by Lynn Kerstan
She did, and looked back through a sheen of tears at her father’s glowing face. His happiness gave her the strength to enter the carnage and not to flinch when the tiger she had wed climbed up and settled beside her.
“Don’t worry,” he said as the coach began to move. “I didn’t mean any of those vows either.”
But she looked down at the two rings on her left hand and knew he had meant them. And nothing in her life, not even the worst thing that had ever happened to her, frightened her more than what this man offered to her now.
Chapter 27
Word got around fast, Michael was thinking as he skimmed the message delivered to him by one of Beata’s servants. While not quite a summons, the letter requesting the Duke of Tallant’s presence at Number Four, Bow Street, referred to “matters of extreme urgency.”
Barely eight in the morning, only a few hours after their arrival at Palazzo Neri, and already the chief magistrate knew they were there. Well, knew he was there. Sir Richard had not mentioned Her Grace, the Duchess of Tallant.
As he’d meant to call at Bow Street anyway, he sent the servant off with a note advising Sir Richard to make himself available at ten o’clock, rapped on the door to awaken his bride, who had spent a chaste night in what used to be his bed, and went back to Hari’s room to finish shaving.
The bride emerged an hour later, austere in a high-necked black dress. “We are officially in mourning for your brother,” she said when he raised a brow.
“Speak for yourself, Duchess. Breakfast is on its way, and the carriage will be here in half an hour. We have an appointment with your old friend the magistrate.”
He left then, to confer with Hari and, briefly, with the manager of Beata’s stable, returning in time to escort a wintry Miranda to the carriage.
“It’s as well you have become a duke,” she said. “You aren’t used to answering to anyone, are you?”
“Not for the last decade or so. When you’re running a band of mercenaries, most of them outlaws, command must be absolute. I gave the orders, they obeyed them. And while they wouldn’t admit it, they preferred it that way.”
“I’m sure.”
She had withdrawn again, which did not greatly surprise him. From the moment they arrived in London, he had sensed her fear of what lay ahead of them. And for Miranda, fear translated into antagonism. “I’ll come about,” he said, trying not to sound overly patronizing. “Give me a little time.”
“Humph.”
Which took care of the conversation until they reached Bow Street, leaving him free to make even more plans she wasn’t going to like. And to mentally list the things he did intend to discuss with her, because they concerned the females he’d inherited from his brother. Norah, Corinna, and Catherine. He didn’t know how to deal with any one of them, let alone all three. And when they got together with his wife and ganged up on him, as they were bound to do, he wouldn’t have a snowflake’s chance in hell.
They arrived at Bow Street, the wall still up between them. His duchess, who had permitted him to take her arm, was impressively disdainful when they were ushered into the office of the chief magistrate. The last time she’d been here, he remembered, she was just shy of being a prisoner and not at all certain she would ever again walk free.
Sir Richard, florid faced and pompous, rose when they entered, as did the gentleman who had been seated to one side of the massive oak desk. Varden. They both bowed while Michael gritted his teeth and Miranda edged the slightest bit closer to him, as if closing ranks.
He’d have liked to keep her there, but he cobbled together enough manners to guide her to a chair and help her settle on it. When a clerk sprang from his writing table to pull over another chair, Michael waved him off. For this encounter with two men who’d as soon see him at the end of a rope, he meant to take control of the room from the start.
“Well?” he said, roaming to a small window and planting himself in front of it, looking out. “You sent the invitation. Why am I here?”
Someone cleared his throat.
“It concerns the murder of your brother, of course,” said the magistrate, his voice bristling with frustration. “The details are not fit for a young lady to hear.”
“You mean this young lady?” Michael turned and gestured to Miranda. “The same one you interrogated—no, bullied—only a few days ago? I expect she can stand up to whatever you have to tell me now.” His gaze flicked over to Varden, who stood stone-faced a little behind the magistrate’s chair. “But before we get started, gentlemen, I expect I should inform you that Miranda Holcombe has done me the honor of becoming my wife.”
Varden’s stony expression never altered, but his eyes blazed with a mix of fury and sorrow that might have roused Michael’s sympathy if he hadn’t hated the man. At the same time, he understood how Varden must feel to have lost Miranda, and worse, to have lost her to his greatest enemy.
Michael had felt much the same when he offered to arrange her marriage to Varden, certain she would prefer the Archangel to the Devil’s whelp. In agony he had waited for her inevitable rejection. But she hadn’t rejected him, at least for the purposes of a celibate marriage of convenience, and still he could not take it in. She had made the wrong choice. She was smarter than that. She ought to have known better.
“Have you all lost your wits and your tongues?” said the Duchess of Tallant, breaking into the silence like an ice pick. “What have you to tell us about my brother-in-law’s murder?”
“Ah, yes.” Sir Richard flipped open a leather-backed folder. “We have received the examiner’s report. It appears the late duke did not, in fact, succumb to a blade through his heart. There was one, of course, but the stabbing occurred at some time after his death. No blood came out of him from that wound, you see, although to be sure there was blood smeared over his coat and shirt. Blood was found on his chest as well. A clever ruse, but our examiner is that much more clever. He determined that the blood was applied later, since none of it was found where it most ought to be, on the minute portion of the blade that failed to penetrate the duke’s chest.”
