by Candace Camp
“Damn, that’s right, I remember.” Ashford agreed. “But…why would anyone want to murder Charity? She’s a likeable gel. Are you sure it wasn’t your Aunt Hortense’s glass the rascal took? There’s someone I can see wanting to poison.”
“George!” Venetia exclaimed.
Dure let out a laugh at his brother-in-law’s words, then groaned and shoved his hands into his hair. “Oh, God, I don’t know what to do. Or what to think.”
“But why did you come to us?” Venetia asked, frowning. “I mean, of course, we are glad you informed us, but…”
“I came because I had to ask you something.” Simon raised his head and looked at her bleakly. “Venetia…where is my handkerchief?”
“Your handkerchief!” Ashford stared at Dure as if he had lost his mind. “What a thing to be thinking about at a time like this! You must have dozens of handkerchiefs, man.”
But Venetia understood the import of his question. Her face drained of color, and she rose slowly. “You mean…you think that I…”
“I know you had my handkerchief—that day when you and I talked, and you began to cry, I gave you one.”
“What the devil is all this talk about handkerchiefs?” Ashford blurted out in frustration. “Venetia, why do you look as if you’d just seen a ghost? What is going on?”
“Perhaps I’d better talk to my sister alone,” Simon said stiffly, his face limned with pain.
“I should say not! You are obviously upsetting her. Damn it, Simon, I won’t have it. Whatever your problem is, you and I shall sit down and talk about it, man to man. Over a glass of brandy. Venetia, why don’t you go upstairs while I try to thrash this out?”
“No,” Venetia replied colorlessly. “You can’t thrash it out with him. It’s me he suspects of murder. Isn’t it, Simon?”
“I don’t know!” Simon cried out. “That’s why I’m here. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. But there was the handkerchief…. I could not forget that. And the reasons you have to hate him.”
Ashford, who had been standing with his jaw hanging open, staring at them, suddenly came to life. Flushing red, he started forward. “You think…that Venetia…that Reed fellow…Hellfire and damnation, man, you are accusing your own sister of murder?”
Simon’s eyes flashed fire. “I am not accusing her of anything. I am simply asking. I have to know. Damn it, Charity’s life is at stake here! I cannot go on not knowing.”
“Well, it wasn’t Venetia,” Ashford retorted. “She was with me that night, all night. I’ll swear to it.”
“But, George, that’s not true.” Venetia swung around to look at him.
“Blast it, Venetia, if I say we were together, we were.”
Venetia smiled tenderly at her husband and reached out to take his hands. “Dear George. You would lie for me?”
“It won’t work, Ashford,” Simon said flatly. “Everyone saw Venetia at the Willingham party, and you were not with her.”
“Yes, dear,” Venetia reminded him gently. “You were at your club, and I am sure there are a dozen gentlemen who can testify to that.”
“But I left,” Ashford maintained stoutly. “I must have been out of the club by three.”
“We both know you were not in my bed that night, though, don’t we? I heard you come to your room, but you never came to my door.”
His eyes slid away. “It was late. I didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Just as you haven’t all these past few months?” Venetia asked softly. Then, as Ashford’s face flushed red again, she shook her head, turning away. “No. There’s no use in getting into that. The problem now is whether I killed Faraday Reed.” She looked at Simon squarely, her chin coming up. “Wait here a moment. I shall be right back.”
She swept out of the room. Simon and Ashford looked at each other uncomfortably; then Simon turned away and walked to the window. He looked steadfastly out into the dark. The air was heavy with their silence.
Finally Ashford said, “She couldn’t have killed him. You don’t know. If anyone had any reason to kill him, it was I, not Venetia.”
“You?” Simon turned to him, amazed. “What are you talking about?”
“The jealous husband. He’s always the one with the best motive, is he not? I could have taken your handkerchief from Venetia’s drawer, you know. I could have killed him and dropped it there to throw suspicion on you. Much more likely a thing for me to do than your own sister, don’t you think?”
