by Dawn Brower
She would have stayed with him longer, but the funeral guests would be arriving soon, and she needed to make sure all the preparations were in order. She followed Nicholas out into the hall, her bones already aching with a deep-set weariness.
“Why don’t you go up to your chambers and rest for a bit?” Nicholas asked, worry etched deep into his handsome face. “It’s going to be a long day.”
Jemma shook her head. “If I’m going to make it through this day, I have to keep busy.”
“Idle hands are the devil’s work, I suppose.” Nicholas shrugged. “Have you been sleeping at all?”
“Some.” Jemma forced a smile, not wanting Nicholas to worry about her. As the Duke of Wycliffe, and manager of two large, separate estates, he had his own concerns.
Nicholas set down the tray by the door. “Some is better than none. I’ll have Felicity make you a draught.”
Jemma smiled again, this time genuine. “That would be lovely.” Felicity was a brilliant alchemist; she delighted in developing concoctions in her laboratory.
“You know I’ll be here for you.” Nicholas draped an arm around her shoulder, pulling her close to him in a comforting embrace. “As will Felicity, and Teddy and Claire too. We’ll get through this together. Philip’s killer is gone, so at least we have justice.”
Jemma nodded, pulling back from him. She didn’t dare tell him what she suspected. She’d told no one but Felicity and Claire, and they’d vowed to keep it a secret, even from their spouses. Claiming a peer murdered someone was a huge accusation to make, especially when it was the new heir, and the victim was his own brother.
No, she needed evidence. Solid, incontestable proof that David had something to do with Philip’s death.
She swallowed down her panic, following Nicholas from the room. She could do this. She’d do anything if it meant answers—even face Philip’s old friend Gabriel Sinclair again, a man she hadn’t seen in three years.
A man who had kissed her with more passion than she’d ever thought possible.
A man she could never, ever have.
Three years ago, with her family already embroiled in scandal, she couldn’t risk breaking her engagement to Philip. She’d needed the goodwill that came with marrying into Philip’s family. As Jemma Gregory, she couldn’t pave the way for Rosie to return to London, but as Jemma Forster, she thought she might have a chance. She hadn’t counted on Rosie wanting to stay at the convent.
So she told Gabriel the kiss was a mistake, the product of too much claret.
It was the only lie she’d ever said to him.
Then Gabriel had been promoted with Bow Street, and he’d stopped coming to the Forster family parties. She’d hoped—prayed, even—that once he was gone, she’d stop thinking about him. Stop wanting him. Stop waking in the middle of night, wishing he was the one asleep by her side.
If only it had been that simple.
In comparison to the great cathedrals of London, the Church of All Souls was small in size, but no less impressive in appearance. Built on land belonging to the Wolverston family, little had changed in appearance since its original construction several centuries prior. Like the family’s estate, the limestone church modeled the old Gothic style: ornate designs, a nave arcade, and many tall, thin windows ending in arcs. Lancets, Philip had told her, named because they resembled a lance. He’d been full of odd facts like that.
Throughout the years, the vicars had obtained an alarmingly large quantity of religious statuary to place in the little crevices made by the lancets. When Jemma attended mass, she felt as though the eyes of six saints and one peculiarly cantankerous Mary sneered down at her from high above in the ogive. It was no great wonder that the majority of her prayers during mass consisted of a simple request that heaven would not reproach her the way those statues did.
Tonight, she did not pray for her own soul. She stood on the edge of the church’s graveyard, hands shoved deep into the pockets of her black cloak, and thought of Philip. The accepting husband he’d been, and the lecherous man with taboo desires that society now saw fit to remember.
“Should we light the lantern?” Her friend Claire Lockwood, the Countess of Ashbrooke, whispered. The moon was but a crescent tonight, and they huddled together underneath a grove of trees.
“Depends on your objective. Do you wish everyone to notice us, or do you wish to remain anonymous?” Felicity asked bluntly. Tact was not the duchess’s strength, although she had grown much in her few years of marriage to Nicholas.