Michael started fitting together the pieces of the puzzle. “What killed him, then?”
“Poison.” This from Varden, who had apparently grown tired of playing wall ornament. “A wineglass was found beside his desk. It was probably half full when it landed, given the stains on the carpet. From what we can tell, he lurched to his feet, toppling the glass in the process, and came around the desk, aiming himself for the door. Near the corner of the desk he tripped and stumbled in the direction of the fireplace. His head struck the corner of the mantelpiece as he fell onto the hearth. Facedown, because his nose was broken and there were marks on his chin and forehead. Later, he was turned onto his back and the knife inserted into his heart.”
“What kind of poison?”
A pause. “We’re not sure. The decanter was only half full, and the duke smelled heavily of wine, although none had been spilled on him. He must have drunk rather a lot before succumbing. We assume, therefore, a diluted solution in the wine or a slow-acting poison, but we have not determined its nature or source. The wine was tested by . . . by the usual method—” Varden glanced over at Miranda. “The results indicated a length of time until a toxic accumulation in the system, then a sudden and deadly consequence.”
Michael had begun to pace the room. “But why stage a fake murder scene by stabbing him? To fuddle up the time of death and establish an alibi?”
“I’m more inclined to think he was concealing the motive. If we had put down the killing to a vengeful female with cause to despise Tallant—begging your pardon, Your Grace, but we nearly did so—we might not inquire too deeply into other possible reasons for the crime.”
“If that theory is correct, the murderer had to know the dagger belonged to my wife.”
Varden’s gaze went to
Miranda. “You told us the weapon in question was taken from you by the duke, and several others of similar design were found when we searched your cottage. Is it widely known you possessed them?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“Beata knew,” Michael said. “About the one my brother snatched, at any rate. It’s likely he boasted of it, or made a jest, but I’ll ask the signora how she came by the story. I also want a copy of the examiner’s report.”
Varden and Sir Richard exchanged glances. “That can be arranged,” Sir Richard said distastefully. “But you cannot expect to be made privy to details of our investigation, given that you have impeded our inquiries by falsely confessing to the murder. I should like to hear the reason for your inexplicable behavior, Your Grace.”
Michael advanced on the desk, pleased to see the magistrate begin to shrink back. “Inexplicably, then, it’s simple enough. Your errand boys”—a meaningful glance at Varden—“had dragged my betrothed before you to answer for the crime. What else is a gallant swain to do but fling himself between his fair maiden and the reckless arm of the law?”
“We would have arrived at the truth. As you see, we have done so. There was no need for you to interfere with justice.”
“What justice would that be? You smoked out very little of the truth, from all I can tell. Does Her Grace remain a suspect?”
“It has been ascertained,” said Varden as if pronouncing sentence, “that neither of you can have been at Tallant House when the wine was poisoned. Not long after the duke’s return, a servant procured a bottle of wine from the cellar, removed the cork, and filled a clean decanter, which he then placed in the study. The duke went there an hour later, about one o’clock. You were well on your way to Kent hours earlier, and the duchess’s movements on the day in question have been accounted for. Perhaps she arrived in time to put the knife in him, but she could not have poisoned the wine.”
“I might have arranged to have it done,” Michael pointed out.
“That possibility remains open, and I would not be displeased to have it proven. But I think it unlikely. You are, by nature, a man who acts directly.”
“If it suits me.” Michael’s attention was diverted by his bride, who had gone stiff. Or perhaps he only sensed her disquiet, because she had not moved, looked no different. She was overset, though, or—more than likely—furious. He was fairly sure he knew why. “Am I free, then, to remove my brother’s remains for burial?”
“I have prepared authorization,” Sir Richard said. “The papers you requested will be delivered to you when they have been transcribed. There is one more matter to discuss, however. I gather you have not yet called at Tallant House?”
“No. Is there a problem?”
“Yesterday morning, a foreign young man delivered a letter, purportedly from you, instructing the servants to close down the house and enjoy a paid holiday until further notice.” He pulled a wrinkled sheet of paper from the folder and held it out.
“I needn’t look at it. That’s my letter, and those were my instructions.”
Sir Richard frowned. “We’d thought it a ruse. Last night, with only a maid and a footman still in residence, two men broke in and ransacked the house.”
“Was anyone hurt?” Miranda asked immediately.
“The footman, I’m afraid,” said Varden. “He was knocked unconscious, but has recovered and is at home with his family. The maid found a hiding place and remained there until the intruders were gone, at which time she ran outside and located a member of the Watch.”
“It might have been a robbery,” Sir Richard said, “but I expect otherwise. Although valuables were taken, the men appeared to concentrate on places where papers and records would be stored. They found a wall safe behind a picture frame and blew it open with some sort of explosive. More to the point, when the duke’s study was examined after the murder, virtually no papers or ledgers were found in his desk or on the shelves, and an empty lockbox lay open on the floor. I believe the murder and the robbery are connected.”
