by Heather Snow
Liliana watched as Geoffrey deftly folded the drape and moved on to another. Who was this man? He certainly wasn’t at all who she’d expected him to be, and if that were the case, would he even—
“He’s chosen well,” came Mr. Witherspoon’s weathered voice.
Liliana jumped in her seat, snapping around to look at the old man. He was still resting his head against the back of the chair, but his eyes were open and he regarded her closely.
“We’d all heard that a bunch of fine ladies had descended upon the manor. Everyone speculated the earl had finally decided to take a bride,” Mr. Witherspoon continued. “I’m only glad to see he’s chosen a bride of such quality. Not like his father did, poor man.”
Of course he would make such an assumption, considering that as far as they knew, she and Geoffrey had appeared on their doorstep together. Why else would Geoffrey bring her to pay a call if they weren’t affianced? Liliana opened her mouth to correct the man, heat touching her cheeks. But she stopped just short of issuing the denial. Something in Witherspoon’s tone made her hold her tongue. She might as well take this conversation as far as it would go. There would be enough time to correct his misassumption.
“The late earl was not happy in his marriage?” she asked.
“Ha!” the old man huffed, which sent him into a fit of coughs. When he regained control, he sat up straight and leaned toward Liliana, who sat directly across from him.
“The earl and countess detested each other,” he said. “Spent as much time apart as physically possible. She ran off to London every chance she got, while the old earl enjoyed the peace and solitude of the country. Only went up to Town for meetings of that Society of his.”
“Society?” Liliana asked. Certainly Edmund Wentworth had never been a member of the Royal Society of London for Improving Natural Knowledge, as her father had been. She’d memorized every bit of the Royal Society’s history in her so far unsuccessful bid to be the first woman admitted.
“Oh,” Mr. Witherspoon raised a hand and gestured side to side. “Antiqui-something. My lord loved anything to do with history, particularly history of far-off places.”
“The Royal Society of Antiquaries,” Liliana murmured. She couldn’t remember her father ever having any dealings with that group.
“That’s the one,” Mr. Witherspoon confirmed.
Well, that explained the Egyptian influence in the music room. Still, it brought her no closer to establishing a link between the late earl and her father.
“Anyway, the countess thought the earl was an old fool. Couldn’t understand his interest in anything but her. Course, it wasn’t like she was the least bit interested in him. Only thing that woman loved, if you could call it that, was that firstborn son of hers. Don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but that boy was nothing but trouble. As for the current earl, I won’t go into how the countess treated him. Only one that cared a whit for that boy was his father.”
“Harold!” Mrs. Witherspoon whispered in a harsh voice as she came into the courtyard bearing a lap blanket.
“Now, Martha, dear,” Mr. Witherspoon said, slowly sitting back in his chair. “I’ve got one foot in the grave, and we both know it. What can that old witch do to me now? Besides, if my healing angel here is going to marry Stratford, she deserves to know what she’s getting for a mother-in-law.”
Liliana couldn’t bring herself to correct him yet. Tiny hairs rose on the back of her neck. There was something else he wanted to tell her—she was sure of it.
Mrs. Witherspoon frowned, settling the blanket around her husband’s legs. “It’s none of our business,” she muttered, glancing over her shoulder to where Geoffrey was still working in the parlor, but didn’t gainsay her husband further.
When she had him all tucked in, Mr. Witherspoon gave his wife an affectionate smile. “I think my appetite is returning, dearest. Might you fetch me some of your soup and a piece of bread?”
Mrs. Witherspoon gave him a wary look but obeyed, going back into the house.
Gooseflesh popped up on Liliana’s skin, so certain was she that she was about to hear something very important.
“After what you’ve done for me, I couldn’t let you join that family without warning you.” He reached forward and grabbed Liliana’s hand.
She shivered as his dry, papery skin slid over hers.
“Never trust the countess,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze. “Don’t ever turn your back on her.”
Liliana frowned. Having been the recipient of the woman’s dislike and calculating glares, she understood the sentiment. “But why?”
Mr. Witherspoon grimaced, releasing her hand and sitting back into his chair. He seemed to think about the question for a long moment, then let out a rusty sigh. “I’ve never spoken of this before. Not to anyone. But staring my own death in the eye has made me wonder if keeping silent all these years was the right thing to do.” He regarded her. “I’ll leave it up to you whether you share this with Stratford once you’re married. I’ve never had the courage to tell the boy myself.”
Liliana flushed but scooted forward in her seat.
“I think the countess murdered her husband.”
Liliana gasped. Whatever she’d expected to hear, it wasn’t that. “Whyever would you think that?” she asked once she could speak properly.
Mr. Witherspoon bobbed his head, as if he’d been expecting that reaction. “A few weeks before he died, the earl was in a state like I’d never seen him. Secretive, jumpy, excitable…yet agitated, too.”
A chill slithered its way down Liliana’s spine. Her father had been just the same.
