by Liz Carlyle
At that, Lisette’s memory stirred. “You did better than bring her out,” she said. “Your husband settled twenty thousand pounds on her.”
“A decision I opposed,” said Lady Hepplewood bitterly. “But my husband scraped it up—and it should have made marrying her off a simple task. Yet Diana cast aside every suitor until . . .” She stopped, and shook her head.
“Until one day, Anne explained what she’d seen?” Lisette pressed. “That’s right, isn’t it? Anne told you she’d caught Diana kissing Tony.”
“Kissing him?” Lady Hepplewood tossed a derisive glance at her son. “If that’s what Anne called it, then she’s a lady indeed.”
“Mamma, don’t listen to Gwen’s vile mouth,” said Tony darkly. “I never did anything more than kiss her.”
“But she kept throwing herself at you in secret,” his mother snapped. “She kept playing upon your guilt until, in the end, you told me it was Diana, or it was no one.”
Tony turned his palms up, and gave the faintest of shrugs.
“So I did what you asked, didn’t I?” his mother continued. “I went to your father. I told him the business with Anne—with anyone else—was at an end. That only Diana would do, and I meant to announce your betrothal at once. I gave up and gave in—and look what it cost me!”
“Mamma,” said Tony, “I’m so sorry.”
“No, you are not sorry!” his mother exploded. “Even now, all you can think of is Diana! Just like your father, may he burn in hell.”
“Cordelia!” Duncaster stirred irascibly. “My dear, that will do!”
Napier had been sitting quietly, hands clasped loosely together, his elbows on his knees in that way Lisette had come to love so well. It was the posture he took on when he was trying to puzzle something out, or decide what was best done. He was a hard man, Lisette knew, but not an unfeeling one.
He sat up straight, signaling that his decision was made. “Has no one ever considered,” he said very quietly, “that perhaps Diana Jeffers deserved to know who her father was? And that perhaps, had she been told, we might all of us been spared this tragedy?”
“But her father is Edgar Jeffers,” said Gwyneth innocently, “Hepplewood’s cousin.”
Napier slowly shook his head. “I think not,” he said quietly. “I think the late Lord Hepplewood impregnated his mistress—whose name, I suspect, was Jane?—then pressed her on his own cousin. Perhaps in exchange for a position as Loughford’s steward.”
A cold smile was curling Lady Hepplewood’s mouth, and she looked beyond crying now. “Congratulations, Assistant Police Commissioner Napier,” she said softly. “You’re far quicker—and more suspicious—than I. Indeed, no woman was ever caught more unaware by a faithless husband. A man with more loyalty to his valet than his wife. A man I’d loved with all my heart since the day I laid eyes on him.”
“And he thanked you by bedding your young son’s governess,” said Napier, “then sticking her in a house right under your nose, and asking you to practically raise their child. A bitter pill, ma’am, I will not deny.”
“Jane Jeffers was a whore, not a governess,” said Lady Hepplewood.
Napier shrugged. “There’s many a nobleman who still believes in the droit du seigneur,” he said evenly. “And two sides to every story.”
Lady Hepplewood drew herself up, literally shaking her stick at Napier. “My husband never forced himself on any woman,” she said, her voice chilling. “He had no need. She seduced him.”
“And then he called his young cousin back to Loughford, and offered him the assistance he’d so desperately sought,” said Napier. “He offered him a position and a wife he couldn’t refuse. I do not pass judgment, madam. I’ve learnt the hard way I’ve no right. I merely state the facts.”
But Gwyneth was sitting stunned on the sofa. “Dear heaven,” she whispered. “So Diana is . . . Tony’s sister? And none of you told her? That—my word, but that is cold.”
But it was all making sense now to Lisette. Diana’s desperate longing for home. Her diffidence. Her quarrel in the colonnade with Tony . . .
“I think Diana felt cast aside—resented, even—and she’s unhinged with grief,” she said. “That’s all, I think, it would have taken: an explanation why they could not marry. Diana accounts Loughford her home—and Tony and his late father the only people who ever loved her. Her father Mr. Jeffers likely just resents her. She needed to know the truth.”
