Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage sb-3

by Valerie Bowman

  Annie shook her head. “No, no, not at all. I was just making sure I had heard you correctly. I don’t think I ever met a duchess who wanted to visit a farm.”

  Kate blushed. “I know, it’s ridiculous, but you see, I was raised on a farm and I miss it. The animals, the meadows, the fields, the barns.”

  “I don’t know that I’ve ever been to a farm,” Lily said, taking another nibble from her cake. “It shall be an adventure for us, Annie. Though I cannot believe the meadows are much to look at in winter. But we shall make the best of it.”

  Annie nodded rapidly. “Oh yes, a farm sounds absolutely lovely. You must show us what a farm is like, Kate.”

  Kate furrowed her brow. “What do you mean?”

  “Now who is being silly?” Lily asked. “We mean we intend to take you to a farm.”

  Kate’s heart beat rapidly. “Do you truly think we could sneak off to a farm?”

  Lily handed her another cake. “Consider it done.”

  CHAPTER 13

  When Abernathy returned that afternoon to meet privately with James in his study, the news was not good.

  “It appears it shall be a difficult case, my lord,” Abernathy announced. “More difficult than we first imagined, I’m afraid.”

  James sat forward in his chair, bracing his forearms on the desk, and shook his head. “That’s saying something. What’s happened?”

  Abernathy cleared his throat and pulled his ubiquitous stack of papers from his bag. The stack hit the desktop with a loud thunk, and Abernathy tapped the papers with a finger. “I’ve reviewed all of the evidence gathered at the inquest. The witnesses’ statements are most damaging. A number of the servants, including his grace’s valet, and Lady Bettina Swinton overheard the argument between the duke and the duchess just before he was killed.”

  James furrowed his brow. “What specifically did Lady Bettina say?” Ever since he’d heard Lady Bettina was involved he’d been suspicious. Lady Bettina was a beautiful young widow who’d made overtures to James a time or two. She was a bit of baggage that was usually up to no good. A woman who went from protector to protector in the peerage, always vying for gifts and money and power. Yes, James knew Lady Bettina, and he didn’t like her. Not one bit.

  Abernathy fished in his coat pocket and pulled out his spectacles. He perched them on his nose and regarded a single sheaf of parchment that he’d pulled from the stack. “Lady Bettina essentially said what her grace already told us. She heard the duke and the duchess arguing. Then, about an hour later, she went to check on him and found her grace on the floor with his dead body, the pistol on the floor next to them and the duke’s blood all over her hands and clothing. Curiously, Lady Bettina did not hear the pistol shot either.”

  James winced. “It’s not good, is it, Abernathy?”

  Abernathy shook his head. “I’m afraid not, my lord.”

  “What else did you discover?”

  The barrister consulted his paperwork. He pulled out another sheet and scanned the parchment up and down, a frown on his face. “The valet, the housekeeper, and at least one housemaid overheard the argument. The butler says he did not. All of them entered the room when they heard Lady Bettina’s scream.”

  James expelled his breath. “And what did Kate say, when they found her?”

  Abernathy flipped the page. “They all said the same thing. Her grace said nothing. She was perfectly silent, just staring at her husband’s body.”

  James’s jaw went tight. If Kate were innocent—and it was such a big if—that moment must have been horrendous for her. Unimaginable. His stomach clenched in knots thinking about it. But she was caught literally red-handed. Was there any doubt she’d done it?

  “I suppose it’s a good thing that she remained silent,” James replied.

  Abernathy nodded. “Yes. It can only be good for an accused person not to incriminate herself any further. If she’d confessed, of course, there would be no hope of defending her. Though as it stands now…” The barrister’s voice trailed off.

  “There’s very little?” James replied. With a deep sigh, he leaned back in his chair and pressed his fingers to his temples where a sharp headache had begun to form.

  “Yes,” Abernathy replied. “I’ll be honest. There’s very little.”

  James’s gaze met his. “I know you’ll do your best, Abernathy.”