Simon stared at him. “My God, George, are you saying that you killed him?”
Ashford set his jaw. “It is what I shall say if you accuse Venetia.”
“George!”
Both men turned to see Venetia standing in the doorway. Her face was white, and her eyes blazed in her pale face. She stared at her husband. “Do you mean that you would confess to a crime you didn’t commit in order to save me?”
Ashford cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Well, I couldn’t very well let them take you to jail, could I?”
“Oh, George!” Her voice was choked with tears. She hurried across the room to him, and gazed up at him, heedless of the teardrops beginning to spill from her eyes and trickle down her cheeks. “You love me that much?”
His eyes shifted away from her. “Of course. You are my wife, after all. You…I…you must know I’ve been mad for you since the day I met you.”
“Oh, George!” Venetia threw her arms around his neck and clung to him. “Then why—why have you been so cool to me these last weeks? Why—?” She broke off suddenly and stepped back, her eyes searching his face. “Unless you thought I killed him, too?”
“Good gad, no. Why would I think you killed the rat? You loved him. I’m the one who lay in bed every night thinking about choking the life from him. Wouldn’t have shot him, though—not satisfying enough. I wanted to kill him with my own two hands. But I couldn’t, of course. I mean, it would have made you unhappy, and I couldn’t do that. You know I can’t bear for you to be unhappy. I will admit I was glad to hear he was dead. But then, every time I hear you crying in your bed at night, I hate myself for being glad.”
Venetia stared at him, puzzled. “Unhappy? You think I have been unhappy because Faraday Reed is dead? That I cried at night because of him? Good heavens, why?”
He looked back at her in equal puzzlement. “Why? What do you mean? Because you loved him.”
“I hated him!” Venetia’s face twisted, as if she had tasted something bitter. “How could you think I loved him still after what he’d done?”
There was a long silence as George gazed at his wife in bafflement. “But you were lovers. I—Weaver followed you. He saw you meeting. He saw…” His voice trembled a little, and he paused to swallow before he went on. “He saw Reed kiss you that day in the park. I knew about your affair.”
“No!” Venetia cried, stepping back from him, her hands flying to her face. “No…Oh, George, you thought—I didn’t love him! I despised him. I hated him. We were not having an affair. He was extorting money from me! That day in the park, he grabbed my arm and pulled me to him and kissed me, but I didn’t want him to! I struggled to get out of his embrace, but he was too strong. And he was only having fun at my expense. He knew how much I hated him, but he knew I couldn’t cry out, because it might attract attention.”
“He wasn’t your lover?” Ashford’s taut face softened as he absorbed this news. “Venetia…my love…I’ve wronged you. Good God, can you ever forgive me?” He reached out and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her and squeezing her to him.
“But wait—” Ashford released Venetia and looked down into her face. “You say the scoundrel was trying to get money from you?” His gaze flew over to Simon. “And you knew about this?”
Simon nodded.
“Why? What hold did he have on you?”
Venetia stepped away from her husband, releasing a sigh. “Obviously I cannot keep it from you any longer. I—Mayhap you will hate me just as much as when you tho
ught I was trysting with him.”
“No. I did not hate you. I could never hate you.”
“Don’t speak so soon.” Venetia closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them and gazed unflinchingly at her husband. She told him her story, of the way Reed had wooed and deceived her when she was young, how he had convinced her to elope with him and then had demanded money not to reveal the blot on her reputation when Simon caught up with them.
As she spoke, anger grew on Ashford’s face, and as it did, her voice began to falter. She finished in a rush, almost in tears at the end. Ashford looked thunderous.
“That blackguard!” he roared as Venetia stopped. “I should have killed him!” He glared at Simon. “You should have killed him, long ago!”
“Believe me, there have been times when I wished I had. I think all our lives would have been much simpler,” Simon retorted dryly. “But there was Venetia’s reputation to consider.”
