Papa had brought in Dr. Abernathy, a brilliant Scottish physician, to examine the corpse. Yesterday afternoon, the doctor had presented his findings to the family and Andrew.
“I believe the cause of death was poisoning,” Dr. Abernathy had said in his strong burr. “The man was otherwise healthy, the wound on his shoulder nearly healed. Most telling, I found several dead rats by the pool of his vomitus. I tested some of the remaining cognac on other rats: all of them died.”
According to Dr. Abernathy, foxglove was the likely toxin as it was fast-acting, symptoms occurring within half an hour of administration. Foxglove often went undetected for it mimicked the signs of a heart ailment, accompanied by slurred speech and flushing of the skin. At the physician’s description, Rosie had had a sudden, jolting memory: the smell of vomit on Daltry’s breath, his garbled speech and red face on their wedding night. She’d attributed it to his drinking—but what if it he’d been poisoned?
What if Daltry had been murdered?
She recalled that he’d been absent for two hours before coming to her room. What if he’d met with the murderer then and been given the poisoned beverage? When she’d blurted her suspicions, the energy in the room had grown even darker.
“That makes sense,” Andrew had said, his jaw hard. “Whoever murdered Daltry did so expecting to get their hands on his money. When instead Primrose inherited everything, the murderer then tried to eliminate her as well.”
“We’re back to Daltry’s relatives,” Papa had said. “But which one—or ones?”
“Poison, as they say, is a woman’s weapon.” Em grimaced. “I can vouch for that personally.”
Strathaven’s arm circled his wife’s waist. “So we focus on the female suspects?”
Papa shook his head. “We cannot deny that Theale has the most to gain financially. We must continue pursuing all leads. Whoever the villain is, he or she is damned clever. I’ve had the suspects followed on a few occasions, but none of them have done anything of note.”
“He or she is being careful,” Emma mused, “now that they know they’re under suspicion.”
“Shall I make a trip to Gretna?” This had come from McLeod. “Maybe the innkeep or staff saw Daltry with someone.”
“Thank you, McLeod. An excellent suggestion.” Stroking his chin, Papa had said, “In the meantime, we’ll interrogate the suspects as a group and get their alibis for the time of Daltry’s murder. With the others present, it’ll be more difficult for the culprit to get away with lies.”
Everyone had agreed to the plan. Which brought them to the present.
The clock on the mantel struck three.
“Here they come,” Papa said, his eyes on the street below.
Minutes later, Papa’s clerk ushered the visitors into the office. Rosie exchanged warm greetings with Lady Daltry, the Fossey sisters, and Mr. Theale. She returned Mr. James flirtatious smile with a reserved one of her own and kept her distance from his stepmama, who seemed no friendlier today than she’d been at their prior meeting.
“What’s this about, then?” Mrs. James announced imperiously the instant everyone had taken a seat. “I have prior engagements. Indeed, I would not have responded to these presumptuous summons had Alastair not convinced me that it was in the best interests of the family.”
“My stepmama is all about duty,” Alastair James said in an undertone to Rosie and winked.
The glare Mrs. James trained upon her stepson ought to have melted the skin from his bones.
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Papa said from behind his desk, “but we have come upon some new evidence.”
“Evidence?” The dowager countess looked faintly alarmed. “Concerning what?”
“We now have reason to believe that the former Earl of Daltry was poisoned.”
If the surprise Rosie saw in the office was feigned, she couldn’t tell. Mrs. James paled and exchanged horrified looks with the dowager. Alastair James blinked, then his eyes narrowed at Mr. Theale. The latter, in turn, was looking in the direction of the Fossey sisters, who were sitting side by side on the leather sofa, their hands clutched.
“George was poisoned?” The dowager was the first to regain her voice. “But… why?”
“The answer’s obvious, don’t you think?” Mr. James drawled. “Which one of us benefits the most from his death?”
Mr. Theale jumped to his feet, his mask of amiability slipping. “How dare you accuse me, you bastard. I should call you out, sirrah!”
“Name the time and place.” Mr. James smirked. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Alastair,” Mrs. James said sharply.
