Fear threaded its way through her. “Do you believe my husband was involved?”
“No.” He offered her a small shake of his head. “But I cannot prove it, one way or the other. And regardless of my opinion, all that matters is that others clearly do.”
“I see,” she said.
And unfortunately, she did. Was it not enough to hang an innocent man once, they needed to charge him with a second murder, just to be sure?
She fought off a fresh wave of nausea as Dr. Merial tipped his hat and took his leave. This was not the time to be ill . . . this was the time to act. Because as she knocked on the magistrate’s door, her thoughts tripped over the chilling realization that not only had there been one murder at Summersby, there had likely been two. But whoever had killed Patrick’s father would have needed to be at Summersby before the funeral.
And that meant the list of potential suspects was smaller than they had imagined.
More than the silence, Patrick hated the rats.
Not because they skittered over him as he lay on his bunk, jarring him awake with a whisper of toes. Not even because they gnawed at his food and fouled his drinking water when he tried to stretch those precious commodities. No, he hated the rats because they were free to come and go. They appeared out of nowhere, flattening their rib cages to squeeze through holes no bigger than a fingernail. He could respect such creatures of stealth and wisdom, even as they mocked his own desperate straits.
But he didn’t have to like them.
He had no idea how much time had passed. Two hours, two days, it all blurred together with the removal of sunlight. But now the sound of the door to his cell opening sent him scrambling to his feet and the rats scuttling for holes. A light was lifted aloft, and his eyes blinked warily against the breached darkness.
But the sight that greeted him as his eyes adjusted to the light’s intrusion was neither Blythe, returning for another piece of him, nor another awful meal to replace the congealed porridge he’d been given earlier. It was Julianne, accompanied by Mr. Farmington, and the sight of her in his filthy cell proved as sharp and breath-robbing as the light from her lantern.
For a moment Patrick could only blink, his eyes running over her swoop of a chin, lifted in challenge. When Farmington stepped out and the door swung shut behind her, she set the lantern down with the slightest hesitation. And then she flung herself into his arms with a sudden rush of movement. He could do naught but catch her up, having neither the strength nor the good sense to push her away.
He held her a long, trembling moment, though he was sure he would sully her merely with the air he exhaled from his lungs. He absorbed the feel of her, shored up his reserves in preparation for the time when that door would swing shut on her and he would be wrapped in darkness again. Her hands scraped against his injured ribs, and the slight groan of pain gave him away.
She drew back and peered up at him. “What have they done to you?” she whispered, her hands cupping each side of his face. “What have I done to you?”
He winced against the stark questions he saw there, and the way her fingertip traced some unseen injury below one of his eyes. “It is nothing, Julianne.” He set her away from him with jaw-gritting determination. “Why in the devil did you come here? I specifically asked you not to. These are not kind men who hold me.”
“You didn’t ask me, Patrick, you ordered me about as if I hadn’t a choice in the manner. Which, of course, I do. Mr. Farmington was not pleased with my request to visit you this morning, but I eventually talked him around.” She untied the string to her bonnet and removed it carefully from her head. “We’ve a quarter hour. I would not spend it arguing with you over whether I should or should not have come.”
Her mention of the magistrate made his teeth grit in anger. Of course the man had permitted her this visit, particularly after Patrick had refused to confess during his interrogation. Farmington probably had an ear to the door just now, listening for clues that might be used in the eventual trial. And what did she expect to do in this hard-won quarter of an hour, with naught but his bloodied person and a squalid cell to entertain her?
He breathed her in as if she were the very air, but she was a gift he could not have, and a distraction he did not want. Even now, her body held in stiff defiance, he could see the cogs in that pretty head turning with ruthless intent. He didn’t want her putting those hidden freckles to the ground and sussing out more danger, not when he wasn’t there to protect her.
“I asked you to stay away for your own safety, not because I didn’t want to see you.” He’d told her not to come, not to meddle. Yet here she was, in his cell, and damned if she didn’t smell like a bloody cake, fresh from the oven, which only sent his temper—and other unnamed emotions—spiking higher. “Jonathon Blythe is not opposed to using violence to achieve his goals, and Farmington proved little better yesterday.”
They faced off, two determined souls, neither willing to give an inch. “I am perfectly safe, Patrick,” came her firm retort.
“The very fact that you are here suggests otherwise. You could fall ill, or be charged with conspiracy.” He stared down at her in growing irritation. Christ, she looked . . . exquisite. Like a flame-haired ghost, haunting his private hell. Impertinent gown she had on too, some confection of air and lace that made her skin glow to perfection, even here in the squalor of this cell. “I do not want you anywhere close to their crosshairs, Julianne.”
A long, wordless moment passed before she spoke again. “I spoke briefly with Dr. Merial this morning. He told Farmington he believes your father might have been murdered. Were you aware such accusations were being lodged against you?”
Her words burrowed into his brain. It was not a new idea, and so he did not react as he might once have, but it was new to hear it fall from Julianne’s lips. “Are you asking if I killed my father?” he asked hoarsely.
“No.” She shook her head, and raised her voice. “It never crossed my mind. I think the more logical presumption is that whoever killed your brother also killed your father.”
