“Mr. MacKenzie.” She gained her feet. A rush of dizziness made the floor slip beneath her feet, and she placed a steadying hand on the back of her chair. “I am so relieved to see you. I trust my father explained the current situation?”
“Aye. I came as soon as I could. Your father will be a day yet, some business in London.” MacKenzie’s gaze swung across the table, his eyes narrowing on George. “How is Haversham?”
“He’s still being held at the Shippington gaol.”
MacKenzie frowned. “I had hoped he might have been transferred to North Riding, at least. Is he well?”
“I do not know,” Julianne admitted. “I visited him the day after his arrest, but the magistrate has refused my requests to see him again.”
The solicitor uttered a brogue-rich curse, then spun on his heel. Julianne scrambled to follow him down the hallway into the foyer. “Let me have the coach called up, and we can take it into town together.”
“No, lass, that’s a poor idea all around. I’ve a horse I rented from Leeds that will carry me there well enough. You’ll only slow me down. Patrick’s been rotting in gaol for almost a week, not knowing where I am. I’ll not have him thinking I’ve abandoned him too.”
Julianne’s leap to understanding was swiftly cruel. “I have not abandoned him!”
“No?” MacKenzie jerked his chin toward the dining room, and Julianne imagined she could see disappointment in his green eyes. “Your cozy breakfast suggests otherwise.”
Julianne gasped, though her outrage was tinged with guilt as well. “George Willoughby is Patrick’s cousin. There is naught between us that is improper.”
“The gentleman had his hands in your lap. Your mind does not seem on your husband, Lady Haversham.”
Julianne gathered herself for a proper denial, but just as her mouth was opening, she was struck by an unexpected maelstrom in her gut. She pitched for the umbrella stand, the contents of her stomach ejecting in great, heaving rolls. Embarrassment and nausea colluded against her, and a long moment passed before she had the courage to look back up at her guest.
“How long have you been feeling poorly?” he asked, a curious expression on his face.
A gray cloud crept in on the edge of her vision. “A touch of upset, nothing to be concerned about. Probably the clotted cream, at breakfast. Although . . . I don’t know how I am going to explain the umbrellas to Mr. Peters.”
He lifted a dark brow. “Georgette keeps a chamber pot at hand when she feels poorly. Of course, I try to keep a wide berth on those days.” He pulled on his hat and reached for the front door. “If you are feeling ill, all the more reason to stay here instead of taking the coach to Shippington. Patrick needs your strength, Lady Haversham, not your theatrics.”
Chapter 26
Patrick had come to dread the scrape of keys at his cell door.
Beyond what the opening of that door meant to him, he lived in continual worry of what the scrape of those keys might mean for Julianne. He’d dreamed, on more than one occasion, the door might swing open to reveal someone bearing news of her injury or worse. And so, as the unmistakable sound reached his ears, he gained his feet, readying himself for the worst.
But the worry Patrick carried on his shoulders lightened as James MacKenzie ducked his familiar dark head into the cell, a lantern in one hand.
“Bloody hell, MacKenzie.” Patrick grinned around the sight of him. “At last you decide to grace me with your presence. I figured you’d decided I was guilty after all.”
James chuckled. “The only thing you are guilty of is questionable hygiene.” He enveloped Patrick in a back-slapping hug as the door swung shut behind him. “Still refusing to bathe, I see.”
Patrick twisted out of his friend’s bruising grip, his ribs healing, but still not quite up to the task of such an enthusiastic greeting. “I’m glad to see you.”
James snorted. “I’m pleased someone is, because your gaoler seems to be of the opposite opinion. Mr. Blythe nearly tore off a limb when I informed him your solicitor was here to see you, and moreover, to demand your removal to North Riding.” James eyed the closed door with an upraised brow. “Is Shippington so small they must conscript your cousin to serve as guard?”
“I assure you, the man is more intent on keeping me locked away than any hired thug,” Patrick said dryly. “Where in the blazes have you been?”