“That’s right—I forgot. Of course the great Alastair James isn’t afraid of a duel.” Mr. Theale’s fists clenched at his sides. “After all, you’ve killed before.”
Mr. James rose. “That was a goddamned accident!”
“Once a murderer always a murderer,” Mr. Theale shot back.
“Please,” Sybil said, her timid blue gaze skittering between the two men, “fighting doesn’t help matters.”
“Sit—both of you,” the dowager said. “And finish listening to what Mr. Kent has to say.”
The pair sat, anger and resentment sizzling between them.
“To clear up the matter, I wish to know your whereabouts, what you were doing and with whom, on the day Daltry was killed,” Papa said evenly. “You should also know that my colleague is, at this moment, en route to Gretna, where he will question the innkeep and others to track down the killer. One way or another, the truth will come out.”
“This is outrageous.” Mrs. James’ voice lacked its normal conviction.
Papa opened a notebook and picked up his pen. “Who would like to go first?”
“I will. I have nothing to hide,” Mr. Theale declared. “I was in Brighton.”
As Papa jotted this down, Mr. Lugo said, “With whom?”
“I was staying at the home of Mr. Albert Brace.” Mr. Theale flushed, his gaze trained on the carpet. “His daughter, Miss Bertha Brace, was also present.”
“I was at a house party,” Mr. James said quickly, as if he didn’t want to be outdone. “At a crony’s country seat in Kent.”
Papa’s pen poised above the page. “And this crony’s name?”
“Viscount Cranston.”
“Mrs. James?” Emma prompted, going along the circle of seats.
“I was in Ashford,” she said with clear reluctance. “I fancied some solitude so I did not bring a maid.”
“Am I to understand that both you and your stepson were in Kent that day?” Papa said.
“It was a coincidence.” She wetted her lips. “Kent is a large county. We did not see each other.”
“Aunt Charlotte and I were in Town,” Eloisa chimed in. “I cannot recall for the life of me what we were doing, however.”
“We visited the haberdasher’s that day,” Lady Charlotte replied, “because you wanted new ribbons for the St. Clare affair that night, remember?”
“Quite right,” Eloisa agreed. “And we saw oodles of people there.”
“Were you with them, Miss Fossey?” Emma turned to Sybil.
“No, I was visiting a friend in Lancashire. I didn’t have a maid with me either since my friend lives in a tiny cottage,” Sybil said apologetically. “You see—”
“As I’ve mentioned, my older sister has a charitable nature.” Eloisa’s sapphire eyes were mocking. “She befriends outcasts wherever she goes.”
“Miss Bunbury is not an outcast,” Sybil protested.
“She’s an invalid spinster with no connections to speak of.” With a sniff, Eloisa confided to Rosie, “Miss Bunbury is my sister’s old schoolmistress and forever on her deathbed. Don’t you think Sybil could make better use of her time?”
“I think Miss Sybil’s loyalty speaks well of her,” Rosie said.
Sybil sent her a grateful smile.
“Are we done?” Mrs. James said abruptly.
“I have a fina
l question.” Mama’s emerald eyes circled the group. “How would each of you describe your relationship with the former earl?”
Tension blanketed the room.
Alastair James spoke first. “I’ll say what everyone is thinking: George was a mushroom. The pushy merchant relation that none of us wanted anything to do with until the title fell into his lap.”
“Speak ill of yourself if you wish,” Eloisa said heatedly, “but not of the rest of us. Aunt Charlotte generously entertained Cousin George in our home for years. Long before he became the earl. And Sybil and I were always nice to him.”
“Quite right. And George always made a point of telling me how much he enjoyed his visits,” Lady Charlotte agreed.
“He reeked of trade,” Mr. James said with a sneer.
“Alastair,” Mrs. James said faintly, “don’t be unkind. You were George’s favorite.”
“George had only one favorite: himself. He didn’t give a damn about anyone else. Did you know he used to make fun of you all when he was in his cups?” Mr. James’ derisive glance swept around the room, pausing on each of his relations in turn. “He called you a whiny milksop, Peter.”