“Please, Julianne.” He glanced toward the door. “I would ask you to keep your voice down.”
“But whoever killed your father would have needed to be at Summersby before your father died,” she whispered, still far too loudly. “Which narrows our list of suspects down quite a bit, don’t you think?”
Patrick tried to find his voice. He’d hoped Avery’s warning would come to naught, that it was nothing more than a rumor, a twisting of facts against him. He hadn’t truly believed his father might have died from unreasonable circumstances. But Dr. Merial was an excellent physician, as well as a friend. If the doctor believed the earl had been murdered, Patrick was inclined to trust the man.
Julianne had cobbled together a logical, chilling explanation he had not previously considered. He’d initially presumed the person who had wanted Eric dead was someone from whom his brother had borrowed money. But she was right. The pieces of this puzzle could easily fit into a far more sinister shape. He could come up with two men who made sense. Always underfoot. Always wanting more than they had.
A person who murdered an earl was mad, desperate, or stupid. Truly, either of his bloody cousins could fit the bill.
“It could be Blythe,” he admitted. “Or Willoughby.”
Julianne shook her head. “I cannot believe it of George. He would never do such a thing.”
The air between them stilled. “George, is it?” Patrick’s voice deepened with distrust. “I do not like how close you have become with Willoughby.”
“He believes you are innocent. And I think we both know that George Willoughby is far too simple to be involved in such a complex plot.”
“There are layers to both men you don’t understand,” he warned her. Hell, he was beginning to suspect there were layers to both men he didn’t understand, and he’d practically grown up with them. George Willoughby might be too simple to conceive of a murder plot, but he was proving devilishl
y clever sidling up to Julianne.
But he shook off the pull of petty jealousy, and concentrated instead on the facts as he knew them. He could not deny that, given their history, Blythe made more sense as the killer.
“I need to find Prudence.” Julianne’s voice echoed rudely across the low stone ceiling.
Patrick glanced toward the door. He could see a light hovering, in the crack just above the floor. “I am not yet ready to discuss such things with Farmington,” he warned.
“She saw the killer pull the trigger, Patrick,” she argued, though she at least lowered her voice. “If I can put her in front of Blythe, she can identify him.”
“No. If Blythe is our man this is infinitely more dangerous. It is not safe for you to be involved.” Hadn’t his cousin already proven himself capable of violence, especially when expended in the name of a cause he believed in? But what was the cause here? Patrick could think of little by way of human emotion that could justify such an urge as murder. Love and family certainly knocked around at the top of that list. In this moment, he could well imagine killing someone who threatened those he loved.
He refused to be moved by the flash of hurt surprise on his wife’s face. After so much recent loss in his life, the thought of losing her was untenable. Quite simply, saving her neck was worth risking her ire.
“I am more capable than you credit me.” Her voice remained calm, though her words were thickened with distrust. “I would not say anything that would alter your defense.”
“Christ above, Julianne.” The devil take it, she made him feel bloody powerless. “I am not worried about the danger in what you might say. I am worried about what the killer might do. To you. Whoever this is, he is a dangerous man. I will not have you in harm’s way.”
The door swung open. Farmington’s shadow fell across them, dividing them more effectively than any fence. “Your time is up, Lady Haversham,” he told her, his face unreadable.
Patrick shook off the thought of the coming darkness and the rodents that would emerge with it. Any thought of his own discomfort paled in comparison to the worry that sliced through him now. “For God’s sake, please do not investigate this any further on your own,” he told her, not even caring that Farmington could hear every word of their exchange now. “It is too dangerous.”
And I do not want to lose you too.
“I will be careful,” was her only response. And then she stepped out of the cell and the darkness closed in once more.
Patrick stared at the place where she had just stood, imagining he could still see her, still smell her unique fragrance. It was a hell of a thing to be locked in gaol while your wife ran amok. Impotent rage streaked through him as he reimagined their conversation and still arrived at the same maddening conclusion.
She was going after Prudence. He could see it in the tilt of her jaw. Fear was a paralyzing thing, and he was undeniably afraid for her.
Because if she insisted on investigating these events on her own, he was terrified she could very well find herself the killer’s next victim.
Chapter 25
Two things soon became clear. Prudence was proving devilishly difficult to find.
And George Willoughby was trying to drive Julianne mad.
Whereas the gentleman had once been content to merely offer his smiles and besotted glances, he now turned himself over to the business of making himself indispensable. He fetched her slippers. Insisted on reading to her, as if it was too taxing for her brain to hold a book and be female. He used words like “rest” and “gentle” and “please.” In his efforts, she could see echoes of those men of the ton who had pursued her these past three Seasons, men who saw her only as an object to be admired, petted, cosseted.
Far from making her feel better, it made her miss her husband. Not because she required male attention, but because she was beginning to realize why she had been attracted to Patrick in the first place. In contrast to Willoughby’s fawning attentions, Patrick treated her like an equal. Oh, he argued with her. Ordered her about rudely at times, and railed against her at others. Pushed her against walls and kissed her senseless. But never did he treat her as though she was some fragile flower, bound to be crushed beneath his boot with a single misstep, not even when he was truly—and reasonably—worried for her safety.
