"In a hurry?" Mrs. Pawley's blue eyes danced.
"You could put it that way, yes. Have you flour and sugar?"
Beneath her starched white cap, the blond bun at the nape of the cook's neck bounced as she nodded. "We have everything you need, my lady. You've only to give me your list."
Half an hour later, they stood companionably side by side, their hands coated in flour, forming small balls out of the gingerbread dough. Mrs. Pawley, as it turned out, wasn't only an accomplished cook, but also an unrepentant gossip. "I did notice where your ancestor claimed these cakes are excellent with a good gossip," she said with a laugh.
"I expect she meant eating them, not making them." Alexandra sneaked a taste of the sweet-spicy dough. "Though I do confess some curiosity about the past happenings here at Hawkridge."
"I remember when your husband first arrived here from Jamaica. The man was in a bad way, he was, his father dead and not a penny to his name. The last Lord Hawkridge took him under his wing, but he weren't in a good way, either."
"Yes, I've heard that. He was ill, wasn't he?" Alexandra scooped more dough. "Do you remember the morning the last Lord Hawkridge was found dead?"
"Oh, most vividly." Having filled the first pan, the cook dusted flour on another. "We all loved the last Lord Hawkridge. Not that we don't feel the same toward your new husband. Do you know, it was he who suggested Lord Hawkridge send me to France for training. Saved my position here, he did. And he couldn't have been more than fifteen at the time; even as a boy, he knew the way of things. Your husband has a business head on those wide shoulders."
A vision of herself gripping those wide shoulders made Alexandra's blood heat, but she wasn't sure she wanted her servants taking notice of Tris's anatomy. "When the last Lord Hawkridge was discovered dead, was poison suspected immediately?"
"Good heavens, no! Who would poison a fine man like the last Lord Hawkridge?" Mrs. Pawley plopped another ball on the pan. "He died of a broken heart, I tell you. We all know that here. No matter what the outsiders say."
Alexandra was relieved to hear that Tris's staff didn't suspect him. "Were there any outsiders here at the time? Anyone suspicious?"
"No one at all. Lord Hawkridge was in the dismals—he weren't taking visitors. Excepting your husband, of course. The house was still draped in black—"
"No one? A concerned neighbor? A salesman or tradesman?"
"Not that I remember." Rolling dough between her plump hands, the cook eyed Alexandra speculatively. "Why all the questions, my lady?"
Alexandra made another ball before she answered. She knew Tris wouldn't be happy she was asking questions. But did she have a choice? His fear that he'd killed his uncle was completely unfounded, and her sisters' happiness was at stake.
She set the ball on the pan. "I'm hoping to clear my husband's name, Mrs. Pawley. If I can prove someone else killed his uncle, he'll be welcomed back into society."
The cook nodded as if she'd thought as much. "I'd like to see Lord Hawkridge's name cleared as well. But there's no one here thinks the last Lord Hawkridge was poisoned. He died in his sleep, plain and simple."
"Do you find it upsetting to answer questions?"
"I suppose not. I didn't see anything that night to help you, though. 'Course, I'm stuck down here in the basement; I'm not aware of all that goes on upstairs." She reached over to pat Alexandra's hand, puffing flour into the air in the process. "If it's that important to you, perhaps you should ask the others."
Exactly what Alexandra wanted to do. Perhaps she'd be risking her husband's anger, but she couldn't see where either of them would be happy with this cloud hanging over their heads. And it wasn't as though she'd be combing the countryside for clues—she'd only be talking to her own staff. People she should be getting to know anyway.
If a little voice told her that was a rationalization, she decided to ignore it. With any luck, she might uncover important information and solve the mystery before Tris even arrived home.
THIRTY-FIVE
AN HOUR LATER, Alexandra and a large platter of gingerbread cakes sat in the main parlor, which had a lovely trio of windows looking out toward the Thames. The walls and upholstery were sage green damask, the ceiling painted with fat, cavorting cherubs to oversee the proceedings. Hastings—who'd had no new information to add to her investigation—showed the next servant in, bowing as he backed from the room.
"Please have a seat, Ted." She waved the footman onto the sofa opposite hers, reaching to the low table between them to pour tea, in hopes of making him comfortable. "Would you care for a gingerbread cake? They're still warm from the oven."
The footman seated himself carefully. "The others told me what you're asking, my lady. I regret that I have nothing to add. But we all know the marquess is innocent, and we do admire your efforts to clear his name."
"I'm determined." How ironic that everyone here thought Tris was blameless—except Tris himself. That only cemented her resolve to prove his innocence in spite of his protests. Since Ted hadn't reached for a cake, she put one on a small plate and handed it to him. "Are you certain you saw no one suspicious around Hawkridge that night or the morning after?"
"None that I recollect."
"And was there anyone here—living here, I mean—whom you feel could possibly have had motive to harm the last Lord Hawkridge?"
"I'm afraid not. Lord Hawkridge was a fair man, much admired by all."
"So I keep hearing." She sighed. "If you think of anything that might help me, please let me know immediately. You may go. And feel free to take your
