by M C Beaton
“She has confessed to the murder of the Countess of Torridon?”
“Right down to the amount of poison, why she did it, and where she put it. Seems she was blackmailing the countess over the deception and when the earl found out his wife was not pregnant, the countess told Clarisse to hand back all the gowns and jewels and take herself off to the streets.”
“But why poison her?” exclaimed Letitia. “Even cast off without a reference, she could have found something, and surely she could have sold the gowns and jewelry to keep her for some time.”
“It was the idea of handing them back,” said Sir Charles. “Told Hughes she couldn’t bear to part with even a shred of cloth. Said when she sold that brooch to Rundell & Bridge, she cried the whole way home. Mad. Quite mad.”
Letitia clasped her hands. “But this is wonderful, Sir Charles. We must go and tell them immediately.” She blushed rosy red as she remembered what the couple upstairs were doing.
“Forget about them,” said Sir Charles. “It’s always them.” He saw a footstool in the corner, fetched it, and carried it toward her.
The library door opened and Peter stood there. “I heard you were come, sir,” he said. “I wondered if there was any news.”
Sir Charles threw down the footstool. “Is there no privacy in this house?” he cried.
Letitia put a hand on his shoulder. “Peter deserves to hear how clever you have been, Sir Charles. After all, it was Peter who found her.”
He sighed and then patiently told Peter all about how Clarisse had been tricked into making the confession.
“She cannot have trusted Hughes,” said Peter.
“No, Hughes thinks that after she had told him all, she realized that even if he did not betray her, it was more than likely she would be caught before she could get a ship to take her across the Channel. Sometimes one has to wait two weeks before a boat can sail. Or perhaps, after telling him everything, the full enormity of what she had done struck her. We will never know.”
“Never know what?” said the earl’s voice from the doorway. Matilda was standing beside him, looking happy. Letitia noticed that Matilda’s gown had been securely pinned at the breast and blushed, remembering that scene in the drawing room.
“Sir Charles has catched that murderess!” cried Peter, and so Sir Charles had to tell his story again when all he wanted was to be alone with Letitia.
“This calls for a celebration,” said Matilda. “Come upstairs to the drawing room, Sir Charles. We shall drink to your success, and,” she said, taking the earl’s hand in her own, “to my future marriage.”
Letitia hugged Matilda, wished her well, and kissed the earl on the cheek. Then as the earl and Matilda were leaving the room with Peter behind them, Sir Charles saw Letitia was about to follow them. He pulled her back and closed the door.
“Stay right there,” he ordered. He placed the footstool firmly in front of her and climbed up on it.
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked anxiously into her warm brown eyes. And the normally elegant and mannered Sir Charles Follett blurted out like a schoolboy, “Can I marry you?”
Oh, how she smiled and how her eyes glowed and how she laughed before she said, “I thought you would never ask me.”
He took her face in his hands and kissed her gently on the lips. It was like kissing summer, he thought in an incoherent way, warmth, and sunshine, and fields of flowers.
Letitia swayed in his arms, hearing all the church bells of London crashing a wedding peal in her ears.
When she could speak, she said softly, “Would you mind very much if my wedding gown were of gold silk?”
“I would not mind if you were married in rags,” he said fervently. “But why?”
“Because… because… oh, Charles. Kiss me again!”