“And I shall tell her before the day’s out.” Tony had hung his head. “I should have done, the moment I learnt the truth.”
Instead, he’d clearly given in to his mother’s entreaties not to share what he’d been told—and what son would not have been tempted? But at what price? The price of Diana’s sanity?
Dr. Underwood, apparently, feared the worst. “With all respect, Lord Hepplewood, it may be too late,” he gently cautioned. “Once a fragile mind has broken—a psychosis they call it nowadays—there is oftentimes no returning to reality.”
Lady Hepplewood had turned her back, and returned to the French windows to stare out into the gardens. Duncaster was shaking his head.
“I never would have dreamt such a thing,” said the old man sorrowfully. “But still, Cordelia, all husbands have their flings.”
She turned from the window, wrath blazing again. “You, Henry, did not,” she said. “Our father did not. And my husband did not—not until Jane Jeffers seduced him. It is the worst sort of hypocrisy imaginable, this—this utter acceptance of adultery as some small vice to be tolerated. It is ruinous. It destroys every loving marriage it touches.”
“I cannot disagree,” said Napier quietly. “Which brings us to another sad circumstance.”
Tony gave a sharp laugh. “My word! Can there be another?”
Napier shot Lisette a sidelong glance. “I fear there may be,” he said, “though I’ve been unable to puzzle it out. Lisette, my dear, have you anything you’d care to explain?”
Heavens! She’d forgotten the arsenic!
In all the turmoil, Lisette had had time to tell Napier of little more than her suspicions. Now she looked at Gwyneth, hating what had to be said. But she drew a deep breath and began it anyway. “Diana’s grandfather owned a cotton mill,” she blurted. “Diana’s uncle still owns it. She’s very knowledgeable about milling processes and fabrics.”
“Yes, she’s forever rattling on about such things—or used to.” Tony was looking askance at Lisette. “But what’s that to do with anything?”
“There are some fabric dyes—chemicals, actually—called Paris Green and Scheele’s Green,” she said. “The latter is not much used nowadays, but both can be quite dangerous.”
“I’ve heard of them,” Tony snapped. “They have a little copper arsenite in them to hold the color, I think. But they’re accounted safe. What is it you’re trying to make out here?”
“They are safe under most circumstances,” Lisette acknowledged, looking around him at his mother. “Lady Hepplewood, you brought Diana to Burlingame to separate her from Tony, did you not? And somewhat against your husband’s wishes?”
She turned from the window, her face emotionless now. “I could not let them go back to Loughford, living in one another’s pockets,” she said. “Not after Hepplewood confessed the truth. I begged Edgar Jeffers, of course, to send the girl away, but he just shrugged. So yes, I brought her here. I knew Saint-Bryce would soon be widowed, and if it was money and status Diana wanted—well, rank aside, this estate’s worth thrice what Loughford is.”
“And Tony?”
Her eyes narrowed. “And I told Tony in no uncertain terms to go and find a wife—and to stay away from Diana until he’d done so,” she said bitterly. “Loughford or London, it little mattered to me, but he wasn’t coming around her again until he found someone suitable. Instead he wasted better than a year gadding about the gaming hells—and worse places, too, I daresay.”
“It certainly was an all-encompassing plan,” said Napier evenly.
“Still, I doubt the idea of removing in a semi-permanent state to Burlingame was met with much enthusiasm by your husband.”
“Because he had no plan,” she gritted. “It was left to me to clean up the mess he’d made—just as it was left to me, in utter ignorance, to practically raise my husband’s bastard.”
“But Diana was miserable here,” said Lisette. “When she realized your intentions, she became distraught, and played upon Hepplewood’s emotions. She begged him to go home. And since you’d forbidden him to tell her the truth, he tried to placate her.”
“Yes,” returned Lady Hepplewood. “What of it? He doted on her.”
“So he told her to refit all the rooms as a sort of amusement,” said Lisette, “and she did—using neutral colors everywhere, save for one place. In his room, where every element was fitted out in rich, regal green.”
At that, Tony jolted. “The devil!” he whispered. “What are you saying?”
“That Diana poisoned him,” said Napier grimly. “Is that right, my dear?”