Theale’s shoulders stiffened.
“And you, Charlotte, a fat old hen who couldn’t lay eggs.”
Lady Charlotte’s hands pressed to her bosom, her lips trembling.
“He thought Eloisa was pretty,” Mr. James went on. “And a conniving bitch.”
Eloisa’s nostrils flared. “How dare you.”
“As for Sybil,” Mr. James said, his eyes gleaming with malice, “George said she was like cut-rate goods that a shop couldn’t get off its shelf.”
Tears shimmered in Sybil’s pale blue gaze.
Peter Theale surged to his feet. “Stop picking on her, you bastard!”
“Really, Alastair.” Even his stepmama looked uncomfortable. “Is this necessary?”
“Mrs. Kent asked about our relationships with George; I’m answering her question.” Alastair aimed a sardonic look at Mama. “George also thought that my stepmother was a grasping termagant and I a toadying fool who was after his money. There you have it: our splendid family portrait. Now are we done?”
A chilling awareness swept over Rosie. Her dead husband had had enemies—and not just because of his money. Hostility crackled in the room.
“We’re done.” Papa closed his notebook. “For the time being.”
One by one, Daltry’s stony-faced relatives filed out.
As they passed her, Rosie shivered. Which one of you killed Daltry? Which one of you wants me dead?
Chapter Thirty-Four
Rosie awoke, a scream crowding her throat.
Disoriented, breathing heavily, she waited until the tentacles of the nightmare receded. She must have dozed off in the wingchair whilst waiting for Andrew’s arrival. Rising, she went to check the ormolu clock on the mantel: it was nearing midnight? Andrew had said he’d be here by ten o’clock so that she could fill him in on the outcome of the interviews today.
Where is he? Although she told herself that her panic was due to the bad dream, she couldn’t stem the feeling of dread. An icy fear that something had happened to Andrew.
She pulled the bell.
When Odette appeared, Rosie blurted, “Have you heard anything from Mr. Corbett?”
“Yes, my lady. You were asleep when his messenger arrived, so I didn’t disturb you.”
“What was the message?”
“Mr. Corbett apologizes, but he will not be coming this evening. He was detained by a problem at the Nursery House.”
Rosie’s relief dwindled. “What kind of a problem?”
“He did not provide specifics, my lady.”
Agitation thrummed in Rosie. She couldn’t shake off the sense of impending peril, and she didn’t like the idea of Andrew facing some trouble alone. Or, worse yet, not alone. Wasn’t the Nursery House the project that he and Fanny Argent were working on together? The notion of him being alone with that woman and at night…
A milk-fed miss like yourself wouldn’t understand, Fanny’s voice taunted her. Then again, there’s a lot you don’t understand about Corbett here, isn’t there?
Her shoulders tensing, Rosie came to an instant decision. Andrew was her lover. If anyone was going to help him with a problem, it should be her. God knew that she’d leaned on him enough. She wanted to return the favor—and to show that bloody Mrs. Argent that she was no useless miss.
“Fetch my cloak, please,” she said.
“Your cloak?” The maid frowned. “It is late, my lady, and not safe to go out—”
“I’ll take the guards with me. Go on.”
After Odette left, Rosie took out the pistol that Andrew had given her. True to his word, he’d taught her to shoot it a few nights ago, and she tucked it into her reticule for added security.
When Rosie went downstairs, she had a skirmish with Andrew’s guards, which she ended by saying, “If you don’t take me, I’ll hail a hackney and go on my own.” Ten minutes later, she was in a carriage headed for the Nursery House, accompanied by an armed retinue.
They arrived in a part of town Rosie had never been before. Here, the streets were narrow and winding, alleyways branching off like dark veins. Crowds flooded the street, a motley mix of locals, brightly painted prostitutes, and even a few well-to-do gentlemen out to sample the debauchery of the stews. Pickpockets darted through the sea of bodies like hungry minnows.
The carriage turned into a back lane, stopping at black iron gates. Rosie’s escorts conferred with the men standing guard, and the gate was opened, the conveyance pulling into a courtyard which abutted the back of a squat brick building.
