Page 30 of Project Duchess
Clearly, he’d been too long without a woman in his bed.
She halted on the path to look back at him. “We’re almost there,” she said, pointing ahead to where the woods opened out into a field. “It’s not far now.”
The sound of rushing water reached his ears. He was about to see the place where Maurice had died. The thought sent the same chill through him that witnessing Maurice’s body had done.
But as they reached the riverbank and Grey viewed the infamous spot, he felt nothing. No ghostly presence. Not even a sense of Maurice. Some part of him had almost hoped he might. Instead, it was just an old wooden bridge with a section of missing rails where his stepfather had fallen through.
Yes, anoldbridge. That gave him pause. When Sheridan had said the bridge was sturdy, he’d exaggerated. From where Grey stood on the bank, the planks looked rough and worn, and the railings seemed flimsy.
And there was one other curious feature. “Where does that lead?” He pointed to where their path merged into a dirt track coming in from beyond the woods.
“It’s the carriage road to Armitage Hall. It’s more circuitous than the shortcut through the woods, and joins up with the drive leading out to the main road.”
“So someone could drive to the bridge without ever being seen.”
“Yes, but they couldn’t cross it.”
“Ah. Not sturdy enough for that, I suppose.”
“Actually,” Beatrice said, “the bridge is plenty sturdy. It’s just not wide enough for any equipage to pass comfortably. But if you want to go out on it, you can. It’s only the railing that’s gone in that one spot.”
Thankfully, she had misinterpreted his interest in the soundness of the bridge.
She went on. “And I need to cross and walk up to my house anyway so I can change my boot lace and return your cravat to you. If you’d like to wait here—”
“I would, thank you.”
She nodded. “I’ll take the dogs with me.”
No doubt she wanted to give him privacy and quiet for communing with his late stepfather. That was just as well. It would allow him to examine the site of the accident without her prying eyes.
Her behavior did tell him one thing—Sheridan had been right about Beatrice not being complicit in anything. Because if she had been part of some scheme, she wouldn’t have wanted to bring Grey here, and she certainly wouldn’t have suggested leaving him alone.
He walked with her and the dogs onto the bridge, then waited until they’d disappeared up the bank on the other side before he started poking about. As she’d said, the bridge seemed perfectly capable of holding a man’s weight, despite its ragged appearance. The railings, however, were questionable. When he pulled on one, he felt a bit of give. So Mauricecouldhave fallen through into the river.
Grey would have preferred to examine the broken rails themselves, but they’d apparently gone into the water with Maurice, leaving only a gaping hole. He did examine the posts, but saw no evidence of cuts. The rails were broken off on either end. Strange that such a sizeable section had gone into the river. But then, Maurice had been a large fellow.
Next, Grey went down to the water. It looked deep enough to drown in, especially at night, with the current rushing. The rivers had supposedly been swollen from recent rains, and sadly Maurice had never learned to swim.
Grey gazed up at the bridge from underneath, but could see no obvious structural problems—no holes, no missing planks. So what would make Maurice trip while walking along a perfectly level bridge with a lantern?
Perhaps something had startled him. There were wild boars hereabouts. If one had run onto the bridge, Maurice might have backed into the rails or even fallen against them. Unlikely, but possible.
Grey ought to walk the banks of the river to see if and where the broken rails had washed up.
“Your Grace?” called a voice above him.
Holy hell, she was back. “Down here!” he cried, but doubted she could hear him above the roar of the water. He hurried up the muddy bank.
After he reached the top, he heard her grumble to the dogs, “Leave it to a blasted duke to do as he pleases without telling anyone.” As he approached her from behind, she glanced in the opposite direction. “I only hope he didn’t try going up to my house. I might have missed him on the way back. Then what would I do with this?”
Pulling his cravat out of her pocket, she stared down at it. “I can’t go into the hall and give it to him, or people will get ideas about us. His Blasted Grace would be appalled. But if he wanted to be discreet, he ought to have stayed where I left him so I—”
“Beatrice,” he said, though he was loath to stop the entertaining flow of her words.
She jumped, then whirled to see him standing there. “Your Grace! I-I mean, Grey. That is . . . Where the devil did you come from?”
He nodded toward the broken railing. “I went down to the river.”
