When We Touch

by Heather Graham

  But that didn’t make the beautiful, too-young bride a murderess.

  “Arianna, I’m so sorry, but please!” he said to her softly. “Your father’s death is a tragic loss, but he was an old man. Arianna, he might well have been a grandfather the year you were born. He was well into his seventies.”

  “She knew it! Knew he was old, with a poor heart, when she married him.”

  “No one ever suggested he had a poor heart, Arianna.”

  “She knew it! Somehow.”

  “Arianna, please. Harboring these thoughts will not help you with your loss and grief.”

  “But hating her does help me, Jamie. Hating her, and . . .”

  “And what?” he asked sharply.

  She shook her head, but he was afraid he knew what she might have intended to say. Hating her and . . . planning revenge!

  “Arianna, I wish so badly that you would believe me, trust in me.”

  She stepped back, away from him. Her face remained tear-stained and stricken, but she suddenly seemed to have gained a certain strength. “She’s bewitched you as well.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said harshly.

  Arianna couldn’t know what had been between himself and the young widow, but his own sense of guilt and wrong stirred hard within him. Bewitched, yes, it would be easy to believe that she had special powers, and therefore, had seduced him into sin. But he had simply wanted her, and resented Charles. He hadn’t wanted his uncle to die, and he was equally certain, in truth, that she had certainly not anticipated the death of Lord Charles, either.

  “Look at you! Your beloved uncle and mentor has perished at her hands, and you are defending her!” Arianna accused.

  He sighed. “Arianna, you are far too young and naive—”

  “No, don’t even make such a suggestion, Jamie. I’m neither that young, nor naive. She gave my father something, probably slipped it into his champagne. Some substance that would—along with her oh so subtle charms—would cause his heart to fail. She knows exactly what she is doing. You are the one who is naive, Jamie!”

  Right or wrong, anger swept through him like lava. He stared at her very coolly. “Arianna, please don’t suggest that I’m an idiot. You will only make fools of both of us. And perhaps you should look to finding a way to get along with the woman.”

  Arianna frowned. “Why?”

  “I’m not certain, but your father was extremely anxious for you to have some guidance as you reached your majority and made your debut among the Ton. If I’m not mistaken, she will have been appointed your guardian for the next several months.”

  Arianna stared at him, stricken. She shook her head. “Oh, no! I was his daughter. I’m certain my father saw to my inheritance.”

  “So he did. You are a very rich young lady. Unfortunately, you’ve not quite reached your birthday. And I believe you will discover that your stepmother is legally your guardian.”

  She gasped out loud. “No, Jamie, you inherit the title and the estate. You must be my guardian, certainly.”

  “I don’t believe that your father’s will is known to anyone in exact terms—other than his solicitors. Yet, how very sad. He has not been dead a day, and already his heirs are arguing over the bounty he has left behind.”

  That, at last, brought the anger and resentment slipping from her eyes . . . and tears filling them once again.

  Jamie didn’t know whether it was better for her to be miserable, or filled with such fury and a blind sense of justice that she was . . .

  Dangerous.

  “Arianna?” He took a step toward her, trying to offer a caring shoulder to cry on once again.

  She accepted a hug, but stepped back quickly. “I’m all right, Jamie.”

  “Really?”

  “I just need . . . to be alone.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Absolutely. Please, Jamie, I’ve lost him! I was gone, at school, I so seldom saw him . . . and now, he’s gone. I need to mourn for him in my own way now.”

  “I’m here if you need me.”

  She sniffed and nodded.

  He studied her carefully. “Arianna, please, throwing about accusations that she killed your father will just create greater pain for all of us.”

  “Why? Are you afraid that they will discover I’m right?” she demanded.

  He sighed. “No, not in the least. And there is going to be an autopsy.”

  “Ah!” she cried with pleasure. “So—the doctors even believe she might have murdered him.”

  He couldn’t contradict that. “The point is, you running about and screaming will only draw scandal upon the family.”

  “The wedding was scandal enough,” she said icily.

  Jamie sighed. “Arianna, I’m not particularly one to care much what is said myself. But you’re young now. And it may prove wise that you care, because, in the future, there might be a young man. And though he will surely love you with all his heart for you and you alone, he may be a man of note, a nobleman, perhaps, with a family determined that he marry a young woman of good reputation.”

  “As I’ve just said, the wedding was scandal enough.”

  “Your father’s choice, not yours. But if you run about saying these things, your name could become tainted with every manner of evil thing said.”

  “If there is to be an autopsy, I’ll not say another word. But what will you do, Jamie, if it’s proved that she did do something?”

  He stared at Arianna and answered flatly, “I’ll see that she is prosecuted.”

  “Hanged!” Arianna said.

  “I disagreed with your father’s decision to marry, Arianna, but I don’t believe that she’s guilty of any wrongdoing in his death. If it proves to be true, then I will see that she’s prosecuted.”

  “Hanged.”

  “We’ll not go in circles here, Arianna. I am not judge and jury.”

  She nodded, then, at last. And huge tears of loss came to her eyes again.

