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“The question you should be asking,” Thornton said from the sofa, his ankle bobbing on his knee, “is who would have wanted suspicion thrown onto the Messinger household, whether it be you or your father.”

“Yes, indeed,” Victor agreed. “Someone wanted the authorities—Bow Street—to believe I killed her. No one else knew Calvin was here.”

“Or,” Hugh said as another suspicion arose, “someone did know Calvin was here and, in order to expose it, wanted Bow Street poking around.”

“But who knew besides his own staff and Miss Harwood?” Thornton asked.

Hugh peered at the Messingers. “Calvin, when did you and Miss Harwood plan to go to Gretna Green?”

Scotland was the most common place for couples to elope, especially if they did not have their parents’ express permission. Gretna Green, located just beyond the border with England, had struck up a profitable trade in providing swift marriages for those arriving from the south.

"We were supposed to go last week," he said, his voice catching. “But Penelope wasn’t feeling well. She wanted to wait until she was in a better disposition. If only we had gone…” His chin quivered, and he cleared his throat to try to regain his composure.

“She was feeling ill?” Thornton asked. He met Hugh’s eyes, his brows raised.

“Yes. What of it?” Calvin asked.

Thornton gave a blithe shake of his head as if to say nothing, never mind. But Hugh had caught on. A little over one month after the couple’s reunion, during which they had planned to wed, no matter what, and the young lady was feeling out of sorts? It seemed obvious.

But clearly, Calvin was in the dark. And perhaps it was best that he was.

That being said, it was possible others who were closer to Penelope had not been unaware.

“Thank you for answering my questions, Mr. Messinger, Calvin,” Hugh said. “I do not expect either of you to be charged with any wrongdoing, but it would be helpful if you did not leave London for the time being.”

The two nodded in understanding, and he and Thornton took their leave. Outside, the cold December air held a familiar scent; it was going to snow. Or sleet. Hugh eyed the slate clouds overhead with a grimace.

“If the lady was with child,” Thornton said, correctly guessing Hugh’s assumption, “it would be next to impossible for her maid or servants not to know.”

Hugh agreed. When Cassandra Sinclair had found herself with child a few years ago, just after he and Audrey had met, the first person who had known was her lady’s maid. The maid had noticed that Cassie had not required certain launderings for a month or two. That the duke’s sister had borne a child was still a secret, with only a handful of people knowing the truth. Grant Thornton was not one of them, so Hugh kept his thoughts to himself.

“It appeared to me and to Audrey that they’ve let their servants go,” he said instead. “Sir spoke to a neighbor who said the same. So, who would have noticed the lack of such womanly needs? Mrs. Harwood, perhaps?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Thornton made a low sound in his throat. “They may hire out the laundry now. It would cost them, but Morris is still keeping up appearances, maintaining his membership at Gentleman Jack’s.”

“And at Marsham’s, which is where he was the night of the murder. Basil confirmed it with the staff there.”

Thornton snorted a derisive laugh. “Marsham’s?”

“What of it? Basil made a cutting remark about the place too.”

Hugh wasn’t familiar with the club, and gentlemen’s clubs in general were not truly of interest to him. He was a member at White’s, but only because he’d inherited the membership when he became Viscount Neatham.

“Marsham’s doesn’t have the same panache as, say, White’s or Brooks’s,” Thornton explained as they came upon the carriage. Norris waited for them, holding the door open. “If one is a member there, one’s interests tend toward assignations, ungentlemanly gambling, that sort of thing. The staff look the other way and stay tight-lipped, so long as they are tipped well enough.”

That would have been good information to have before now, Hugh lamented. It cast reasonable doubt on Mr. Harwood’s alibi, especially if he had been one of those members who tipped well enough.

Hugh had one foot on the step up into the carriage when “Oi! Mister Hugh!” stopped him. He came back down onto the pavement and whirled in the direction of Sir’s shout. The lad was running toward him, his breath clouding the air, his expression scrunched with anguish and effort.

“Where the blazes have you been?” He was relieved the boy was unharmed, and yet he was unwilling to forgo censure. “Basil said you were gone all night. He’s worked up into knots, and you know how annoying he is when he’s in that state.”

Sir reached them and hinged at the waist to drag in deep breaths. Hugh heard rattling in his throat, a remnant of his recent illness. He put on a hand on Sir’s shoulder.

“Just take a moment,” he urged the boy. “I can see you’ve something important to say, but I don’t want you fainting dead away.”

Sir shrugged off Hugh’s hand, insulted. “I ain’t gonna faint.”

“Am not going to faint.”