The man wasn’t entirely a fool, then. “So do I,” Michael said. “I want, now, the direction of the footman and the maid. By nine of the morning tomorrow, I want every other piece of information you have, including whatever you learned from searching the house.”
“We intend to pursue the investigation,” Varden said.
“Meaning I should keep my nose out of it? Don’t count on that. I intend to protect my wife from your inept inquisitions, and to reward whoever did me the kindness of killing my brother.” Michael held out a hand. “Your Grace?”
Miranda put her hand on his, rose gracefully, and smiled at the chief magistrate. “You were doing your duty, I know, to interrogate me. And you, Lord Varden, have been of service to us all. Thank you.”
The tug on his hand told Michael she was ready to go, and he let himself be taken outside to where the carriage pulled up only moments after they appeared. He was beginning to appreciate the convenience of his elevated position. The young clerk arrived as he was handing Miranda into the coach. He took the folder the clerk had brought him, extracted the papers with the information he wanted, gave the rest to his wife, and closed the paneled door.
Miranda’s face immediately appeared at the window. “Where are you going?” she demanded, blazing with all the anger she had been concealing for the past half hour.
From the safety of the pavement, he grinned at her. “Duchess, I’d take you with me, but I have a lot to do in a short time and will move faster on my own. I’ll tell you all about it later, just before you tear into me.”
Chapter 28
The tearing into began shortly after Michael’s return to the Palazzo.
Informed by a footman that Her Grace could be found in the Sala Fiorentina, he’d crept the opposite direction and taken refuge in the library, meaning to evaluate what he had learned that afternoon and come to several decisions he’d been postponing. But with the uncanny way she had of locating him, she arrived moments after he did and towed him around lines of bookcases and screens to a narrow room he’d never seen before. Outside a large window, trees cast their long shadows over the winter grass. Purple clouds scudded across the darkening sky.
“One day!” She backed him to a picture-strewn wall and pinned him there with her blue-eyed fury. “A few measly hours! If you hadn’t rushed the marriage, if we had waited a little longer, we would not be . . . be—”
“Stuck with each other?”
Her scowl told him what she thought of his attempt to lighten the situation. “Precisely that. Did you know about the poison? That we were certain to be exonerated?”
“No on both counts. But I don’t blame you for being suspicious.”
“I should think not. And now that our sole reason for being stuck has vaporized, how do we extricate ourselves? It’s been only sixteen hours. Would Reverend Filbert and the witnesses agree to forget the wedding ever happened? Perhaps in exchange for . . . Oh, I don’t know. New pews?”
“Not likely. They brought the parish register, remember? Our marriage has been duly recorded and we have inscribed our signatures. Considering it’s a felony to tamper with the Register of a License of Marriage, and that the punishment is death, I don’t expect new pews would turn the trick. Not to mention Hari and your father wouldn’t lie under any circumstance.”
“An annulment, then?”
“We’ve been through all this. There are no grounds.”
She whirled, paced for a few moments, and turned back on him. “In that case, Your Precipitate Grace, I want a divorce!”
“Very well.”
“You said that you would giv . . . what?” She looked as if she’d just run into a wall. “What did you say?”
“If you wish a divorce, I will cooperate. We mustn’t appear to be in accord about it, collusion being an impediment, b
ut I expect we can devise a credible scheme. Except for the adultery portion of the entertainment, which you must, I’m afraid, arrange entirely on your own. Try Varden. Because he’ll find himself bedding a virgin, mirabile dictu, he might even consider making you Lady Archangel. Well, once the scandal has died down, but you won’t be wanting to rush into another marriage. Look where the first rush got you.”
“Rush and push are two quite different things. I was pushed. By you.”
“Dragged, pushed, coerced. To protect you, there was nothing I would not have done. But your life is no longer in danger, Miranda, and I would not override your wishes for any lesser reason.”
“Rubbish. You override them all the time.”
“To be perfectly accurate, I ignore them. I am not used to considering what someone else wants, nor have I generally cared. You’d not have put up with that for very long, I am sure, and rightly so. But my behavior is no longer your concern.”
“No.” Teeth appeared, nibbled at her lower lip, and vanished again. “Not when the marriage is severed. That will take some time, I imagine.”
“Oh, yes. But I’ll not require you to keep up pretenses in the meantime. In fact, we should separate as soon as possible, to demonstrate that the marriage is insupportable to us both.”
She put her hand on the back of a chair. “As you say. Pardon me if I appear to be quarreling with you. I’d not . . . not expected you to be so eager to be rid of me.”
“My eagerness is to please you. Only that. My own wishes are irrelevant here.”
“That’s not fair. Of course they are relevant. If given your choice, what is it you would want?”
“That’s easy enough. Easy to answer, at any rate. I’d want to be married to you for all of my life.”
“Oh.” She flushed. Looked down at her wriggling hands, clasped together but about to fly apart. “I had no idea. Before the wedding, you agreed to a divorce. You just agreed again.”