Worse, she’d been unable to locate Prudence, despite two more trips into town. The former maid had completely abandoned her post at the seamstress’s shop, and it seemed likely that she—and Julianne’s five sovereigns—were now in Leeds, blending into the working-class woodwork there. With MacKenzie not yet returned from London and Farmington refusing her requests to see Patrick again, she felt shackled by ineptitude, and desperate to do something. Anything.
Anything except tolerate Willoughby.
“You should accompany me to church today,” George said as he followed her to the breakfast table on Sunday morning.
Julianne glowered at him as she settled into her chair. When had he stopped asking questions and begun presuming he knew her mind? “Actually, I had thought to take a trip into Leeds.”
“Is that wise?” He moved to pour her a cup of tea at the sideboard. “You seem out of sorts. And Leeds is some distance away.”
She couldn’t deny she felt out of sorts. A faint sense of nausea had trailed her all week, but it seemed to have grown claws this morning. “Nonetheless, I have business there. You should ask someone else to accompany you to church. The dowager countess, perhaps. And I feel sure Aunt Margaret would be willing to accompany you, if you ask her.”
“Sitting in church with Aunt Margaret would make it difficult to pray for her departure.” George set a cup of tea down in front of her and smiled, one conspirator to another. “She’s the only one who refuses to leave, you know.”
Julianne glanced down at her cup, staring at the innocuous curl of steam hovering about the porcelain rim. “Not the only one, surely.”
After all, he was still here, handily underfoot.
The tea was a perfect example. George had taken to bringing her cup after cup of the vile beverage, this one sweetened with honey, that one flavored with rosehips. The thing was, she didn’t like tea, however unpatriotic a sentiment that might be. She would have much preferred chocolate. But she clamped her lips around the thought as George sat down beside her, because to give voice to it would surely result in an avalanche of the sweet drink.
“Aunt Margaret is the only one who has decided to stay on, despite my encouragement otherwise.” George reached for a piece of toast and spread it with jam and clotted cream before laying it on Julianne’s plate. “The last of the guests left this morning.”
Julianne looked up in surprise over the rim of her cup. For the first time, it occurred to her that the table stretched empty on either side. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t normally see her guests with any clarity beyond the fifth or sixth seat—there were clearly no faces to be seen this morning. She eyed the man who had orchestrated it all. George looked his usual benign self. Brown eyes, mild smile. His clothing had been selected to accentuate—if not outright exaggerate—the breadth of his shoulders, and his brown hair had been carefully combed into compliance. But he sounded like someone else entirely.
“You’ve evicted them?” she demanded. She’d scarcely thought of Aunt Margaret these past few days beyond someone to generally avoid, but the woman was not being particularly troublesome at the moment. In fact, given the choice of Willoughby or Aunt Margaret’s company this morning, she’d be hard-pressed not to pick the latter. “Without consulting me first?”
“You were the one who put the idea in my head, asking me to see to the needs of the guests.”
She drew a deep breath. “My husband clearly indicated he wished to extend our hospitality, as his father had always done. You had no right, George.”
“Your husband is not here. And you need to rest.” George reached over and tucked a napkin across her lap. “But do not worry,” he said, ending on a smile. �
�I think I can hurry Aunt Margaret along in another few days.”
“I did not ask you to hurry her along. I do not require your protection, George.”
His hand moved suggestively from the napkin to squeeze her thigh. “Julianne, I want to protect you. And should the worst happen—although I am sure we can all agree we hope it doesn’t come to that—I want you to know that I would fight to keep the title within our family, and offer you the protection of my name.”
Julianne stared at him, incredulous. “What name, George? If Patrick is found guilty and hanged, the title will revert to the Crown.”
The hand in her lap shifted from a squeeze to a patronizing weight. “I was as devastated as anyone when it seemed the title was in jeopardy. But Jonathon Blythe has spoken with several influential people in London during these past difficult months. He assures me the Crown would likely consider a close relative’s petition to be awarded the title.”
Julianne eyed George Willoughby with a dawning horror. Blythe was making inquiries into whether he might qualify to be considered for the title? As far as motives went, it was every bit as logical as the one people wished to pin on Patrick.
“But until it comes to that, I’ll not have you dance attendance on a woman who should have left a week ago,” George blundered on. “Not when you are expecting.”
For heaven’s sake. Shouldn’t George have left a week ago? She opened her mouth, about to snap that she was most assuredly not expecting anything but his own swift departure, when Mr. Peters stepped into the dining room and cleared his throat.
“Mr. James MacKenzie has arrived, my lady. I’ve brought him straight in, as you requested.”
“Oh, thank heavens.” Julianne twisted around in her seat, grateful for a reprieve from the unpleasant surprise George Willoughby was turning out to be. Her stomach cartwheeled at the sight of James MacKenzie, looming tall behind the butler’s shoulder. His clothes bore the imprint of travel, and his face was marred by a new slash of beard. But she had never been so glad to see a dusty, dirty soul in her life.
Moonlight on My Mind Page 25