Panic fluttered in her chest like a trapped bird. “I—I’m not sure what you mean.” She contemplated following Mr Hope’s lead and making a dart for the door to avoid answering more questions.
Lady Brompton grinned. “I think you do.”
A brief silence ensued.
“I fear Mr Hope will deal with this case the way he drinks his claret—far too quickly and without taking time to examine the notes.” Lady Brompton stood abruptly and tugged the bell cord. “We cannot afford to wait for these imbeciles to convict the wrong man.”
“What can we do?”
“We can help St Clair clear his name, of course. I presume Lord Denton knows nothing of your romantic interest, hence why it’s all such a secret.”
Helen swallowed hard. “Romantic interest?”
If she admitted to loving Nicholas, it might make her a suspect.
Could she trust Lady Brompton?
Thankfully, a light knock on the door brought the butler. “You rang, my lady?” Despite looking exhausted, the poor man carried himself with the usual aplomb.
“Send Mr Holland’s valet to the drawing room. We wish to speak to him privately. Be discreet. Tell no one I’ve summoned him.”
If Somers was surprised, he didn’t show it. “I shall fetch him at once, my lady.” And then he left them alone.
A woman did not need a philosopher’s insight to understand Lady Brompton’s intention. “I presume the valet is the person who testified to seeing Mr St Clair walking outside with a companion.”
“Mr Hope refused to divulge the informant’s name, but a determined woman has her ways.” Lady Brompton gave a curious grin. Perhaps she was a great mystic who could read minds.
They spoke about Mr Hope’s ineptitude and the other potential suspects in the case. Lady Brompton made a shocking revelation. According to servants’ gossip, Charles Holland and his valet were lovers, though she refused to inform the coroner without evidence.
“So, you believe Mr St Clair is innocent?” Helen said.
“I’m not sure what to believe. Is that not the point of an investigation, to weed out the lies and expose the truth?”
Somers returned with the Frenchman. Monsieur Laurent wore a white periwig, which suited his flamboyant bearing. He was tall enough to dust the top of the armoire without the aid of a stool.
Lady Brompton dismissed the butler and beckoned the valet forward. “No one likes a gossipmonger, Laurent.” She spoke in her usual curt manner. “Do you expect us to believe you had your eyes peeled to the window when two people took a stroll outdoors? What rubbish!”
Monsieur Laurent blanched. “My noble lady, I do not know what you mean. You have mistaken me for someone else, I fear.”
“Bosh! You’re the person who claimed to see Mr St Clair outside last night. Don’t mistake me for a fool!”
The Frenchman shook his head. “Who said this?”
“The coroner! Now stop acting the dunce and start answering questions. A man’s life hangs in the balance. I suppose you think another dead Englishman may even the odds.”
Monsieur Laurent inhaled sharply.
“Perhaps you might clarify a few things for us, monsieur.” Helen decided to be the voice of reason, though she imagined grabbing the valet’s cravat and strangling the truth from his loose lips.
The man bowed. “But of course.”
“We have seen your statement,” she lied, “and merely ask you to repeat what you saw last night.”
“But if you have seen it, why do I need to repeat it?”
Helen tried to maintain an enquiry agent’s composure. The valet’s impertinence was surely why Mr Holland meant to dismiss him. “Because I mean to prove you made a mistake. It was so dark outside last night, it would have been impossible to identify anyone with any accuracy.”
“The moon was full, madame. The stars bright.”