Ashford grunted. “He was a cur, a scoundrel, a—To do that to an innocent young girl and then have the gall to expect her to pay him to keep his mouth shut! I wish he had told me. I’d have given him ‘full payment.’ You shouldn’t have paid him a cent, Ven. You should have come straight to me.”
“But, George. I was so afraid of what you would think, how you would feel. I was afraid that you would hate me. That you would cast me off.”
“Venetia! How could you think that? I would never have cast you off. Even when I thought you were having an affair with Reed, I never thought of doing that. I simply prayed that it would not last. That you would come back to me.”
“I never left you.” Venetia smiled tremulously at him.
“I know that now. Oh, my love.” He took her in his arms again. Kissing her hair, he whispered into her ear, “Do you think I didn’t know that I was not the first? I didn’t care. All I wanted was you. All I cared about was that it was me you had chosen in the end.”
“Oh, George…” Venetia wrapped her arms around him tightly, crying softly against his chest. “You are the best man in the world. I don’t deserve you for a husband.”
“Nonsense. You deserve much better.”
Simon, who had been watching this emotional scene before him with the distinctly uncomfortable feeling of being a Peeping Tom, turned discreetly away. Once again he gazed out the window, trying to ignore the sniffles and sighs, and the soft sound of a kiss. More and more every moment he was sure that he had come on a fool’s errand. His concern for Charity’s safety had muddled his thinking; Venetia could not have murdered a man—not even a cur like Faraday Reed. She was too gentle, too sweet. She was much more likely to do what she had done: turn to him with her problem. And she would have trusted that he would handle it; she had always relied on him as her big brother.
Now, Charity—she was a woman he could very well envision deciding to take matters into her own hands, even if it meant toting a gun over to a man’s house. She was also one who would be willing to use the weapon if the man attacked her. He had grown too used to Charity’s spirit and independence, and he had started assuming that another woman, like his sister, might act the same.
Simon sighed and turned back to the other couple, who were still locked in each other’s arms, Venetia’s head upon Ashford’s chest and his cheek resting tenderly on the top of her head.
Simon cleared his throat and began stiffly, “I’m sorry, Venetia. I have been an idiot in coming here. I can see that. I just—I wasn’t thinking clearly. I knew it wasn’t you, couldn’t be you, and yet there was this doubt niggling at me all the time because of the handkerchief. When that bloody monkey dropped dead and I realized Charity was in danger, I jumped to conclusions and came tearing off down here to find you.”
“Of course Venetia didn’t do it,” George agreed bluffly. “Thing is, who did? That’s what you need to find out.”
“Will you forgive me, sister?” Simon looked at Venetia tentatively.
She smiled back at him warmly. “At this moment, I could forgive anyone anything, I think.” She crossed the room to him and took his hands in hers. “Yes, I forgive you. It was a shock to me at first, but I can see that it was only natural to wonder, knowing the enmity between Reed and me, and knowing that I had your handkerchief. I am sure that you are wild with fear for Charity. However, I need to return the item in question, anyway.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out a neatly folded white square. “Here is your handkerchief—washed and pressed.”
Simon took the handkerchief, smiling shamefacedly, and tucked it into his pocket. “Thank you. You are an angel not to hate me for suspecting you, even for a moment.”
“I understand. You love her.”
Simon swallowed and looked away. “Yes. I do.”
“Well, come now, and eat with us.”
“No, I need to get back to Charity.” Simon frowned.
“Surely you can’t mean to ride back to London tonight! Why, it’s pitch-black outside, and you’ve already ridden all day. Your horses can’t stand it, even if you could. You need to eat and rest. Tomorrow you can go back. Charity is safe. You said that Chaney is watching over her.”
“Yes. I suppose you’re right. It’s just that I feel so uneasy…. One never knows what Charity might decide to do. Still, she promised not to go out. Surely she can’t get into any trouble before tomorrow evening.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHARITY DROPPED her sewing in her lap and sighed. She was restless. Simon had been so adamant about her staying inside and away from danger that she had not left the house even once, today or the day before. And everywhere she turned, there was either Chaney or Patrick, watching her as if she might disappear right before their eyes.