James hesitated, and glanced toward the closed door again. “Things in London took longer than I expected, but I was able to settle the matter of your petition. Can we speak freely, or is there someplace else I should request you be moved?”
Patrick shrugged. “I am not sure we’ll be given an opportunity for anything more private. Let us talk, but try to keep your voice low.”
James sat down on the narrow cot, and set the lantern down beside him. “Your petition has been filed, and they are preparing to convene a special session in the House of Lords, although I’ll not be permitted to defend you there. I’ve found you a serjeant-at-law, though given what the man charges, it is likely to be a painful experience.” James’s eyes narrowed. “Although I suppose pain is relative. You look as though you’re in need of more than just a bit of soap to set you to rights. I see they’ve been trying to beat a confession out of you.”
“I’ve given them naught.”
“Good lad.” James hesitated a telling moment. “And how are you getting on with the delectable Julianne?” He grinned. “Still inhabiting separate rooms, I see.”
“I’ll admit, things could be improved at the moment.” Patrick winced. “Being here is certainly not helping my circumstances.”
“No, I’d imagine it isn’t.” James’s grin fell away, and he studied him with eyes sharp as talons. “Haversham . . . about your wife. Do you trust her?”
Patrick knew not even a second’s hesitation. “Aye. She’s proven herself loyal, I’d say. Refused to testify against me. Tried to take on the whole of my relatives, merely for voicing a few negative opinions. I think the bigger question is whether she should trust me.”
“Oh?”
“She knows why I married her.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “I would not be surprised if she hates me now. I’ve been a terrible husband, all told. But why would you ask such a thing?”
“Because I’ve come from Summersby this morning, and she is acting deucedly strange.”
Patrick’s thoughts jerked hard to center. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
“She took ill this morning. Cast up her accounts, right in front of me. I’ve seen it happen to people who are struggling under a tremendous amount of guilt.”
Patrick’s hands balled to fists. “Damn it, man, why didn’t you say something from the start?” He had never struck his friend in anger, though they had certainly engaged in their share of good-natured sparring. He stood on the verge of rectifying that oversight now. “If she is ill, you should have told me immediately.”
The Scotsman shrugged. “Your wife’s condition is not my primary concern. Yours is, and seeing you released. Although . . . I am not sure that illness or guilt are the only possible explanations for the theatrical bit of nausea I saw this morning. Georgette had much the same look about her during the early part of her pregnancy. Couldn’t stand to look at food, and even ordinary smells would send her running.” James offered him an indelicate sniff. “Perhaps it’s a good thing she isn’t here to see you. You’re enough to turn my stomach, right enough.”
Patrick stilled against his friend’s suggestion. “Are you implying Julianne may be pregnant?” The idea rolled around in his head. Gathered speed. “It is far too early,” he protested, even as hope began to strangle logic. “We’ve been married only a few weeks.”
“She’s a dramatic sort. You’ve admitted as much yourself. Perhaps such things might affect her earlier than other women.” MacKenzie’s matter-of-fact observation made Patrick want to plant a fist in his friend’s mouth, never mind that his statement was deadly accurate.
“Of course, you might want to make sure it’s yours. Because she’s become very cozy with your cousin George Willoughby.”
Bloody hell. Patrick had meant it when he’d said he trusted Julianne. He did not think her infatuated with his cousin. But he’d not ruled Willoughby out as a suspect—certainly not with enough assurance he felt comfortable knowing Julianne was so close to him.
But of course, MacKenzie didn’t know any of this.
And so Patrick told his friend everything. About Prudence, and the fact that his brother’s gun had never been fired, and the suspicions about his father’s death. And as he related the course of events, he became increasingly consumed by desperation.
“So your cousin, Jonathon Blythe—who even now is sitting outside this cell, while you rot inside it—is your primary suspect for Eric’s death?” James asked, close to incredulous.
Patrick nodded grimly. “And my father’s, as well.”
“And Blythe is also the party responsible for bruising your ribs?”