“Anonymous, definitely,” Jemma whispered back. It meant they wouldn’t be able to see as well, but at least the lanterns held by the funeral procession lent enough light to see the service.
Despite the slick of wet grass against her mourning gown from the earlier rain, she was glad to be so far away from the service. She could see the men whispering to each other as they stood graveside, but she could not hear their gossip—and that was fine with her.
She’d heard more than enough earlier, handing out the rosemary sprigs to the vipers who had come only to fulfill their morbid curiosity. While some had been kind, their expressions of sorrow heartfelt and well-meant, others had not bothered to hide their condescension.
She tugged her mourning cloak closed tighter around her, but it did not abate the icy chill that had taken possession of her body. She looked forward to returning to her chambers and taking the draught Felicity had made for her.
The knot in her stomach tightened terribly, as she thought of how Felicity and Nicholas had looked at each other earlier that day. Such love in their eyes—the simplest of conversations became an epic affair. It was the same way Claire interacted with her husband Teddy.
Philip had never looked at her like that. With fondness, yes, but not earth-shattering, all-encompassing passion. Jemma had told herself she did not mind. If he’d loved her, she’d have felt guilt for not returning his feelings. What Felicity and Claire had with their husbands just wasn’t in the cards for her.
Passion was fleeting, she’d learned. Rosie had depended upon promises made in passion, and it had cost her everything. Better then to stick with a man like Philip. They’d been companions, coming together only to try to produce an heir.
She’d thought, for so long, that since she did not love Philip, and he did not love her, she could not be hurt.
She’d been wrong. Oh so very, very wrong.
Standing here in the graveyard, watching as David led the funeral procession, was as hard as saying goodbye to Rosie. Letting out an unsteady breath, Jemma rubbed at her face, drying the tears. At least with her friends, she did not have to hide her pain.
That was another gift Philip had given her. She’d met Felicity and Claire through him, for Nicholas was his cousin. The girls had been a godsend, helping her to navigate the society events that were a necessary part of being the wife of a prominent member of the House of Lords.
“After Mama died, I felt lost.” Claire squeezed her hand, the gentle touch soothing Jemma. Five years ago, Claire’s mother had succumbed to madness in Ticehurst Asylum. Because of Lady Brauning’s illness, Whispers from Lady X cruelly dubbed Claire the Mad Daughter.
“I’m sorry I didn’t know you then,” Jemma said. “I would have stood by your side.”
“I know,” Claire replied. “And I thank you for that.”
“When Margaret passed, I tried to reanimate her corpse.” Felicity pronounced this in the same flat, unaffected tone she pronounced everything, but the quick flash of pain across her features was a reminder that the death of her guardian still stung, five years later.
Death had left its wounds on each of them, but somehow, they had survived. Jemma could only hope to do the same.
Wryly, Felicity continued, “I do not recommend resurrection as a method of grieving. It is apparently frowned upon by the ton.”
Jemma smiled, appreciating her friend’s attempt at humor, dark though it was. “I’ll take that to heart.”
“Coinci
dentally, if you wished to attack David, the heart would be a good place to start,” Felicity suggested. “I suspect it would be easier to proceed with your original plan, but it is always good to have other options.”
Claire grimaced. “I’d say we put ‘stabbing David’ as Plan Zeta, then.”
“Plan M,” Jemma said. “Look at him over there, acting as though he gave a damn about Philip, outside of the money he borrowed.”
“You really think he’s to blame for Philip’s death?” Claire’s grip tightened around the umbrella, her face growing wane. When Jemma nodded, she sighed. “It’s going to be ugly if word gets out.”
“Only the truth matters.” Felicity stuck her chin out, frowning at the group of mourners. “Let the scandal sheets say what they want—it won’t change the facts. If David harmed Philip, then he should be punished for it.”
“Let’s hope Gabriel agrees,” Jemma said.
Persuading the Bow Street Runner to help her wouldn’t be easy. Especially since they’d have to keep it quiet. But she had to try.