It was the third time, Lisette realized, he’d called her that. But she squashed her hope, and forged on with the business at hand. “I think Diana meant merely to make him feel unwell,” she answered. “It was in the wallpaper, you see, along with the draperies and bed-hangings.”
Tony lost what little color he had left. “You cannot mean . . . copper arsenite?”
“Or perhaps a blend of arsenic trioxide,” said Lisette. “I’m not perfectly sure, but it’s all stable when dry. In damp climates, however—or if deliberately dampened—it can prove debilitating, or with direct contact, often deadly. It breaks down into arsenic. Diana knew this. And it’s why she became so distraught when she realized you’d slept there.”
Dr. Underwood stirred from his fascination. “That must be how the footmen fell ill!”
Lisette nodded. “They wet it, tore it down. Breathed it in and carried it out. Even burnt it.”
“My word!” said the doctor. “We’re lucky they lived.”
“But someone did die,” said Lisette quietly. “Gwyneth found some of the green velvet. She soaked it and used it as cool compresses on her uncle’s forehead for a time. Until Diana realized it, and snatched it away. That’s why you felt ill for a few days, Gwen.”
“Oh!” Gwyneth laid a hand over her heart, half rising from the sofa. “Oh, no! I could not have—! I—I just found the fabric. It looked so soft. And Diana said moisture was good for his lungs. She—why, she kept that little steaming contraption in the hearth.”
“Yes, deliberately, I think,” said Lisette. “She just wanted Lord Hepplewood to feel a little unwell. To want to go home. Because ‘everyone,’ she once told me, ‘wants to die at home in their own beds.’ ”
“Very true! Very true!” said Underwood sagely.
“But once he’d got home—probably summoning his son home, as well—then he’d have had a miraculous recovery,” said Napier dryly. “Or that, at least, was Diana’s fantasy. For the family to be reunited at Loughford. For things to go on as they had been.”
“But still, you’re saying . . . that I killed him?” Gwyneth clapped a hand to her heart, color draining from her face. “Oh, God! I p-poisoned Uncle Hepplewood?” She bolted from the room, leaving the thick door open behind her.
“Well,” said Lady Hepplewood nastily, “I hope you’re all happy now. Our lives are ruined.”
“As is Felicity Willet’s, or nearly so,” said Napier. “Two footmen nearly died, and even Gwyneth was briefly ill. This is not just about this—about our—family, ma’am. It is about what we owe to our state and station. About our sense of what’s right, and perhaps our capacity for forgiveness.”
Napier rose at last from the dragon chair, his ruined coat sleeve flapping impotently, his lacerated arm held to his side looking rather like a broken bird’s wing. “And now, if you’ll forgive me,” he added, “I think it best we leave you.”
Turning, he offered his good hand down to Lisette.
Lisette took it, and rose to her feet. “I shall help you up the stairs to bed.”
Napier’s gaze caught hers: wan, exhausted, and—unless she misinterpreted—very fond. “Thank you, my dear.”
“But wait!” cried Duncaster after them. “What are we to do?”
Napier turned and shrugged his uninjured side. “I have no idea,” he said quietly.
“But you—why, you are the police,” said Duncaster fretfully. “We’ve explanations to make that poor girl, Miss Willet. And Diana to be dealt with.”
Oh, now, when it was convenient, he was the police, thought Lisette sourly.
But Napier did not snap back as she feared he might. “It strikes me,” he said quietly, “that it’s Lord Hepplewood’s place to go and make the appropriate explanations to his fiancée. Forgive me if I’m less than certain, but I believe that’s what is expected of a gentleman?”
“Of course it is,” Tony swiftly acknowledged. “And yes, I shall. I—why, I shall tell her everything, and beg her forgiveness.”
And her secrecy, Lisette silently added, if you can get it.
“And Diana?” said Duncaster tentatively. “What do you suggest?”
For the first time since meeting him, Lisette realized the viscount looked deeply uncertain. It was not just that Napier was the police, she realized; the old man was relying upon Napier’s guidance. Yearning for it, perhaps. She forced her hackles down, and joined the others in looking at him expectantly.