  The barrister plucked the spectacles from his nose and tucked them back inside his pocket. “I will, my lord.”

  “Did you learn of any reasons why any of the other occupants of the house might have wanted to kill Markingham?” James asked.

  “Not one,” Abernathy replied, steepling his fingers over his chest. “The servants all seemed quite loyal and happily employed by the family. Lady Bettina didn’t appear to have a reason to commit murder, nor to stand to gain financially in any way by his death.”

  James let his hands drop from his forehead and narrowed his eyes. “No other possible motivation?”

  Abernathy shook his head. “His grace’s mother was at the dower house nearby that day, but by all accounts, she dearly loved her son and was napping at the time the murder occurred. Her servants have confirmed that.”

  James gripped the rosewood arms of his chair. “What about Markingham’s heir? Who stood to gain the title upon his death?”

  “I looked into that too, my lord. The heir is Markingham’s cousin. His father’s younger brother’s son. A Mr. Oliver Townsende.”

  “I’ve heard that name.” James nodded. “Where was Mr. Townsende that day?”

  “At his town house in London, I’m afraid. Also confirmed by his servants. But don’t worry, I intend to investigate that more fully … and immediately.”

  “What about his wife?” James asked. He was reaching, he knew, but a Society-minded wife might have a motive for murder after all.

  “Mr. Townsende is not married, my lord. Though I daresay as the new duke, he’s become a great deal more eligible.”

  James expelled his breath. “I don’t envy him.”

  “Neither do I.”

  James leaned back in his chair and scrubbed his hands over his face. He felt tired all of a sudden. “Was there anything else, Abernathy? Anything at all?”

  The barrister cleared his throat. “Yes. I confirmed, through several sources, that Lady Bettina and his grace were, indeed…”

  James raised a hand to spare the poor man from his misery. “I understand.” James expelled his breath.

  So, Markingham did have a mistress. It wasn’t just Kate’s conjecture or attempt to deflect the scandal. And somehow Markingham had had the nerve to bring his mistress to his wife’s home and inform her that he was in love with the other woman. Parading his new love in front of Kate, all while denying her her freedom. James clenched his fist. The bloody cad. Markingham’s behavior sickened him.

  On the other hand, such a set of circumstances did seem like something that might well push a woman scorned over the edge. Perhaps even to commit murder. Either way, James needed to discover the truth. He’d begun his association with the duchess with the sole intention of getting his pamphlet written and turning Kate back over to the authorities to determine her fate. But now he had to know. He had to. Was she guilty or not?

  Abernathy gathered up his papers and dropped them back into his bag. “My lord, everything I’ve discovered so far is based purely on the magistrate’s investigation, his notes. I intend to conduct my own investigation next. There may well be more information that has yet to be uncovered.”

  James considered everything that had happened with Kate since he’d met her. The moment she’d named her terms he should have walked away. Lord knew it had been ludicrous to even entertain the notion of taking her into his house. But there had been something about her plea, something that had awoken an emotion long dormant in him. She wanted to live, she’d said. To enjoy herself. And Lily and Annie were right. It was possible that Kate was innocent, that she would be put to death for a crime she
did not commit. If so, and her last wish was to live out her final days in the semblance of normalcy, James had to admit that made sense to him.

  And the very nature of her plea had intrigued him. Wanting to live. Live. God, had he ever had that thought? Perhaps when he was very young. Before he’d realized what his father had expected of him. But James had learned at an early age that life wasn’t about enjoyment. It was about duty and honor and studies and business and commitments. It fascinated him, however, that the last wish of a dying woman would be to live.

  He eyed the barrister. “The duchess has the blackened reputation of Napoleon himself. Even if you conduct your own investigation, this will be very difficult, won’t it, Abernathy?”

  “Very difficult indeed, my lord,” Abernathy replied solemnly.

