He could no longer imagine living there without her.
He couldn't imagine living anywhere without her.
But it was only a matter of time…
And that, of course, was assuming she was convinced he would never be free of scandal. The other possibility—that she would discover he was guilty of murder—was even worse. Then she would leave immediately. And he wouldn't be able to blame her.
Hell, she'd be a fool not to leave immediately.
So he sat beside her, determined not to succumb to her temptation. Meanwhile, his body reacted to every move she made. Her head on his shoulder prompted him to wrap an arm about her involuntarily. He found himself breathing in tandem with her. Her thigh pressed to his was a constant reminder that she wasn't wearing drawers.
All in all, despite his anxiety concerning what she might or might not find, he was rather relieved when they passed the signpost that read NUTGROVE.
Alexandra immediately sat straight and called excitedly to an elderly gentleman walking a tiny dog. "Good sir! If I may bother you…might you know the direction of a woman who goes by Maude?"
And it was the oddest thing…but just hearing Alexandra say "Maude" again, that vague, niggling sense of unease Tristan had felt two days ago came back.
The old man cupped a hand to his ear. "Eh?"
"Maude!" she shouted as they rolled along beside him. She turned to Tristan. "What is Maude's surname?"
He shrugged. "I never thought to ask." He'd forgotten her. How was it that he'd forgotten her?
"Maude!" Alexandra yelled again. "Might you know anyone named Maude?"
"Ah, Maude." The man smiled, revealing gaps where he'd lost several teeth. "Down the corner," he said, gesturing and pulling his dog's leash in the process, nearly choking the poor little beast. "Turn left. Honeysuckle Cottage."
"She's alive," Alexandra breathed, hope flooding her brandywine eyes. "Dear God, I hope she knows something that will help us."
"It could be someone else named Maude," Tristan cautioned, that sense of unease growing stronger.
"It isn't. I just know it."
Somehow he also knew it wasn't someone else. And in any case, there was no sense arguing the matter, when in a few minutes they'd know for sure. "Honeysuckle Cottage," he muttered. "That isn't much of a direction."
"The man seemed to think it would do," she said as they turned the corner. "Look! There it is!"
Sure enough, about halfway down the lane stood an old stone cottage wreathed in pale-flowered honeysuckle vines.
No sooner had the curricle rolled to a stop than Alexandra hopped down, basket in hand, and started for the door. Tristan just sat there for a moment, feeling the unease tangle into a knot in his gut.
Finally, he climbed down and followed her. "You're supposed to wait to be handed down," he chided.
"Oh, bosh," she said and knocked on the weathered wood. "There are some things more important than propriety."
How much she had changed since he first met her.
She shifted on her feet. "What's taking her so long? Sweet heaven, I hope she's home. Lizzy said if anyone saw anything that night, it'd have been she."
And suddenly he knew why he'd forgotten Maude. He hadn't forgotten her. He'd simply pushed her clear out of his mind.
She'd been the person closest to his uncle. The person most likely to have seen him if he'd sleepwalked into his uncle's rooms that night.
The door swung open, and Maude stood on the other side, leaning on a cane and looking much like Tristan remembered her. A faded linen dress hung on her slight frame. She'd always seemed so frail she might break.
"Good afternoon, Maude," he said.
Her pale green eyes widened, looking apprehensive. "Lord Hawkridge?"
She knew something. She wouldn't look like that unless she knew something. The knot tightened in Tristan's gut.
He wrapped an arm around Alexandra's shoulders and forced a smile. "This is my wife, Lady Hawkridge."
Alexandra reached into her basket. "Would you care for a lemon puff?"
"No. Thank you." Maude's blue-veined hand went up to pat her gray curls nervously. "Why are you here?"
The knot twisted. "We wish to talk to you," he said. "May we come in for a moment?"
She looked like she wanted to say no, but then turned abruptly, her cane tapping across the wood floor as she led them inside and to a small table. "These are all the chairs I have," she said, her voice wavering.
There were two. And they were rickety. "I'm perfectly content to stand," Tristan said, helping the elderly woman to sit while Alexandra took the second chair. He made a mental note to send the old nurse some decent furniture next week—that was, assuming he wasn't locked up in some prison. He'd been the marquess for less than a day before she'd departed, but that was no excuse for not seeing that a long-term employee was comfortable in her retirement.
Perhaps he'd have done that if he hadn't forgotten her.
Maude held on to her cane, still leaning on it even while she was seated. Alexandra reached across the little table to touch her other hand. "I've been told you were very close to the last marquess," she began gently.
"Y-yes." The old woman's eyes looked everywhere but at her.
"Do you remember anything that happened the night he died?"
"Y-yes."
Tristan stopped breathing.
"Did you see anyone go into his room?" Alexandra continued. "Anyone who might have done him harm?"
"Y-yes."
Alexandra sent Tristan a startled glance—a hopeful glance—before she looked back to Maude expectantly.
No further information seemed to be forthcoming. Tristan thought he'd expire if he didn't breathe. He wished Maude would accuse him already, so he could breathe.
Alexandra's gaze darted to his again before her smooth hand tightened over the wrinkled one. "Who was it, Maude?" she whispered, her eyes flooded with not just hope, but a measure
