Blythe leaned back in her seat, stabbing her fork into a chunk of ham. “Then what do you propose we do? I cannot be expected to sit idly by.”
Signa hated that such a question made her skin buzz and some tiny part of her spark to life. Uncovering Blythe’s murderer was not something Signa wished to ever relive, but for the Hawthornes, she wouldn’t hesitate. Still, it was unnerving how quickly her mind latched on to the idea of a new puzzle dangling before her. Already she found herself trying to sort out the scattered pieces.
“I think that, for now, we wait and see what happens with Elijah.”
It was not an answer that Blythe appreciated, though some small part of her must have realized it was their best option.
“I must warn you that my patience is limited, cousin,” Blythe said.
“And I must warn you that, were you to venture out into the world right now, looking as you do and behaving as boorishly as you are, you would only further the belief that there’s something strange about the Hawthornes.” Signa smiled when Blythe cut her a look, though the jest was short-lived as a heavy clunk-clunk-clunking echoed outside the dining room doors. So familiar was the sound that Signa and Blythe shared a look before bolting to their feet as the double doors opened and Byron Hawthorne stepped inside.
His shoulders were bowed, and his gaunt cheeks and neck were shadowed with dark stubble. Signa looked behind him, to where Warwick stood alone, and clutched the back of her chair to support herself.
Blythe noticed Warwick at the same time, and the smile melted from her face. “Where is my father?”
“I did everything I could.” Byron fisted his cane tight and looked his niece in the eye. “I’m sorry, Blythe, but I’m afraid that Elijah is being detained for the murder of Lord Wakefield.”
FIVE
AS WELL ACQUAINTED WITH DEATH AS SIGNA WAS, SHE’D MET VERY few murderers in her lifetime. There was Percy, of course. And she supposed herself, though she tried not to stew on that. Still, she didn’t need more experience to understand that Elijah Hawthorne was no murderer.
“What possible motive do they think he had?” Signa demanded as the puzzle pieces scattered in her mind’s eye. “He wanted to be done with Grey’s!”
“Lord Wakefield had already made a sizable payment to secure his future in the business.” Byron looked as though he’d aged twenty years overnight as he peeled off his gloves and tossed them onto the table. “They’re theorizing that Grey’s was bordering on financial ruin due to Elijah’s neglect and that he needed the money but didn’t want to give up full ownership.”
His forehead was perspiring, and Warwick was quick to fetch him a glass of water and a stool as Byron took a seat and propped up his bad knee.
“That’s preposterous!” As fair skinned as she was, Blythe’s face and neck were flushed with rage. Byron nodded at her, then did a double take when he noticed his niece’s state of dress.
“What in God’s name are you… Oh, never mind. Despite what the truth may be, it was Elijah who gave Lord Wakefield the drink. The fool admitted it himself.”
Blythe’s indignant huff was enough to suggest she thought her father was ridiculous for admitting to such a thing. Signa agreed, especially given the circumstances. She knew from experience how awful it was to have people believe you were the reason for someone’s death. But to have people believe you killed a duke? It would soon be in every paper throughout the country, ruining the Hawthornes’ reputation and that of Grey’s with it.
“If he was trying to save Grey’s from financial ruin,” Signa said, “then why would he kill a duke and soil its reputation? Where’s the logic in that?”
Byron’s eyes narrowed, and Signa tried not to show her offense at his surprise. Byron was by far the most traditional member of the Hawthorne family; in her months at Thorn Grove, she’d come to learn that when Elijah had initially taken over the family business, Byron was filled with such jealousy that, rather than working alongside Elijah, he went into the service to make himself scarce. According to Elijah, Byron had ascended high into the rankings before an injury sent him home with a bad knee. He had little choice but to partake in the family business soon after, though military training had made him more rigid than ever.
Byron operated under the belief that there was a proper order to all things—that women had their place and men had theirs. Signa was a little surprised he was even entertaining this conversation. Perhaps the past few months had had some positive influence on him after all.