  “Arianna—”

  “I’m fine, Jamie. Honestly. As I said, I just need to be alone.”

  At last, not at all comfortable, Jamie decided that maybe he had best leave her be.

  * * *

  When he was gone, Arianna closed her door. And locked it.

  Tears streamed down her face, and she walked about the room, swearing. Swearing in English, and then in French.

  Jamie would be appalled if he heard her!

  But Jamie continued to think of her as a child. A child! No, not at all. But he’d never understand such things. Neither he nor her father would have ever suspected the way the highborn young ladies had managed to slip beneath the noses of their guardian nuns.

  But now . . .

  School days were over. The point was that she was really far more mature and world-wary than Jamie would ever suspect.

  And her father was dead.

  And that wicked witch might be her guardian until her birthday.

  No . . . never. Never!

  Her birthday was just a matter of months. And what did that matter? The wicked witch might very well have murdered her father, no matter what Jamie had to say. A single day with that hateful woman having any kind of say over her whatsoever was too much!

  She wouldn’t allow it, she simply wouldn’t allow it!

  But that was not the worst of it. One way or another, with assistance or pure cunning, the woman had murdered her father. And she had to pay for it. Except that not even Jamie would accept the fact that murder had taken place. There was going to be an autopsy. That might prove that some foul play had befallen her father. But what if the autopsy showed nothing? Then, Jamie would never prosecute, never insist that she answer before a court of law, or even bring up such a matter to the Queen.

  Arianna felt a new stream of tears well from her eyes.

  She had to pay. The witch had to pay!

  But she had said that she wouldn’t run about casting out wild accusations. The family could not take a
nymore scandal. Because, Jamie had said, one day, it might matter to her. But it wouldn’t. Nothing could matter anymore. She wouldn’t fall in love with any gentleman or nobleman of esteem, because her father was gone, and . . .

  She hesitated. And once again, found herself wondering just who that man had been. Handsome, charming . . .

  A guest at her father’s wedding. He had assumed she was a servant, and still, he had looked at her with such regard. She might, one day, fall in love with such a man . . .

  No! How could she even be thinking about such a thing when her father was dead?

  Sitting on the foot of her bed, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her father! She must think only about her father right now, and the fact that he had died at that woman’s hands. What if there was no justice to be had for her father, legally, in a court of law?

  Somehow, such a malicious and horrible creature must be punished.

  She was going to have to do something about it, and the sooner she moved, the better.

  She needed help, though, that was certain.

  For a moment, she paused. Then she swung her door open and went in search of Mrs. Whitley.

  Chapter 10

  For Maggie, the days began to pass in a blur.

  She had not intended to take any of the laudanum—she had known far too many women who had come to depend on it to deal with headaches, backaches, female aches, and even the simple ache of ennui.

  But by the afternoon of the first day following her wedding, she discovered that she could survive what had happened, the arrangements, her horrible sense of remorse and guilt, and even the way she felt about knowing that she would never live through such a night again—with laudanum.

  And so, the first two days following Charles’s death became manageable. She simply spent them in her room, and she asked Fiona to see that her meals were brought and that she wasn’t disturbed.

  She awaited the results of the autopsy.

  And at last, they came.

  There was no hint of poison to be found in his body. His heart had simply failed him.

  When the information was brought to her by her brother, she barely acknowledged what he said. That Justin was concerned was evident.

  “You should be jubilant,” he said. “You might even run around screaming and proclaiming your innocence. Of course, that wouldn’t be in the best of taste, but . . .”

  She felt no real pleasure at being vindicated. Those who condemned her as a murderess would continue to do so. Of course, she might be grateful that there hadn’t been poison in his system administered by someone else—she would still have been arrested for the deed!

  And yet, thanks to the laudanum, she felt very little.

  “Now it’s time for the wake, and funeral,” Justin told her. “Maggie, whatever is wrong with you? Proprieties must now be met.”

  “I know.”

  “You’ll have to be present, and present this evening. Charles will have his wake in the grand salon, in the house.”

  “Of course.”

  “Maggie—”

  “Justin, please. Let me be. I will follow every propriety exactly, I swear.”

  And so she did. And despite the autopsy findings, several things were just as she had expected.

  She was aware that when she was in a room, Arianna was not.

  Her stepdaughter never spoke, and she appeared only when it was absolutely necessary, and then, in the most comprehensive mourning attire Maggie had ever seen. She was swathed from head to toe in a black dress with a sweeping skirt and heavy brocaded bodice, and a veil so dark, Maggie wondered how she didn’t trip.

  When her father was waked in the grand salon, Arianna appeared, then managed to slip away, feeling ill. She refused to speak with Jamie, or anyone at all. Maggie kept her vigil, not retiring until the last of those who came to pay their respects had left.

  Then came the solemn day of the funeral.

  Once again, Arianna avoided a conversation with anyone, lifting a gloved black hand to stave off sympathy from any well-wisher. She was, in fact, so completely immersed in black that, if Maggie didn’t know her stepdaughter was the one joining her and Jamie, she wouldn’t have recognized the girl.