“The countess, of course, was off to London. But she came home one night unexpectedly, all in a fury. Seemed she’d caught wind of something the earl had done. Had a terrible row about it. I couldn’t gather what about exactly—the earl sent me away, which was unusual, given I’d witnessed countless arguments between those two before.” He shook his head sadly, then looked Liliana directly in the eyes. “But the very next morning, the earl was dead.”
Liliana sat back in her seat, a hundred scenarios flying through her mind at once. She wanted to ask why he thought that, but she needed another question answered first. Debrett’s had told her that the earl passed in 1804, the year after her father, but not exactly when. “When was that?”
“Around Epiphany, I’d say.”
Liliana gasped again. She couldn’t help it. “You’re certain?”
Mr. Witherspoon nodded.
The late earl had died around January 6, 1804, only a couple of weeks after her father’s death in December of 1803. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She’d assumed there was more time between their deaths given the dates. What a fool she’d been, allowing herself to focus on the years of their passing instead of the actual days. Her head spun. What did this mean?
She swallowed, asking the next question she must. “But what makes you think the countess was involved?”
Witherspoon grimaced, his yellowed eyes growing moist. His voice cracked as he answered. “I’m the one that found my lord. When I went into his chamber the following morning, he was cold and stiff in his bed. I raised the alarm, of course. The doctor came and, after examining him, said he passed of natural causes. But I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Liliana asked again, impatient and listening for any clues that might tell her what truly happened to the earl.
“Well, I’ve seen people pass before, and when they go of natural causes, they tend to look all peaceful when they’re gone. My lord, he didn’t look peaceful at all.” He closed his eyes, as if he were seeing it all over again. When he opened them again he said, “And here’s the other thing. He smelled of almonds…his skin, I mean.”
Almonds. A sick dread sprang up in Liliana.
“Which was very odd to me,” Mr. Witherspoon said, his voice hushed. “My lord detested almonds, so much so that he wouldn’t touch amaretto or even nibble a bite of marzipan. So why would he smel
l of almonds?”
Bile rose in Liliana’s throat. Cyanide was tasteless, fast acting and easy to administer. Death by poisoning would account for the late earl’s harsh visage. And cyanide smelled of almonds…
“All finished,” Geoffrey said, a smile riding his face as he entered the courtyard. Liliana started, her eyes snapping to him. His black hair was tousled, a light sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead and his normally pristine jacket was covered in dust.
As Liliana looked at Geoffrey, something cracked within her. Never had she thought to have anything in common with him, much less something she would never wish upon another person. A piercing empathy filled her.
Someone had murdered his father, too.
Chapter Sixteen
G
eoffrey straightened his cravat as he made his way to the ballroom. Mother was likely incensed, given that he’d skipped supper, but he’d spent the late afternoon and early evening going over strategy with Bartlesby, setting the man several objectives to be met before Geoffrey could take up the investigation himself. His trip to see Witherspoon had been rather enlightening, only not in the way he’d expected. Geoffrey hadn’t had the chance to ask Witherspoon any questions. By the time he’d finished up in the cottage and joined the former valet and Liliana in the courtyard, Witherspoon had tired. If possible, the man had looked twice as old as he had less than an hour before.
No, the revelation had been Liliana. Every day, perhaps every hour, his regard for her grew. What was it that compelled a young woman to risk her reputation to visit a stranger, simply to make him feel better? What kindness of heart made one go out of one’s way, wanting nothing in return? Indeed, Mrs. Witherspoon had insisted upon paying Liliana, but she’d refused even though Geoffrey knew she was a woman of little means.
More and more, he realized he wanted to delve into the enigma that was Liliana Claremont, to uncover more of what drove her. And that set him on dangerous ground.
But he wouldn’t have to worry about that tonight. The strains of violins and a cacophony of voices floated down the hallway. Tonight, he’d have to “do the pretty,” as it were. More guests had arrived this afternoon, and the numbers were expected to climb until the house party was in full swing in two nights’ time.
The moment he stepped into the ballroom, Geoffrey knew he was in for it. It seemed his mother intended to ratchet up her campaign to see him married, for she was waiting for him. And that was never a good thing.
“Your business is finished, I trust?”
Even her tone set his teeth on edge.
“As much as can be done for the moment,” he said, tugging first one cuff, then the other. He scanned the ballroom, not certain what he was looking for, only certain he had no intention of being caught in a discussion with the countess. To give her eye contact would simply encourage her.
He alighted upon Lady Emily Morton. With her nearly flaxen hair and luminescent silvery gray eyes set off by a low-cut gown of white silk, she was quite stunning. His gaze grazed over pale skin so delicate he could see traces of blue veins. She reminded him of a mute swan, all light and grace and fragility.
Until he met her eyes as she boldly stared him down. Then he imagined how a carcass might feel under the beady gaze of a buzzard.
He turned back to the countess, who suddenly seemed the safer of the two.