“Stay ’ere, my lady,” one of the guards instructed.
A few minutes later, she heard footsteps, and the carriage door was yanked open. Andrew stood there, glowering at her. He was in his shirtsleeves, the white linen over his chest covered in… blood? Rosie’s heart jammed in her throat.
“What the devil are you doing here?” he thundered.
Panicked, she reached out to pat his chest. “Are you hurt? Why are you bleeding—”
“The blood’s not mine.” He seized both her hands in one of his. “I repeat: why are you here?”
His anger sank in. Recognizing that her decision to seek him out might not have been the most prudent, she squirmed in her seat. Her jealousy over Fanny had fueled her recklessness, and one glimpse at Andrew’s foreboding expression told her there was no way she could share that.
“I had a bad dream,” she mumbled (which was true). “When I woke up, you weren’t there, and I had a dreadful feeling that something had happened to you.”
“I sent you a message.”
“I know. And I thought… I might be able to help.” She took a breath and went to the heart of the matter. The truth that went deeper than her stupid jealousy. “You’re always dealing with my troubles, and for once I wanted to reciprocate.”
He stared at her. “You thought you could help me?”
He made it sound as if the likelihood of her being of use was slightly less than the possibility of teaching a pig to fly. And that hurt. While she was used to the ton thinking of her as a shallow flirt, she didn’t expect it of Andrew. He’d helped her to regain confidence in herself, to accept her own desires and the foibles of her nature. He’d protected her and, at the same time, he’d respected her independence in a way that no one—not even her family—had before.
Now, confronted with his incredulity, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been blinded by her feelings for him. The voice in her head that had always whispered that he was too good for her—too good to be true—now declared, Didn’t I tell you, you ninny? You’re merely a pretty ornament, one to share a bed with. Did you think you had more to offer him?
Pain spread like cracks through porcelain. “Do you think so little of me?”
“That has nothing to do with it.” His brows snapped together. “You shouldn’t be h
ere. You’re risking not only your neck but your reputation—”
“Corbett, where the blooming ’ell are you?” Fanny Argent appeared behind Andrew, her gaze fixing on Rosie. “Mary’s tits, what’s she doing here? We ’ave enough on our ’ands without—”
“Shut up, Fanny.” Any glee that Rosie might have felt at Andrew’s clipped words to his employee evaporated at his next words. “She’s leaving.”
“Good riddance,” Fanny said with a sniff.
I don’t think so. Rage spilled inside Rosie, distracting from her heartache. If that… that crone thinks she can get away with dismissing me…
Pulling down her veil to shield her face, Rosie pushed both hands into Andrew’s chest. Andrew staggered back a step, obviously unprepared for her actions—probably because he thought she would be a good little girl and go home like he ordered—and she used that opportunity to hop down from the carriage, her half-boots hitting the ground.
Facing Fanny, she said, “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever problem Andrew is dealing with, I can help him with it as well as you.”
“You think so?” The bawd’s smirk was visible even through the filter of Rosie’s veil. “’Ow many brats ’ave you pulled into the world with yer lily-white ’ands, eh?”
That was what Andrew and Fanny were doing… assisting in a childbirth?
Rosie had never attended a birthing, seeing as she’d been an unmarried miss until recently and she was squeamish by nature. Her belly gave an uneasy flutter, but she lifted her chin. There was no way she was backing down to Fanny.
“I can follow the physician’s orders as well as anybody.” She prayed this would be limited to fetching things like hot water, towels, and whatnot—errands that would keep her out of the birthing chamber as much as possible.
“Physician?” Fanny’s laugh was like a slap to the face. “Do you think Corbett and I would be elbow deep in blood and guts if we ’ad a quack around to ’elp?”
Blood… and guts? Eww.
Bile hit her throat, yet Rosie stood her ground. “Well, you have someone to help now. Me.”
Fanny opened her mouth, Andrew silencing her with a glare. “Go inside, Fanny.” His tone was so lethal that the bawd did as she was told. Then he turned to Rosie. “As for you—”
The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6) Page 25