Another nod. “Julianne’s illness . . .” Patrick’s voice rang hoarse, but oh God, it hurt to think of what this all could mean. “It could be something more sinister. My father was poisoned. And I am not there to protect her.”
A frown spread across his friend’s face. “Well then.” James rose to his feet, his hands balled to fists. “It sounds like we need to fetch the magistrate.”
Julianne awoke in a state of confusion, blinking against the gray light threading its way through the bedroom window. She lay a moment, the air in the room too still, too heavy for comfort.
And then she remembered. She’d taken ill in front of Mr. MacKenzie, casting up her accounts in the umbrella stand, of all things.
Someone—Aunt Margaret, perhaps?—had brought her a ginger water to rinse her mouth, which had helped, but then had come the awful vertigo that had sent the walls spinning like a child’s toy and forced her to lie down on the bed and close her eyes. And that was the last she remembered until waking in a room as quiet as a tomb.
Gingerly, she tested her limbs, which were thankfully in working order. Her stomach seemed to have quieted dramatically, thank the stars. The stillness was odd. Summersby was never still. There was always someone about, servants chattering in the hallway, or the girls’ feet pounding in the upstairs nursery. Shouldn’t there be someone about? A dog, or a maid, perhaps?
The ever-lingering George Willoughby?
The first splatters of rain began to pelt her window, and she pulled herself from bed to peer out at a building storm. It seemed the weather today was determined to match her health. Or perhaps her condition had soured on account of the gathering clouds. Of course, she didn’t need a gray sky to justify her black mood. Though her poor, pitching stomach was much improved over its performance earlier this morning, she had a perfectly reasonable reason to feel emotionally out of sorts.
James MacKenzie had accused her of unfaithfulness, and then gone on to see Patrick in the gaol without her.
She made her way downstairs, her feet unsteady enough that she had to grip the banister for support. How she felt made not a whit of difference. Whatever she might have hoped to salvage of her marriage would surely be lost the moment the Scotsman mentioned his suspicions. She needed to go to Patrick immediately, to explain that Mr. MacKenzie had dreadfully misinterpreted whatever he thought he’d seen.
But Mr. Peters shook his head, clearly nonplussed at her request to have the coach called up. “I am terribly sorry, my lady, but I was not aware you were planning to travel today. The coach has taken the household into Shippington to attend Sunday services.” He hesitated. “We were led to believe you were resting above stairs and were told not to disturb you. But if you are feeling better, you’ve a visitor, just arrived. She was most insistent on waiting for you. I’ve installed her in the green salon.”
“Mr. Peters, I do not think I am up for receiving anyone today.”
“Shall I turn Miss Smith away?”
Julianne’s senses marched toward alert. “Miss Prudence Smith?”
He inclined his big head, kindly concern in his eyes. “Yes, my lady. But if you are not feeling up for it—”
But Julianne was already hurrying toward the green salon, as fast as her unsteady feet could carry her. Her eyes fixed on a familiar dark head, pacing nervously near the windows. “Prudence,” she said, closing the doors behind her. “I am so glad to see you have not gone back to Leeds after all.”
The former maid bowed her head. “No, miss. I . . . I’ve been hiding in my rooms, trying to decide. I thought more about what you said. And what I did. Or, more what I didn’t do.” Prudence frowned. “You are right. So much of this is my fault, for being too frightened to say anything. But I’m far more frightened now than I ever was in November. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I’m too afraid the killer might strike again. I’ve been afraid to go back to Leeds, even. Surely he could find me there, if he wanted to. That’s why I’m here.” She fairly shook beneath the weight of her teary confession. “The only way to be safe is to see him arrested, isn’t it? That’s what you’ve been trying to tell me all along.”
“Yes.” Julianne nodded. “You know we would protect you here at Summersby.”
“That’s just it, miss.” Prudence darted a glance toward the door, and her voice hushed to a whisper. “I don’t think you can protect me at Summersby. Or yourself either. I went to church today to pray on it. And . . . and I saw him again.”