The service finished. The pallbearers were lifting the coffin, getting it into position. Jemma’s breath caught. This was it—the end. Claire placed her arm over Jemma’s shoulders. After a moment’s delay, Felicity followed her cue and slipped her arm over Jemma’s shoulders too.
“God, I miss him,” she murmured, as the tears rolled down her cheeks rapidly, blurring her line of vision. Nothing had prepared her for this. The ache of unfulfilled dreams, the loss of a life she’d always thought would be certain.
Silently, they stood there, linked like this, bearing solemn witness as Philip’s coffin was lowered into the hole. As the pallbearers scooped up shovelful after shovelful of dirt, Felicity and Claire remained with her. Only when the last scoop of dirt was dumped upon the hole and patted down did they turn around to leave. Together.
For the first time since Sir John Townsend of the illustrious Bow Street Runners had appeared at her door, the knot in her stomach loosened ever so slightly.
Philip was gone, and nothing could bring him back. She could not change that, no matter how much she wanted to.
But she was not alone.
Chapter 2
This author is flummoxed to report a sighting of Lady Wolverston on Hill Street, which we all remember has been the sight of several terrifying atrocities. Given the recent horrific murder of her husband, one would think Lady Wolverston would have chosen to stay at Wolverston Estate with her husband’s family, or at least at the far-more-suitable Wolverston House in Grosvenor Square. But, after all, Lady Wolverston was originally a Gregory, and we all know that family cares little about their reputation.
-Whispers from Lady X
Wolverston Hall
Hill Street, Mayfair, London
One week since the death of the Earl of Wolverston
Wolverston Hall had the dubious honor of being one of the few things the aristocracy and working class alike agreed upon: the flat-faced, brick-fronted townhouse simply did not belong with the rest of the second-rate houses adjacent to London’s most presentable square. No fault could be found in the layout of the house, which conformed strictly to the Building Act of 1774. It featured a half-moon window above the front door, a canopy that stretched across the three street-facing, regularly spaced sash windows on the ground floor, approximately five hundred square feet of floor space, and the usual steepled roof. Narrow in design, it was joined on either side to townhouses of similar architectures, rented by neighbors who both firmly regretted their long, long leases.
The house had been rebuilt after the Great Fire of London, but that did nothing to abate people’s suspicions. It wasn’t the appearance of Wolverston Hall that mattered, but rather the long, checkered history of the plot of land it sat upon. Everyone knew at least one story about the house, for there were so many to choose from. First, the suicide of the fourth Earl of Wolverston, who had hung himself from the attic rafters. Then, the supposedly accidental death of one of the upstairs maids, who had fallen from the third story window onto the street in one mangled, horrible pancake of flesh and bone. Gabriel himself preferred the one about the thief who stowed away in the wine vault, only to get locked in. When the butler finally found him, he’d gone half-mad from dehydration. Crime, it seemed, did not pay after all.
He recounted these stories to himself as he strode down the street, for they were a welcome reprieve from the memories that assailed him. Fog clung to the early morning air, little wisps of gray mist reminding him of the thin satin ribbons Jemma favored—or had favored, three years prior. He didn’t know what she loved now. That thought shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did.
He kept walking, hands balled up into fists at his side, gait steady despite the uneasiness of his mind. He didn’t want to see Jemma, didn’t want to have to talk about Philip, didn’t want to pretend he hadn’t failed his own friend because he was too damn weak to deal with wanting his wife. He couldn’t shake the thought that maybe if he’d kept in touch with Philip, his childhood friend wouldn’t be dead and Gabriel wouldn’t be visiting his widow.
When he arrived in front of the house, he couldn’t hold back the siege of recollections anymore. Letting out a long, shaky breath, he paused outside. Once, this had been the primary London residence of the Forster family, but Philip had wanted a fresh start for him and Jemma, free from the sordid history of Wolverston Hall. He’d purchased a larger, more modern townhouse on Grosvenor Square and relocated there. Until the death of his mother a year prior, the house on Hill Street had been the Dowager Countess of Wolverston’s residence when she was in London.
