stood. “Excellent. I have an errand, but I’ll be back shortly.”
Still trying to figure out why in the world Lord Sin wanted to attend a charity luncheon, Victoria nodded. “Well, the afternoon looks to be interesting, anyway,” she said into her teacup. Milo cleared his throat sympathetically—or so she imagined, anyway.
Milo hadn’t killed anyone .
Sinclair leaned against the counter of Hoby’s boot-making establishment, barely paying attention to the clerk who shuffled through a stack of musty invoices. In one morning, over toasted bread and strawberries, Victoria had discovered more information than he’d coerced from the damned butler in nearly a month.
True, the butler had reason to dislike him and none to resent Victoria, but it was more than that. She’d had the stuffy rascal gabbing like an old fishmonger just back from the docks. And though Milo might not have an alibi and corroborating witnesses, Sinclair knew enough. The butler had genuinely liked Thomas.
Thank God he’d decided to slip into the house to see what mood his bride was in, and thank Lucifer he’d done it in time to overhear the conversation. Roman would be disappointed to learn of the butler’s innocence, but Sin was relieved. It would help him sleep a bit more soundly at night, anyway.
“Here we are. Thomas Grafton, Lord Althorpe. Is this what you wanted, my lord?”
The clerk began to pull an invoice from the middle of the stack. Straightening, Sinclair reached for the paper and knocked his elbow into the top of the stack. With a whoosh, a hundred invoices slid off the counter and onto the floor.
“Bloody hell,” he growled. “Sorry about that.”
With a stifled sigh the clerk squatted down to gather the papers. “No worries, my lord.”
As soon as the fellow looked away, Sin lifted the edge of the remaining stack and flipped through the dozen papers before and after the one left sticking out from the pile. Hoby’s had had five other customers the day Thomas had come to pick up his new boots—five nobles who’d been in town, and in Thomas’s vicinity, at the time of the murder. That had been the last day of his brother’s life, and the boots were the ones in which they’d buried him.
He recognized two of the names and memorized the others, letting the stack go as the clerk straightened again. “Gadzooks, what a mess,” he said sympathetically.
“It’s all right. They’re all numbered.” The fellow dumped the disheveled pile onto the counter and pulled out the invoice in question. “His lordship paid at the time of delivery. No amount is owing, as I thought.”
“Well, that’s good news. The fewer debts the better, I always say.”
The clerk nodded and began reorganizing invoices. “Yes, my lord.”
That taken care of, Sinclair returned to his phaeton and headed back toward Berkeley Square. For once he’d stumbled onto a bit of luck. He hadn’t realized that Astin Hovarth had been in London that week. Being able to talk freely with a good friend of Thomas’s, someone who knew his other acquaintainces and his habits well, would be a boon. Before the damned charity luncheon, he should have time to scrawl out a letter to the Earl of Kingsfeld. It seemed a good time for areunion with Astin, and he needed another hint of a direction before he sent out his bloodhounds.
Milo opened the front door for him, but the odd look on the butler’s face stopped Sinclair on the front steps. “What is it?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“You look as though you’ve swallowed a canary.”
The butler made a choking sound. “Lady Althorpe just received a few additional…items from Fontaine House.”
“Oh, really?” That was better than hearing she’d fled the country, anyway.
“I believe she is in the conservatory, my lord.”
“Very good.”
Giving the butler a backward glance, Sinclair climbed the curving staircase to the second floor. As he neared his spouse’s rooms, he passed a pair of footmen
Still trying to figure out why in the world Lord Sin wanted to attend a charity luncheon, Victoria nodded. “Well, the afternoon looks to be interesting, anyway,” she said into her teacup. Milo cleared his throat sympathetically—or so she imagined, anyway.
Milo hadn’t killed anyone .
Sinclair leaned against the counter of Hoby’s boot-making establishment, barely paying attention to the clerk who shuffled through a stack of musty invoices. In one morning, over toasted bread and strawberries, Victoria had discovered more information than he’d coerced from the damned butler in nearly a month.
True, the butler had reason to dislike him and none to resent Victoria, but it was more than that. She’d had the stuffy rascal gabbing like an old fishmonger just back from the docks. And though Milo might not have an alibi and corroborating witnesses, Sinclair knew enough. The butler had genuinely liked Thomas.
Thank God he’d decided to slip into the house to see what mood his bride was in, and thank Lucifer he’d done it in time to overhear the conversation. Roman would be disappointed to learn of the butler’s innocence, but Sin was relieved. It would help him sleep a bit more soundly at night, anyway.
“Here we are. Thomas Grafton, Lord Althorpe. Is this what you wanted, my lord?”
The clerk began to pull an invoice from the middle of the stack. Straightening, Sinclair reached for the paper and knocked his elbow into the top of the stack. With a whoosh, a hundred invoices slid off the counter and onto the floor.
“Bloody hell,” he growled. “Sorry about that.”
With a stifled sigh the clerk squatted down to gather the papers. “No worries, my lord.”
As soon as the fellow looked away, Sin lifted the edge of the remaining stack and flipped through the dozen papers before and after the one left sticking out from the pile. Hoby’s had had five other customers the day Thomas had come to pick up his new boots—five nobles who’d been in town, and in Thomas’s vicinity, at the time of the murder. That had been the last day of his brother’s life, and the boots were the ones in which they’d buried him.
He recognized two of the names and memorized the others, letting the stack go as the clerk straightened again. “Gadzooks, what a mess,” he said sympathetically.
“It’s all right. They’re all numbered.” The fellow dumped the disheveled pile onto the counter and pulled out the invoice in question. “His lordship paid at the time of delivery. No amount is owing, as I thought.”
“Well, that’s good news. The fewer debts the better, I always say.”
The clerk nodded and began reorganizing invoices. “Yes, my lord.”
That taken care of, Sinclair returned to his phaeton and headed back toward Berkeley Square. For once he’d stumbled onto a bit of luck. He hadn’t realized that Astin Hovarth had been in London that week. Being able to talk freely with a good friend of Thomas’s, someone who knew his other acquaintainces and his habits well, would be a boon. Before the damned charity luncheon, he should have time to scrawl out a letter to the Earl of Kingsfeld. It seemed a good time for areunion with Astin, and he needed another hint of a direction before he sent out his bloodhounds.
Milo opened the front door for him, but the odd look on the butler’s face stopped Sinclair on the front steps. “What is it?”
“Nothing, my lord.”
“You look as though you’ve swallowed a canary.”
The butler made a choking sound. “Lady Althorpe just received a few additional…items from Fontaine House.”
“Oh, really?” That was better than hearing she’d fled the country, anyway.
“I believe she is in the conservatory, my lord.”
“Very good.”
Giving the butler a backward glance, Sinclair climbed the curving staircase to the second floor. As he neared his spouse’s rooms, he passed a pair of footmen
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