“The Morton girl is a bit forward,” his mother acknowledged with a slow nod of her head. “I can see why you’ve largely ignored her. You wouldn’t want an”—she seemed to search for a word—“aggressive wife, I’m sure. I may have miscalculated, thinking she might tempt you.”
Geoffrey nearly snorted. His mother, of all people, should know that he’d choose someone as different from herself as he could find.
Lady Stratford squeezed her arm through the crook of his, pulling him into what likely appeared to onlookers as a casual mother-son stroll around the ballroom.
“But I didn’t make a mistake with Lady Jane,” she said. “She’s sweet and biddable. She’s also young, which should make her easy to mold. Not to mention she’s the daughter of a man without whose support your little bill won’t see the light of day.”
Geoffrey stiffened. Damned Joss. He’d really hoped he could have trusted his uncle with the sensitive information, but it seemed Joss had proven to be as weak an ally as he’d feared. It seemed he could count on no one.
Except Liliana. Geoffrey started at the unexpected thought, and yet he didn’t refute it.
“Come, Geoffrey. We both know there’s little love lost between us. But can you not admit that I want what’s best for this family?”
Geoffrey did snort then. “Since when did you want anything other than what’s best for you?” He shook his head, irritated that he’d even allowed himself to be drawn into this conversation. He made his tone as formal as he could. “I fail to see what you could possibly want out of my marriage, madame.”
“You wound me, Geoffrey,” his mother said, a slight tremble in her voice.
Geoffrey glanced over, surprised by the uncharacteristic weakness. He raised a brow, trying to decide if this vulnerability she showed was just another ploy to sway him.
The countess took a shaky breath. She kept her gaze straight ahead but lowered her voice. “You and I are all that’s left,” she said. One shoulder lifted in an absent shrug. “Well, there’s Joss, much good as he is.” She sighed. “I suppose he does have his uses.”
Yes. As your spy. Geoffrey held his tongue. How like his mother to regard one’s value as only what one could do for her.
“I never expected to outlive your brother,” the countess said after a few steps, and for a moment Geoffrey actually believed the stricken look upon her face. If she’d had any tender feelings in her life, they would have been for Henry. “Or you, for that matter,” she added, slanting her eyes to him, “even though you were at war for so long.”
She immediately looked forward again. “When your brother was killed, and then you were so grievously wounded, I realized that I could very well lose you both. And with you gone, I’d be at the mercy of your spineless uncle and whatever greedy little fool he could convince to marry him.”
Ah. There it was. Geoffrey almost smiled. That was the mother he knew.
“I’m no fool,” she said as they made the turn at the east end of the ballroom. She smiled and nodded at a member of the local gentry but did not stop. “I know I lack the power over you that I commanded over your brother. He was weak. You are not. I also know that you are ambitious, where he was not. I think you will find that I know you better than you think.”
She stopped walking and disengaged her arm, turning to face him. “I truly did give the invitees my sincerest consideration. With the exception of one or two…” A frown crossed her face before her expression returned to its customary coolness. “Any number of the others would be a very good match for you, politically and personally. I know what you want, son. Don’t let your dislike of me blind you to the possibilities,” she implored.
Geoffrey clenched his jaw, the truth in her words irritating. Not that she knew his personal desires…although the realization that maybe she did disturbed him. After all, wasn’t he, in trying so hard not to replicate his father’s role in a marriage, trying to imitate his mother’s instead? The thought made Geoffrey nauseous. While he would never treat a spouse the way his mother had treated his father, wasn’t his refusal to give his love so as not to be the vulnerable one in a marriage in the same league?
No. It couldn’t be. He would never do what his mother had done. She’d been horribly, horribly wrong.
However, she was right in that she’d made stellar choices in her prospective-brides list. More likely than not, he would find the woman who would fulfill all of his needs amongst this group…He’d briefly considered more than one of them when he’d seen them in London. She was also correct in that he’d refused to consider a single one of them while they were under his roof by her invitation.
> Perhaps he was letting his relationship with the countess interfere with his own good. Perhaps he should engage one or two of the ladies to see if there was any potential.
His mother smiled suddenly, causing Geoffrey to narrow his eyes. “Ah, Lady Northumb,” she said, reaching an arm out in greeting. Geoffrey turned his head to see the woman and her daughter standing right behind them. At the other matron’s conspiratorial nod, he felt his blood heat. By damn, his mother had expertly maneuvered him around the ballroom and right into the clutches of another matchmaking mama.
“Geoffrey, you remember Lady Northumb and Lady Jane, of course.”
“Of course,” he said, bowing.
“Lord Stratford,” Lady Northumb greeted. “May I say how much we are enjoying your hospitality? Indeed, my husband will be most gratified to discover how excellent a time we’ve had when he arrives on Saturday,” she said. “As will my brother, Christopher Wakefield, who shall be traveling with Lord Northumb. I believe you know my brother, from the Commons?”
