Flopping it open, she skimmed the pages quickly, until, with a relieved breath, she said, “There doesn’t appear to be any mention of Lord Wakefield’s death.”
“Perhaps Everett is paying them off,” Signa said, uncertain whether she should feel worry or relief. “I imagine such news would make headlines otherwise.”
Still reading, Blythe asked, “They’ll be announcing Everett as the duke now, won’t they?”
“I would expect so.”
Folding the paper shut and tossing it to the side, Blythe turned to Warwick. “Does the offer of breakfast extend to me, as well?”
He pushed up his spectacles, quick to rectify himself. Signa supposed he ought to have been familiar with such oddities, given that he worked directly with Elijah. Seeing Blythe mirror her father’s actions, however, appeared to be a first for him. Those actions were perhaps not the most reassuring sign of the young woman’s state of mind, but Signa still admired Blythe’s complete lack of regard for societal expectations—envied it, too, considering that she herself had risen early to get dressed for the day. Given all that had happened the night prior, such a thing felt ridiculous.
Warwick disappeared only to return minutes later to set out porridge, sliced ham, scones, kippers, eggs, and toast on platters before them. Elaine worked beside him, rosy cheeked and humming as she poured tea into their cups and set the pot on the table.
Blythe took hold of her unsweetened tea, her winter-sharp eyes fixed on the maid who fluttered out of the room with a small curtsy.
“Does Elaine seem ill to you?” Blythe asked, leaning in with a conspiring whisper. “Does she seem feverish? Phlegmy?”
Odd though the question was, Signa obliged with a simple reply. “I don’t believe so, though I don’t remember ever hearing her hum before.”
“That’s precisely what I mean!” Blythe drew her steaming cup to her lips. “Today of all days.”
Given her own relationship with the deceased, Signa couldn’t fault any person’s way of mourning or dealing with troubling times. Still, Elaine had always erred on the side of propriety, and such behavior was most certainly odd. “It’s all very strange. I don’t understand why the constable is taking so long.”
“I don’t understand any of it.” Blythe lifted her feet to sit cross-legged in her chair as she turned fully toward Signa. “What could make them believe that my father would want to kill the duke? He wanted out of Grey’s more than anything.”
That much was true, and though Signa felt no desire to be the one to break this news to her cousin, she felt it her obligation to say in an apologetic voice, “He was the one who offered Lord Wakefield a drink.” Then, before Blythe could tear her head from her neck, Signa grabbed her hand and hurried to add, “I know that doesn’t make him a killer, but it does give the constable reason for suspicion.”
“What about that man from last night?” Blythe ripped into her toast. “The one who made the accusation against my father. Have you ever seen him before?”
There was the question, again. The same one that Fate had asked her the night prior.
“I have not.” Signa slathered a mountain of butter onto her lemon scone and tried to ignore the bitterness festering within her. While the words were her truth, Signa couldn’t help but feel that she was lying. She’d come to view Blythe as a sister, and day by day the need to share what she was and everything she was capable of was becoming impossible to ignore. But how exactly did you tell someone who had no experience with the paranormal that not only was Death a sentient being who had helped Signa hunt down Blythe’s murderer—who just so happened to be the brother that Blythe still believed was alive—but also that the man responsible for accusing her father was Death’s brother, Fate?
If that wasn’t convoluted enough, there was also the fact that Signa and Death were intimate, and that she had the powers of a reaper. It would be a lot for anyone to take in, surely, and was a conversation Signa wasn’t convinced even could be broached.
And so, rather than say anything more, she filled her plate with ham and eggs and slathered more butter onto another lemon scone. When everything went to hell, at least she could always count on scones.
“Whoever he is, he certainly has some nerve,” Blythe pressed, sipping her tea with a ferocity Signa had not known possible. “Or perhaps an ulterior motive. I intend to find him and see which it is.”
The very thought had Signa so distracted that she burned her tongue on the tea, forgetting to blow on it. “Do not forget that you are a Hawthorne,” she said carefully, stirring in a third spoonful of sugar. “Your family is bound to have enemies, be it for reasons of jealousy or bitterness. Perhaps your father refused someone’s entry into the club. Perhaps it has nothing to do with Elijah at all, but with Lord Wakefield. If someone wants his title, Everett could be the next victim. We can’t dive into this situation without thinking it through.”