.”

Hugh rubbed his temple; it was beginning to ache. “Who spoke her name?”

Thornton pushed back his chair and stood. He went to the sideboard for another cup of coffee, which the footman poured.

“I was standing with Freddie Cheevers when his footman came over and inquired which of the ladies present was Miss Penelope Harwood,” he explained. “Freddie pointed to her in the crowd.”

“Why was the footman asking for her?”

“Someone had come to the servant’s entrance, searching for her,” Thornton answered.

The servant’s door? No one of Miss Harwood’s class would have gone knocking there.

“Did this footman say who it was that was asking for her?” He wasn’t sure it mattered for the case, but he was curious. Any piece of information at this point could be useful.

And when Thornton answered, Hugh was glad he’d listened to instinct.

“Someone named Lance, maybe? I think that’s the name. I presumed it was one of Miss Harwood’s servants.”

Lance. The name hurtled through his mind, toward a recent memory. It caught, and Hugh stood so fast he nearly knocked over his chair.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, and Thornton arched a brow.

“What is it?”

Hugh took out his fob watch. “It’s not yet eleven, but what do you say we pay Victor Messinger a visit?”

Thornton’s brow pressed flat. “Why are you involving me?”

“Because you’ve just provided information that may solve this murder.” As Hugh started for the dining room door, Thornton drained his coffee in a single gulp.