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He met Thornton’s eyes and nodded in a silent order for him to get to Audrey. As usual, his friend understood what to do. He lunged and pulled her to safety behind him.

Mrs. Harwood spun on her heel to point her knife at Hugh, before swinging it back toward Thornton. Her face crumpled in anguish, and her mouth parted on a sob so deep it made no sound. Her fingers straightened, and the knife fell to the tiles. She fell next, collapsing to her knees as more sobs wracked her body.

Hugh moved in, kicking the knife out of her reach before taking her by the arm and hauling her to her feet. His eyes scoured Audrey. He wanted to drag her to him, then kiss and hold her in relief. At the same time, he was wildly and irrationally furious that she and their child had been so close to grave injury.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, trying to keep his temper reined in.

“No.” She dropped the garden spade into a bed of small white flowers. Her hands trembled visibly as she pressed them to her belly. “But how did you know to come here?”

“I’ll explain later,” he said tightly, having brought the sobbing woman’s arms behind her back. “Sir will take you home. Norris will drive you. Thornton, Carrigan is holding Mr. Harwood. He could use your help.”

Thornton moved past Hugh, into the house, and Sir stood aside, waiting for Audrey to leave through the open glasshouse door. She hesitated, her indecision plain. She knew him too well not to see that he was tamping down his anger. Hugh took a deep breath and exhaled. “All will be well, my love. The only thing that matters is that you are safe. I’ll see you at home soon.”

A smile trembled on her lips, and then with a nod, she and Sir left through the back door. By now, Mrs. Harwood’s sobs had tapered.

“Jessamin Harwood,” he began. “I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Penelope Harwood.”

Though still sniffling, she stood rigidly, her chin hitched high, as if she were about to enter a room full of dinner guests rather than be led from her home, under arrest and bound for Bow Street. When she made no reply, Hugh gave her a nudge. “Come along. It’s time you explained everything.”

Chapter

Fifteen

It was nearly seven o’clock in the evening when Hugh arrived home, and the snow brewing in the sky earlier in the day had begun to fall in earnest. As he trooped through the few inches that had already accumulated on the pavements and front steps, he envisioned his study, a fire in the grate, a full glass of whisky, and Audrey nestled next to him on the sofa. This cozy vision was far better than the one that had plagued him the last several hours.

He’d hoped that by the time he finished interviewing the Harwoods, the image of his wife being held at knifepoint would have faded. Or at least that it would not set his pulse to racing. But his agitation had not lessened, and when Rivers let him into the front hall at 37 Berkeley Square, the first words from Hugh’s lips were, “Where is the Viscountess?”

“In your study, my lord. She has been expecting you,” the footman answered.

Hugh dumped his outer trappings into the servant’s waiting arms, climbed the stairs two at a time, and went toward his study. The glow of lamplight spilled into the corridor, and when he entered the room, the tensed muscles along his shoulders and back relaxed.

Audrey reclined on the sofa, pillows stacked behind her, and a cup of tea on the low table within easy reach. She held a book, open to a middle page, and appeared to be reading. But just before he announced himself, she let it drop onto her bosom. She sighed heavily and turned her head to peer at the clock.

“Your mind is everywhere but on that book, isn’t it?” Hugh asked as he moved toward the sofa. She sat up from the pillows, her blue irises lighting when she saw him.

“Oh, Hugh, I’m so glad you’re home.” Seeing her struggle to get to her feet, he walked swiftly to her side and helped her to stand. Then, bracing her chin with his thumb and forefinger, he kissed her. She drew in a breath of surprise, and when their mouths parted, Audrey quizzed him with a look of skepticism.

“You aren’t upset with me?”

“I was,” he admitted. “Seeing that woman with a knife…one quick lunge, and she might have…” Ended my world, he thought, though he couldn’t speak it.

“I had a sharp weapon of my own,” she said when his constricted throat wouldn’t allow him to finish his sentence. “I saw the spade and grasped it, suspecting that I wouldn’t be able to outrun her for much longer.”

“I hate that you had to outrun her in the first place. What were you even doing there?”

He’d interviewed both Morris and Jessamin Harwood for hours, asking all manner of questions, and yet the ones he wished to ask his wife had remained at the forefront of his mind.

“I certainly didn’t intend to confront a killer,” she said, defenses rising. “I had no idea Mrs. Harwood was dangerous.”

Hugh exhaled, and the last remnants of his irritation dissipated. “I didn’t suspect her, either.”

Audrey, seeming to realize he was lowering his hackles, explained what had brought her to the Harwoods’ home.

“Lady Susan believed Penelope was newly with child. I wanted to see if Mrs. Harwood had known, and if so, who the father was. Lady Susan mentioned a man who approached Penelope a little over a month ago while they were at a carriage race. It was dark, and she didn’t see his face, but soon afterward, Penelope began speaking of marrying for love, even if she needed to elope to do so. And then,” Audrey arched a brow, “she began to feel poorly.”

Hugh loosened his cravat as he walked to the sideboard. He was going to fulfill his earlier cozy vision of a whisky before the fire and Audrey in his arms, even if their conversation revolved around the case. He should have expected his wife would wish to know everything that had happened at Bow Street, and how the Harwoods had explained their actions.

“It was Calvin Messinger,” Hugh said, reaching for a decanter of brandy.