  James leaned back in his chair and turned his eyes toward the ceiling. He had a very clear delineation in his life. The man who owned the printing press, engaged scandal, and enjoyed a good tale. And the viscount who courted the ton’s favor and who had a pristine reputation second only to Wellington himself. And he had every intention of keeping it that way.

  But first he had to discover the truth.

  He leaned forward and braced his elbows on the desk again. He met Abernathy’s eyes, and gave the barrister a stern stare. “I want you to hire a runner, Abernathy. The best Bow Street has. Spare no expense. I want to know every detail of what happened that day.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Kate sat on the sofa in the library, her feet curled under her. She was writing on a small table that had been pulled up in front of her by one of James’s ever-so-helpful footmen.

  She stared blindly at the paper in front of her. The pamphlet.

  She sighed, twirling a curl around her finger. Writing the pamphlet was proving more difficult than she’d imagined. And she’d never expected it to be simple. She smoothed her hand over the pieces of parchment in front of her. The ink had long since dried. But it just wasn’t right. Not yet. None of it. She’d started and stopped a dozen times already, crumpling up the insufficient words, and tossing them into the rubbish bin.

  She’d begun by telling her story that day. She’d begun by relating her feelings. She’d begun by attempting to explain why she and Markingham had never suited. All of the stories, hopelessly inadequate. Though all of them true. That’s what James wanted … the truth. But which truth? Which one should she tell? Which one was right?

  She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck with ink-stained fingers. How exactly did one explain one was not a murderess? Or, more correctly … how did one explain one was not a murderess when faced with a mountain of incriminating evidence to the contrary? Every word she’d written seemed hopelessly inadequate.

  A knock sounded at the door and she let her hand fall away from her neck, her heart nearly pounding out of her chest. She hadn’t yet become accustomed to the fact that she was no longer at the Tower. A knock on the door there might mean anything from she was being taken to trial to she was being put to death. The constant fear hadn’t left her.

  Her pounding heart soon slowed when she called, “Come in,” and glanced up to see James stroll into the room. The man had one hand shoved in his pocket, his dark hair was perfectly in place as usual, and a hint of a smile played upon his firm lips. Kate glanced away. He was too good-looking by half. She pinched the inside of her arm. It was positively indecent of her to have that thought. Oh God, perhaps she deserved to be burned at the stake for her disloyalty to her poor dead husband. But then she thought of Lady Bettina Swinton spending the night at her house, flaunting her relationship with George, and Kate couldn’t quite conjure the guilt she was supposed to feel over being disloyal to the man even though he was dead.

  She sucked in her breath, doing her best to ignore the clean masculine scent that accompanied James into the room. She swallowed and turned her attention back to her parchment. “My lord?” she said, picking up her quill and feigning interest in her work. “Do you need something?”

  He stopped a few paces in front of her. “I’ve come to ask you something, Kate.”

  He took a seat in a chair across from her and she looked up at him. A too serious look rested on his handsome face.

  “What’s that?” she asked hesitantly, dropping her quill, and studying his face closely.

  “I was speaking with Abernathy—” James began.

  Kate shook her head frantically. “We’ve been over this. I don’t think—”

  He leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “Leave it to me to worry about it then.”

  She glanced away, tears unexpectedly burning the backs of her eyes. “That’s not your occupation, my lord. Or your concern.”

  “Tell me, Kate.” He paused. “Is there anything? Anything at all that you remember?”

  She took a deep breath and met his eyes. “I’ve thought about it so many times. So, so many times. I replay the entire morning over and over again in my mind.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “In addition to George, the only people in the house were myself, Lady Bettina, and the servants.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  She nodded. “As sure as one can be in a large estate. We certainly had no other visitors.”

  He watched her carefully. She could feel his hazel eyes on her. “Do you think Lady Bettina could have done it?” His voice was tight, authoritative.

  Her fingers dropped away from her temples, and she searched the ceiling, resting her palms on her knees. “I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t know why she would. It makes no sense. And they did seem to be … in love.” She sucked in her breath. That last part had been difficult for her to say, he could tell. Damn it, he’d like to lay his fist into Markingham even now.