“A discreet, quiet confinement to an asylum might be prudent,” Napier suggested. “France, I believe, has some excellent private facilities, though they come dear indeed. Dr. Underwood can best guide us.”
“But mustn’t we arrest her?” Duncaster’s bushy eyebrows elevated sharply.
“I’ve no intention of it,” said Napier evenly. “Call the local magistrate if you wish her tried. But think long and hard about it first. Consider if perhaps, on some level, this family didn’t fail Diana. Consider whether you can prove intent, and how much scandal this family and poor Miss Willet will bear in the doing of it. She’s already facing the embarrassment of a broken betrothal; I rather doubt she’ll wish her name attached to a criminal case. For my part, I’ve recently learnt—and much good it has done me—that there are a great many things in life best swept under the carpet.”
“But what about you, my lord?” said Underwood. “Miss Jeffers attacked you.”
“Oh, I’ll heal up before the month’s out,” he said, “which is just about how long it will take for our banns to be called. As you heard, Duncaster’s keen for me to get on with my life—and my duties to the viscountcy—before the next little family contretemps breaks out.”
“Banns?” said Lord Duncaster. “Nonsense! You’ll get a special license.”
“Well, we shall see,” said Napier, cutting a glance down at Lisette.
“Good heavens!” said Dr. Underwood, rising abruptly. “I forgot to bandage your arm!”
But a rush of relief tinged with hope had just passed over Lisette. She thrust a hand at the doctor.
“Give the bandaging to me,” she said. “Perhaps I shall try to look after him from here out.”
Napier was more relieved than he wished to admit to see the back of his family, and escape to the quiet confines of his own room—to step into that cool, sunlit space with Lisette at his side—even as he inwardly dared anyone to disturb them.
He did not even tell her she oughtn’t come in; she was not a child, and he was not a saint.
Moreover, he’d had the living hell scared out of himself this morning, and he was not ashamed to admit it. For an entire six or seven seconds—an eternity, really—he’d faced the very real possibility of a life without her. And in those few seconds, he’d realized without a doubt that it would not have been a life worth living.
So he shut the door, and dragged her hard against him with his good arm, then kissed her long and very, very thoroughly. And when he was finished, he held her tighter
still, and set his forehead lightly against hers.
“Good Lord,” he said, dragging in the comfort of her scent. “I cannot ever live through that again. Do you hear me, Lisette? Not ever.”
She made him no answer, but she kissed him again, a light brush of the lips. A kiss, he hoped, of promise. “Sit down on the bed,” she said.
“Just sit down?” he echoed incredulously. “A beautiful woman barges her way in my bedchamber, and orders me to merely sit on the bed? I must not be a lover worth my salt, Lisette, if that’s all you can think to ask.”
She smiled up at him—well, not quite a smile, but a curious little quirk—and pushed him toward the bed. “Sit down,” she said again, “because I’m going to wrap that arm. There’s a very real danger of infection still, so don’t be so bloody cavalier.”
“I love it when you curse,” he said.
But he did sit down, and watched with an intense, almost heart-wrenching love as she pulled his desk chair to the bed, then tenderly bandaged his wounds. It took some time, and she worked with care. When she was done, she tore the ends of the cloth, wrapped one end around, and tied it in a tidy knot at his wrist.
“There,” she said, clutching the roll of bandaging in her lap, her chin lowered.
Napier reached out with his good hand, and tipped her chin up. Her eyes were swimming with tears. “Oh, love,” he whispered. “Oh, don’t.”
Her shoulders seemed to draw in, even as her face crumpled a little. “Don’t don’t me!” she cried. “That knife could have killed you! I can bear a great many things, Royden. I can. But that? Better Diana should cut out my heart.”
“Ah, could you not live without me, then?” he asked, holding her watery gaze. “I only ask because—well, I’d as soon there were two of us in that miserable state of existence.”
She dashed a hand beneath one eye. “I can live without you if I must,” she said. “But I could not bear it if anything happened to you. You are the most alive, the strongest, most physically real person I’ve ever known. To me you are . . . invincible, really. But that knife—oh, God!”
