"You don't agree?"
He shrugged his brawny shoulders. "I don't pretend to know. I had come to Hawkridge but recently, so I wasn't as well acquainted with the rest of the staff as they were with one another. Four years later, I still don't know many of them well."
He wouldn't. Upper servants rarely fraternized with those lower, and she couldn't picture him becoming fast friends with Hastings, Mrs. Oliver, or Mrs. Pawley. He struck her as the sort that would keep to himself. Which doubtless suited Tris just fine.
She offered him a small smile. "If you think of anything that could help me, please let me know."
"I will," he said, draining his tea before rising to his feet. "Your husband is a good man, Lady Hawkridge. The best. If there's anything I can ever do to help him, you can wager I will."
He bowed to her from his lofty height, and she watched him walk from the room.
After he left, she thought about him for a long time. She was usually a good judge of people, and she couldn't imagine him a murderer. He seemed friendly and open, and she liked him.
But he'd made it clear he'd do anything to help Tris.
Could anything extend to murder?
THIRTY-SIX
IT HAD STARTED raining around sunset and hadn't let up since. Dripping wet and miserable, Tristan was surprised when Vincent met him at the door. Predictably, Rex met him at the door, too, bounding down the stairs and sliding across the great hall to greet him.
"Welcome home, my lord," Vincent said. Rex barked, his equivalent of a welcome.
Tristan stepped inside, immediately making a puddle on the black and white marble floor. He rubbed the dog's head before shrugging out of his sopping greatcoat and handing it to the valet. "Where's Hastings?"
"Sleeping." Vincent took Tristan's soaked hat, too, holding both away from his own pristine clothing. "Everyone's sleeping. It's half past one in the morning."
"Holy Christ. I had no idea." Tristan dug out his pocket watch, but of course his valet was right. "Problem with the construction at the gasworks," he explained, snapping it shut. "I shall have to return first thing tomorrow. I expect Lady Hawkridge is abed, too?"
"I imagine so. Haven't seen her for hours. Should you like some dinner, sir?"
He suddenly realized he was famished. "Yes, and my thanks. Bring it to my study, if you will. I have weeks of paperwork to catch up on."
Boots squishing all the way, he headed across the great hall to the dining room and through to the study, Rex at his heels. He briefly considered changing out of his damp clothes, but decided he couldn't spare the time. He'd waded through less than half the mail when Vincent showed up with a platter of cold roasted chicken, sliced cheddar, and a small round loaf of bread.
From where he was snoozing in the corner, Rex perked up and sniffed.
"Just leave it here on the desk," Tristan said, reading a letter from his steward in Jamaica. "And take yourself off to bed. I can undress myself."
"Thank you, my lord." Vincent hesitated.
Tristan looked up. "Yes?"
"Since your lady is asleep, I just thought you might like to know that she questioned everyone, but I don't believe she uncovered any new evidence."
He set down the letter. Slowly. "What do you mean, she questioned everyone?"
"About the circumstances surrounding your uncle's death." Vincent peered at him in the yellowish gaslight. "She assured me you were aware of her intentions."
"She did make her intentions clear, yes." And he'd thought he'd made his clear as well. "Thank you, Vincent. I'll see you in the morning."
"Good night, then, my lord."
Tristan waited for his valet's footsteps to fade from his hearing, then counted to ten. Then counted to a hundred. Then told himself he'd be better off eating his dinner and waiting for his anger to ebb, rather than stomping upstairs immediately to wake his new wife.
He ate two bites of chicken, tossed the cheese to the dog, and took a hunk of the bread with him.
Chewing savagely as he squished up the stairs, he considered the best way to wake Alexandra. A light tap on the shoulder? A whisper in her ear? Perhaps he should jerk the sheets up and thereby dump her out of the bed.
Though he'd never actually do such a thing, simply considering it was satisfying in itself. He savored the mental picture as he squished through the round gallery and down the corridor. Having wolfed down the cheese, Rex caught up to him just in time to get the door slammed in his huge, hopeful face.
Seated in one of the armchairs, Alexandra looked up from her book. "You're home."
Tristan slumped back against the door. "You're not sleeping." Damn, he couldn't dump her out of the bed. "You're not even undressed." All she'd removed were her shoes and stockings.
She set her book on the side table and smiled. "I thought you liked to do the undressing."
"I thought—"
Bloody hell, she looked gorgeous with that beckoning smile, her eyes glazed from lack of sleep, her cheeks rosy in the gaslight, her body's soft curves evident in the slim dress she'd no doubt donned for dinner. His own body reacted as he wondered whether she was wearing drawers.
Gritting his teeth, he yanked his thoughts back to the matter at hand. "I thought I told you to stay out of my business."
Her rosy cheeks went white. "You've heard."
"Of course I've heard. Every servant here is loyal to a fault."
"So I learned today. They were all loyal to your uncle while he lived, and now they're all loyal to you. No one thinks you poisoned him, and no one believes any of the others were responsible, either. They all stand together and behind you, Tris." She rose and crossed the distance between them. "It's extraordinary, when you think of it.