  James’s voice was clear and calm. “Perhaps they had a fight. One you didn’t know about?”

  She shrugged, meeting his eyes again. “It’s possible. Anything’s possible. But the only thing I remember…” She looked away, out the dark window. “The only real thing I remember … was coming into that room … and … seeing him.” Her throat worked convulsively.

  James reached out and squeezed her hand. It was so small and cold compared to his. “It must have been horrifying,” he whispered.

  She blinked away more tears and turned to face him again. “I’m afraid I can be of little help. That is all I remember. And all I know.”

  “That’s enough, Kate. Thank you. I shouldn’t be asking so much of you.”

  “If I remember anything, I’ll tell you immediately,” she assured him.

  “Thank you.” He glanced away briefly. “Now to discuss a more pleasant topic.” He leaned back in his chair and gave her a smile that made her heart do a little flip. The stubble was back on his chin and cheeks this late at night, and she was doing her best to ignore it.

  “What topic is that, my lor … James?” She cleared her throat.

  He crossed his booted feet at the ankles and rested his hands on his thighs. “You said you wanted to live. That was the bargain, was it not? Annie and Lily assure me your trip to the countryside is being planned as we speak. What else would you like to do?”

  She smiled. “Now that I’ve been thinking about and I believe I’ve decided.” She bit her lip, a bit hesitant to admit to him the other thing she’d been wanting. But if he didn’t laugh her out of his home over the desire to visit a farm, this next thing would probably not surprise him one bit. She took a deep breath. “I want to dance at a ball.”

  James blinked and his hands dropped to his sides. “A ball?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I only attended one ball in my life, before I was married. It was so beautiful and perfect. It was the last time I can remember being happy. Wearing beautiful clothing and enjoying myself. Dancing and laughing and not having a care in the world. I know it’s winter and I know we cannot have guests and moonlit gardens and champagne on the balcony, but oh, James, I want to dance.”

  James gave her a conspiratorial grin
that made her heart beat faster again. “If it’s a ball you desire, my lady, a ball you shall have.”

  CHAPTER 15

  When Mrs. Hartsmeade and two maids arrived in Kate’s bedchamber that afternoon armed with pins, scissors, thread, and fabric, Kate didn’t know what to make of it.

  “His lordship has instructed us to make you a ball gown,” Mrs. Hartsmeade announced.

  “A what?” Kate asked, turning in a circle while Louisa measured her waist.

  “A ball gown, your grace,” Louisa replied with a bright smile.

  “His lordship says he regrets he couldn’t have the finest seamstresses from Bond Street come to work on your gown, but he couldn’t risk the … well, you know.” Mrs. Hartsmeade glanced away.

  Kate nodded. “It’s certainly very nice of him and all of you, but I don’t need a real ball gown—”

  “No, your grace, he insisted upon it. He picked out the color himself. This gold.” She handed the swath of lovely satin fabric to Kate. “‘It’ll bring out the highlights in the duchess’s hair,’ he said. Though I doubt he’d like it if he knew I repeated such a thing to you.” Mrs. Hartsmeade smiled, and Kate swallowed and pressed her hand to her belly where butterflies had just taken flight.

  “He said that?” she asked, feeling like an eighteen-year-old about to make her debut again.

  “He did,” Louisa reassured her. “I heard him.”

  Kate bit back her smile. She reached out and gingerly touched the gold satin. It was the most beautiful fabric she had ever seen. Why, she couldn’t have picked better herself. “Then, by all means, let’s make me a ball gown.”

  By the time the afternoon was over, Kate and the three servants had giggled themselves silly deciding upon all the details of the gown including the décolletage. “Lower,” Kate had insisted, making Louisa blush. She was being improper, no doubt, but this might well be her last chance to dance with a handsome man at a ball in a low-cut gown. And she wanted to live after all.