  She expected the ice and silence she received from Charles’s daughter. Thanks to the laudanum, she didn’t care. Arianna was welcome to be as headstrong and wretched as she chose. For her part, Maggie determined not to fight the girl. It was all difficult enough.

  Jamie, however, seemed irritated. But even he seemed to feel he had to give Arianna time to accept the situation in her own way.

  There were other factors that might have upset Maggie more at the time.

  There were whispers that stopped when she passed, and began again as soon as she was assumed to be beyond earshot. There were those who found it all amusing—the poor dear old fellow had gotten far too excited over such a young bride and . . . well, such things happened. There were others who mused that it was quite amazing that she’d managed to wed the old boy, and then have him drop dead so conveniently. Perhaps she hadn’t poisoned him but still . . .

  The Queen herself, surrounded by royals, nobles, and servants, attended the actual funeral service at Westminster; she arrived to a moment’s high fanfare at the stroke of twelve, when the archbishop was to begin the service, and naturally, time was arranged for her to depart. There was a tear in her eye as she listened, and Maggie was heartened to realize that the Queen really had considered Charles a very dear friend. It was said that since her very good friend, Mr. Brown—rumored at times to be more than a friend—had died in ’83, she had depended heavily at times on her friendship with Charles.

  The Queen didn’t, however, stop to speak with Maggie or the family; she gave Maggie a very royal nod before she departed, and Maggie assumed that was her way of expressing sympathy. Later, when the rites were long over and Charles’s coffin was taken away to join others in the catacombs for his eternal rest, Justin told his sister softly that she should be very grateful for the Queen’s appearance, and her acknowledgment. Victoria, by her appearance, had not just shown her grief for an old and dear friend; she had shown her support for Maggie, and that would influence the society throughout London, indeed, through all of the country and beyond. Maggie was vaguely grateful, but still in her blessed, drugged fog.

  She was correct in every way; she painstakingly made certain of that fact, and that she kept a cool distance from Charles’s family.

  She spent no intimate moments with Jamie, but did stand with him and Arianna at the reception following the funeral, and thanked all those who attended, many of whom had just been there for the wedding. Eventually, it was all over.

  Except that it was not.

  That night, both her brother and Mireau planned to return to the house in Mayfair. She was eager to leave, herself, eager to leave Jamie and Arianna to one another, and yet, the attorneys were coming sometime soon, and, according to Jamie, she had to meet with them.

  That night, however, she asked Fiona to see that she was brought her supper in the room, along with a pot of strong tea—and a bottle of stronger whiskey.

  Fiona faithfully followed her every wish, as she always did.

  Except that she must have been worried about Maggie and the laudanum and the liquor, because Maggie had barely chewed a few mouthfuls of some meat concoction and enjoyed two cups of whiskey-laced tea before there was a knock on the door.

  “Please, I don’t wish to be disturbed!” she called out.

  And was ignored.

  Jamie entered the room.

  “Good God, what on earth are you doing?” he demanded.

  “Dining?”

  “You barely touched the plate. And it smells like a distillery in here.”

  She arched a brow. “Drowning my sorrows?” she suggested.

  He walked over to her tray, picked up the bottle of fine, single malt Scots whiskey, and threw it angrily into the fire. She leapt up from the winged-back chair at the hearth
in protest.

  “What on earth are you doing?” she demanded.

  “Growing impatient.”

  “With what?”

  “You!”

  “I’m not really your concern. You said that I had to stay to see the solicitor. After that, I’ll be out of your hair.”

  “What? Are you trying to prove Arianna right?”

  “In what way?”

  “That of being a worthless . . . witch.”

  “You’re simply too kind, Lord James!”

  She stared at him furiously, wishing with all her heart that she had not come to know him so well, and that she were back in her encompassing widow’s weeds, and not dressed in the thin fabric of a cotton nightdress and only slightly thicker robe.

  “Actually, under these circumstances, I am. I don’t remember you being a blazing coward above all else.”

  She was about to respond angrily, but suddenly found herself deflated. She stared at the fire. “Perhaps I am a coward—because I am a worthless witch.”

  “A self-pitying one, so it seems.”

  She shrugged, watching the flames, then stared at him. And to her horror, tears, which surely, she should have been out of, sprang to her eyes.

  “What if she is right?” she whispered.

  “You are a worthless witch?” he queried.

  “Perhaps I killed him,” she said.

  “Did you poison him?” Jamie asked pointedly.

  “No! You know that—there was an autopsy!”

  “Shoot him, stab him?”

  “Good God, you know that I did no such thing, whatsoever!”

  “Then how did you kill him?”

  She paced before the fire, exhausted, nervous. “I . . . I . . . oh, God!” There was too much laudanum in her. That should have made her half asleep, apathetic, calm, and silent. The opposite seemed to be occurring. She clenched and unclenched her hands, staring at him, groping for words. “I hadn’t imagined that . . . he wanted . . . oh! God, I felt mortified. Miserable. And I tried to do what he wanted.”

  “Um,” Jamie murmured, eyeing her, “Charles was a dear man, especially so to me, but if you did what he asked after your wedding, you are hardly responsible.”