Gabriel hadn’t gone to the funeral. He’d sent his regrets, claiming that he was in the middle of an important case. That was a lie—he’d been free. He just couldn’t summon up the courage to pretend that he was the same close friend of the family he’d been before Philip married Jemma. Too much had changed in the last three years.
God, he’d been a bloody fool, thinking he’d have more time to make things right with his old friend.
The gate was unlocked, as it had been when the dowager countess lived here. He gulped for air, his trembling fingers wrapped around the handle. He remembered visiting Wolverston Hall as a boy on school holidays. His own family’s townhouse was fourth rate at best, located in Holborn on Red Lion Square. He’d loved Wolverston Hall—the mystery surrounding it, the grandeur of the Forster’s old antiques. What was de rigueur for Philip was exciting for Gabriel, a treasured memory.
Devil take him. The more he thought about it, every damn good memory of his adolescence seemed to have Philip in it.
Then, his early twenties, post-graduation from Eton. He’d been adrift, muddling along with no idea what to do with his life. Every week, he’d attend the Dowager Countess’s dull as hell dinner parties, where he’d end up lingering at the card tables, wishing the night was over so he could return to the solitude of his flat. Philip never had that problem—he pulled people in with his charisma and good temperament. Everyone loved him, from the older matrons to the fresh-faced innocents in their first Season.
Not Gabriel. As the fourth son of a viscount, his fortune wasn’t sufficient enough to attract attention. There were too many other suitable candidates on the Marriage Mart, men who weren’t so awkward amongst polite society.
“Honestly,” the countess said one night, shaking her finger at him, “you’re worse than a wallflower. I invite you to these parties for a reason, Gabriel. I want you to be happy—you’re never going to find a woman if you won’t talk to anyone.”
He forced himself to open the gate, dully registering that the house was abuzz with activity. Curtains were pushed aside as servants cleaned the windows, the pots of flowers outside were watered, and the sound of neighing horses echoed from the mews. All these things faded into the background as he shut the gate behind him. Three steps took him to the door of the house that had been more of a home to him than his own family’s townhouse.
He brushed his fingers against the black-painted wood, unable to shake the hold of the past.
I took your advice, Lady Wolverston. When the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen came in the room, I introduced myself.
And it had been easy to talk to her, the conversation ebbing and flowing naturally. Never did he feel like an awkward oaf around her. They spent most of the night together at the card tables, chatting about everything and nothing.
It had been the bloody best night of his life.
Until the clock struck nine, and Philip extricated himself from the old dragons clamoring for his attention. He’d sidled over, put his arm around her, and tugged her close. “I see you’ve met Miss Jemma Gregory, my betrothed.”
His world spun on its axis in that moment. Single word sputters were all he could manage. “What? When? How?”
“Yesterday. We grew up together on neighboring estates. I need a wife, and she needs a husband.” Philip shrugged. “We’ll suit nicely, I think.”
He remembered nodding. As if this was the most natural of things, that two people should be leg-shackled for eternity, for no other reasons than their equal social classes and amiable temperaments. In their world, he supposed it was.
He knocked on the door. Harder, louder than was necessary, but etiquette escaped him when confronted with Wolverston Hall and all its ghosts. Why had Jemma wanted to meet him here? She hated this place.
“I can’t explain it,” she’d said three years ago in Vauxhall Gardens, that night when six months of dancing around his attraction to her finally exploded in a fiery embrace. “When I visit, I hear strange creaking noises, which Philip says is just the house settling. But I swear to you, Gabriel, everything feels different there.”
He’d believed her. Hell, he’d told her he’d protect her from the strange, man-shaped shadow she claimed to have seen in the drawing room, the one Philip said was nothing more than a trick of the light. She’d laughed, and said he couldn’t save her from her own wild imagination…but God, how he had wanted to be her white knight. The one she turned to when she needed help. The one she loved, above all others.