“You saw the killer at church?” Awareness charged in like a runaway horse. “Do you know his name?” Julianne asked frantically.
“No, miss. But . . .” Prudence’s breathing hitched, coming faster now in a series of quick pants. “He was sitting in the Haversham pew, next to Lady Haversham.”
Julianne was seized with an awful, knee-buckling certainty. “You did not speak to him?” she asked sharply, suddenly afraid for the girl.
“No. I panicked. Slipped out of church and ran back to my rooms, right in the middle of the opening prayer. But after I thought about it a moment, I realized I needed to tell you, and that I had this one chance to do it before church let out. So I rented a carriage, and came straight here.” She hesitated. “Oh, please, please tell me you know who it is. I couldn’t bear it if after all this, we still had no idea.”
The room seemed to tilt beneath Julianne’s three inch heels. “Yes,” she admitted, though her gut wanted to deny it. “I’m afraid I do know who it is.”
Prudence worried her lower lip between her teeth. “Then you can tell the magistrate?”
“You need to tell the magistrate,” Julianne corrected, already bundling the frozen girl toward the door.
“I . . . I couldn’t miss.”
“They won’t take my word for it, Prudence. The gentleman who would have been sitting with Lady Haversham in church this morning is George Willoughby, my husband’s cousin. We must return to Shippington immediately and tell the magistrate everything you have told me.”
Prudence tensed. “I know I’ve caused a good deal of trouble, but I am not sure I can . . .”
For a moment Julianne was afraid she might be facing a repeat performance of the girl’s prior disappearing act. She forced her voice to soften. “We both caused the trouble, Prudence. I should never have claimed to have seen something I hadn’t.” She hesitated. “In truth, I should not have pretended I could see so well on any number of occasions.”
Julianne knew, however, that if she got a second chance at this, she would proceed far differently. There was no shame in admitting a deficiency. The only shame to be found was in hurting people she loved, because of little more than vanity.
“I know this will be difficult,” she told the former maid, “and you have every right to be afraid. But I want you to know, when this is through, you shall have a position here at Summersby. I am still searching for a proper ladies’ maid, after all.”
The girl’s eyes widened, though her face was still a sickly white. “Truly?�
�
Julianne nodded, and squeezed her hand. “Quickly, then.”
Chapter 27
James MacKenzie proved remarkably talented in the art of persuasion. Within a quarter hour, he’d seen the magistrate fetched from church and had Farmington and Blythe sitting on two chairs they’d brought into the cell, ostensibly waiting for a promised confession.
Of course, Blythe had no idea who the intended confessor was.
“I understand Mr. Blythe assisted with my client’s arrest,” James said easily. Too easily, considering his friend looked all too ready to break a law or a leg or both.
Farmington had the good grace to at least look chagrined. “We do not have a constable here in Shippington. Mr. Blythe has been most helpful in that regard.”
“What does this have to do with Haversham’s confession?” Blythe demanded.
“I did not say the confession was my client’s.” James smiled patiently. “We have invited you here, actually, because I wanted to ask you some questions, Mr. Blythe. And we wanted Mr. Farmington to be present in case you say something . . . interesting.”
Blythe turned pale at the thinly veiled threat. “I have nothing to hide.”
Patrick stepped closer to the seated man and put a hand on the back of Blythe’s chair. Time to tell the truth, at long last. “There’s a witness who can prove I didn’t murder my brother.”
The little cell fell quiet, except for the hypnotic drip of water somewhere in a hidden corner. Finally, Farmington’s voice severed the disarming silence. “Do you speak of your wife?” he asked slowly. “She has said she will not testify.”
“There is a second witness,” Patrick admitted. He kept his eyes trained on Blythe, trying to read his cousin’s frozen face. “Who can name someone else as the killer.”
“Have you been withholding this piece of it, Haversham?” Farmington’s strangled voice finally pulled Patrick’s attention away from Blythe.
Moonlight on My Mind Page 26
