Her eyes widened. “Yes. How did you know?”
Devlin shrugged. “Because my heart tells me something is amiss, despite the fact my mind is trying its utmost to convince me the matter is closed.”
“I saw the way Mr Biggs examined the letter. When I informed him it was a letter from Hannah to Ambrose, he screwed it up into a ball and discarded it without a second thought.”
“And you’re wondering why he would do that if that was the letter the baron sought?”
“Precisely.”
“Then Bromfield wants letters written to my grandmother, just as Biggs suggested.”
“What other explanation is there?”
Devlin considered dragging the baron back to the study, torturing him until he told them the truth. But the man was rotten to the core, and he wanted him far away from Blackwater, far away from Juliet.
“Then our search for the missing letters has only just begun.”
Chapter Seventeen
Through the window in the study, Juliet watched her father’s chariot charge down the drive at breakneck speed. Behind her, Devlin sat deep in conversation with Dariell, who had witnessed the baron storm from the room and mount the stairs as if the end of the world were nigh.
For fear of what Devlin might do to the baron or Hannah should they say anything untoward, Juliet had persuaded him to remain in the study. One could not trust a word that left the baron’s mouth, and so it was pointless pressing him for more information.
Even so, she believed her father had challenged Ambrose to a duel. It made perfect sense. Explained why a man of Ambrose’s ilk would wander the common at an unreasonable hour.
“The baron, he is a devious character,” Dariell said. “Of that, there is no doubt. But when a man lives for his reputation, he does not commit murder.”
Devlin snorted. “So you believe his story, believe that Ambrose died at the hands of footpads?”
“Was his watch not recovered from the pawnbrokers? Did the trail not lead to a man suspected of a spate of thefts?”
“A man who conveniently disappeared.”
“Disappeared, or fled to escape the hangman’s noose?”
The tension in the air pressed down on Juliet’s shoulders. It was her father who had unwittingly caused Ambrose’s death, her sister’s vicious lies that forced Devlin to seek revenge. She had to do something to ease her husband’s pain. Dwelling on the past was of no use to anyone.
Juliet turned to Devlin. “It is easy to invent stories to account for unanswered questions. But are our efforts not better served focusing on what we can achieve now?”
“Indeed.” Dariell smiled. “I could not have phrased it better, madame.”
Pride filled Juliet’s chest. Mr Dariell had a way of instilling confidence, of enhancing a person’s sense of worth.
“Neither of us can shake the feeling that there is more to this than we first imagined.” Juliet crossed the room to her husband’s side and placed her hand on his shoulder. “We must look to our intuition to guide us now.”
“Come. You must move your thoughts out of your head,” Dariell said in the tone of a wise mystic. He beckoned her to the empty chair next to Devlin. “You must listen to your heart.” He sucked in a long breath and closed his eyes. “When you breathe deeply and shift your focus, what does your heart tell you?”
Devlin glanced at Juliet and arched a brow. “Believe it or not it does work.”
She shrugged in response and came to sit in the chair beside him. Holding back a chuckle, she waited for Devlin to close his eyes, for him to slow his breathing b
efore doing the same.
It took a few attempts to ignore the voice in her head, a voice that repeated what they already knew, that seemed to take immense pleasure from confusing matters. But as she focused on her breathing, a cloak of calmness settled around her shoulders. A deeper intelligence spoke to her then, an intelligence that said but one word—Ambrose.
“It all comes back to your brother,” she whispered. Juliet opened her eyes to find Dariell watching them, to find a tear clinging to the corner of Devlin’s eye.
Devlin’s eyes sprang open. He swallowed numerous times, blinked away the tear and gritted his teeth. “I felt my brother, too.”