Page 60 of The Marriage Method

“For Miss Brent, assuredly,” Miles said. “As for Cowgill…It’s the gentry we’re interested in. His murder may have some connection to the Fawn-Purvis family in Hertfordshire.”

Effie’s ebony brows lifted. “You’re not talking about the newly anointed Lord Amstead?”

“What do you mean ‘newly anointed’?” Miles asked.

“He’s recently ascended to the barony,” Effie said. “I heard Lady Belwood mention it.”

Nell was familiar with Lady Belwood’s name, though she’d never met her in person. Some months ago, Miss Corvus had arranged for her ladyship to sponsor Effie’s entrance into society. It had been the first step in the Academy’s plan to ruin Lord Compton. Lady Belwood had been an unwitting part of that plan—a useful society figure who owed a mysterious debt to Miss Corvus. She’d had no choice but to help them.

“He’s hosting a house party at his country estate next month,” Effie went on. “It’s well in advance of his year of mourning being over. There are some who find the timing in poor taste.”

Nell immediately thought of the third date in Mr. Cowgill’s notebook. She exchanged a charged look with Miles. “When next month?”

“I’m not sure,” Effie said. “I daresay I could find out.” She smiled suddenly. “I know. Why don’t you remain here this afternoon? We can call on Lady Belwood together. It will give us ample time to talk.”

Nell glanced at Miles. His face was absent expression. “I would like to,” she admitted, “but I’m not sure—”

“Nonsense,” Effie said. “Mr. Quincey can certainly spare you.”

Miles straightened from the fireplace. “I do have a great deal of work to attend to at the paper,” he said. “If you preferred to remain here until this evening, it wouldn’t be inconvenient.”

“Not so long as that,” Nell objected.

“My days run late,” Miles said. “I don’t expect I’ll be back at St. James’s Square until after dinner.”

“Splendid.” Effie beamed at Nell. “You can dine with us as well.”

“We’ll see her home in the carriage afterward,” Mr. Royce said to Miles. “She’ll be safe enough.”

“If that’s what she wants,” Miles said.

Nell could detect no insincerity in his offer. No sign of annoyance or impatience. Even so, she had the oddest feeling that he wasn’t entirely pleased by the prospect of leaving her behind.

Nevertheless…

“It is,” she said.

• • • • •

Miles crossed the drawing room to join Gabriel at the inlaid table by the window. A tray sat upon it, holding a set of cut crystal glasses and a decanter filled with gleaming amber liquid. Brandy, perhaps. Or—knowing Gabriel—more likely whiskey.

The ladies had absented themselves but a moment before. Gone upstairs, ostensibly so that Nell could assist Mrs. Royce with her unpacking. There had been reference to gifts bought in Paris, and something about a new hat. Miles doubted the truth of any of it. Nell and Mrs. Royce had clearly wanted to be private with each other, presumably to discuss Academy business.

Or to discuss the business of Nell and Miles’s marriage.

Miles burned at the thought of his private life being laid open for Mrs. Royce to remark upon. But there was no avoiding the indignity. Not when Nell was bosom friends with the woman. Where Nell was concerned, Mrs. Royce’s interference was inevitable, just as was the unsolicited commentary of Miles’s own childhood best friend.

“Married,” Gabriel said as he poured himself a drink. “And to Miss Trewlove of all women.”

Miles exhaled. “Yes. I know.”

Gabriel poured a second drink for Miles. He passed it to him. “She’s an uncommonly attractive specimen.”

Miles accepted the glass. “I’m aware.”

“And you’re—”

“Not.” Miles acknowledged the fact with ruthless pragmatism. He knew he wasn’t strikingly handsome. Just as he knew he wasn’t warm, overtly sentimental, or suavely romantic. Nell knew it, too. She’d said as much on the train after they’d married.