That odious man from Scotland Yard had come by to ask a lot of questions. He had been by turns sly and humble in a way that made Charity long to slap him, and he had alluded vaguely to “new information,” looking meaningfully into her eyes. Charity hadn’t been able to decide whether he actually did have new information or was simply hoping that he could scare her into saying something damaging about her husband. Charity had told him about the monkey’s death, but, just as Simon had predicted, Gorham had been disbelieving.
She had worried about his visit for the rest of the afternoon, wondering if there really was new information, and if, as Gorham had implied, it was damaging to Simon. She wished that Simon would return so that they could talk about it.
Charity could not believe that Venetia had murdered or even helped to murder Faraday Reed. However, she was a good deal less certain that Ashford had not. It seemed possible to her that George, despite his affable temper, could have risen to a rage if Reed told him how he had hurt and misused Venetia. Throwing the blame on Simon hardly seemed like something he would do, but then, she reasoned, one really didn’t know to what lengths a person might go if he was afraid of being caught.
Chaney stepped into the room, his face, as always, carefully blank, his figure rigid. He carried a small silver salver, and on it lay an envelope.
“My lady? This just came for you.”
Charity brightened and reached for the letter. The writing on the front bore no frank, and for an instant she felt a frisson of fear as she remembered the other notes she had gotten, before she married Dure. But, of course, it was impossible for it to be another like that, she reminded herself. It was Reed who had sent her the notes, and he was dead.
Charity’s name on the front was written in elegant copperplate handwriting, dispelling any reminder of the other notes. Charity slit it open and pulled out the sweetly fragranced piece of paper inside.
Dear Lady Dure,
I beg you will not find me overbold in writing you. Please forgive my importunity, but I have nowhere else to turn. I would consider it a great kindness in you to agree to visit me today. You are such a kind woman that I hoped I could impose on you this way. Perhaps you remember the matter of which we spoke last time we met. I have found that my worst fears are confirmed. I dread being seen, and I kn
ow that, in my shame, you should not be seen with me. Therefore, I am waiting for you in the carriage outside in the hopes that you will ride with me and talk. Pray do not tell Lord Dure or anyone else, or he would forbid you to see one who is so fallen as I.
With highest regards,
Theodora Graves
“The poor thing,” Charity murmured, her own troubles momentarily forgotten as she thought about the poor woman’s plight. Abandoned by some arrogant nobleman—a cad much like Faraday Reed, no doubt. It was she alone who would bear the burden of society’s condemnation.
It didn’t take Charity a moment to make up her mind. She stood up, saying, “Chaney.”
The perfect-mannered butler reappeared almost immediately from the hallway where he had discreetly withdrawn while Charity read her missive.
“Yes, my lady?”
“I am going for a ride with a friend.”
Chaney’s usually expressionless face showed that he was appalled. “My lady! His Lordship said specifically that you were not to leave the house.”
Charity grimaced. “Dure House is not a prison, is it?”
“No, of course not, my lady. But Lord Dure—”
“Is concerned for my safety,” Charity ended impatiently. “Yes, I know, but there’s no call to worry. I won’t be alone. I have a friend, you see, waiting for me in the carriage. She doubtless has a coachman driving her carriage, and he can protect us. We are merely going for a ride.”
“But, my lady…” Chaney was almost moaning now.
“There’s nothing to worry about. I will not be in any danger.”
“My lady,” Chaney reminded her doggedly, using the argument he knew would hold the most sway with her, “Lord Dure will have our heads for letting you go out alone.”
There was a long pause, during which Charity and Chaney looked at one another. “Oh, all right, then,” Charity agreed grumpily. “I will take one of the footmen with me, as well. Will that satisfy you?”
Chaney could not suppress a broad smile. “That would be splendid, my lady.”