Page 8 of Honor Unbound

“Indeed.” Lady Mary cocked her head. “And I would like to know why. Do you know why he wanted to see me?”

Mrs. Trent drew her eyebrows together. “See you? I thought your house was just where he happened to collapse. The magistrate told me how surprising it was that Edwin managed to make it that far, bleeding as profusely as he was.”

Marie whistled under her breath. She could only hope to be as composed as Mrs. Trent after suffering such a loss.

“Do you know where he was stabbed?” Lady Mary asked.

“Sir Kelsey said it was in his study at home.” Mrs. Trent frowned. “There’s a lovely Turkish rug in there that mustbe ruined.” She caught Lady Mary’s look and dabbed her handkerchief under her eyes. “Just tragic. My poor Edwin.”

“Of course.” Lady Mary smoothed her hand over her skirts. “And you didn’t find it odd that your husband didn’t call for help from the servants but went outside to walk to my house?”

“His mind was most likely muddled,” Mrs. Trent said. “And I don’t know that he was intending to reach your house.”

“He had a letter in his hand addressed to me.” Lady Mary looked at the woman over her spectacles. “Unfortunately, the body of it was unreadable.”

“To you?” Mrs. Trent looked genuinely baffled.

“Well, toL. M.The deduction wasn’t difficult to make.” Lady Mary rubbed her ear. “So you truly don’t know why he came to me?”

“I didn’t even realize he knew your name.” Mrs. Trent’s cheeks pinkened. “No insult intended.”

Lady Mary’s lips twisted. “It takes more than that to insult me.”

“That is good to hear.” Two men swept into the room. The shorter of the two strode to Mrs. Trent and bent to kiss her cheek. He had the same chestnut hair as Mrs. Trent and a body that looked like it indulged a bit too much in food and drink. He would have been handsome if it hadn’t been for his weak chin. “Because my friend Randall here excels at creating the most inventive insults. It would be a shame to make it too easy for him.”

The aforementioned Randall swept a magnificent leg. A long, gauzy tippet hung around his neck, the ends of the narrow scarf fluttering from under his jacket. He had nearly black hair and a softly curved nose that made Marie think of a bird of prey.

“Lady Mary, this is my brother, the Honorable George Platt, and his friend Pierce Randall. George, this is Lady MaryCavindish.” She patted her brother’s hand. “Thank you for coming.”

Randall answered for him. “We are always ready to comfort the inconsolable, my dear.” He seated himself near Marie and crossed one slender leg over the other. “And who do we have here?”

“Miss Murphy, sir.” Marie pressed her fingers into her thighs at his unblinking examination. She couldn’t decide if he appreciated what he saw or not. “I’m Lady Mary’s companion.”

“Where’s Frances?” Mr. Pratt asked.

“She took the girls to Vauxhall Gardens.” Mrs. Trent said to Lady Mary, “Our sister. Our daughters are about the same age.”

“What age is that?” Lady Mary asked.

“Matilda is almost four.” Mrs. Trent smiled. “Such an inquisitive child.”

“Awfully clean in ’ere to have a couple of four years olds running about.” Marie eyed the uncluttered floors and smudge-free tables. These maids must have their work cut out for them. Marie had only ever worked for childless homes.

Mr. Platt snorted. “I didn’t realize the daughters of earls were recruiting their companions from St. Giles now.”

Heat crept up the sides of Marie’s face. She didn’t know if it was her droppedhor the impertinence of her statement that showed her lack of refinement. She’d told Lady Mary this wouldn’t work. She’d been born to be a maid and she’d probably die a maid.

“All the best companions come from that neighborhood.” Lady Mary smiled, but it was all teeth. “Not only can Miss Murphy keep me company, but she can also give me the odds on myvingt-et-unhand and shoot a button off your waistcoat from twenty yards away. A most useful accomplice.”

Mr. Platt pressed a hand to his waistcoat, his face paling.

“Don’t be so stiff-necked, Georgie.” Mr. Randall examined his fingernails. “Not everyone can be the son of a wealthy viscount.”

Mr. Platt narrowed his eyes, his chin seeming to recede even further into his neck.

His sister patted his hand. “The children play in the rooms up above, of course. They don’t bring their clutter down here.”

“Of course,” Marie repeated. She pressed her lips tight, determined not to say another word.