by Liz Carlyle
Litting looked at him incredulously. “You should like to know?” he echoed. “Oh, Ventnor, that is rich indeed. No one gained more by my uncle’s death than the two of you”—here, he thrust a finger at Antonia—“as sorry as I am to say it.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Antonia stiffly. “I fail to see what I have gained.”
Gareth, who still stood, came from behind his desk and leaned very near Lord Litting. “Actually, Jeremy, you don’t sound sorry in the least to say it,” he answered in a lethally quiet voice. “So let me warn you that if you say it again, or if you impugn that lady’s good name by word or deed or even the slightest insinuation, you will be meeting me over a brace of pistols.”
Litting drew back, still sneering. “I am not at all sure I should trouble myself,” he said. “I am not sure I account you a gentleman, Ventnor.”
Kemble interjected himself between them. “Now, now, sirs,” he said. “And Lord Litting, in case you had not heard, Ventnor is now Warneham. I am sure he would appreciate the courtesy of your using his title. And if I may, Your Grace, I do not think Litting fancies being called Jeremy.”
Litting backed away first, looking just a little shaken. Kemble extended his hand. “Why do you not give me your coat, my lord, then take a seat?” he said calmly. “We are all on the same side here, I believe.”
Litting divested himself of his driving coat, then shoved his gloves into the pocket while watching them all warily. “No one is going to pack this murder off on me,” he said darkly. “I have already had to endure that presumptuous justice of the peace following me back to Town. I won’t have it, do you hear? I had absolutely no wish to see Warneham dead. None whatsoever. The man was not even my blood kin.” This last was said with a sniff which held a hint of disdain.
As an act of contrition, Gareth sat down in the chair opposite Antonia, rather than return to the more distant and authoritative position behind his desk. Kemble went to the small sideboard between the windows and drew the stopper from a bottle of sherry. “No one suspects you of anything, Litting,” he said, pouring. “Not so far as I know. Now I think we should all have a drink.”
When he returned with a tray of four glasses, everyone gratefully took one. Gareth continued to watch Antonia. She seemed reasonably composed, but she kept cutting long, assessing glances at him when she thought no one else was paying attention. Suddenly, it struck him. Antonia was worried about him.
“Now,” said Kemble brightly. “Why do you not simply tell all of us what you know, Litting?”
“That’s the very point, damn it,” he grumbled. “I don’t know a bloody thing.”
“Well, you must have come down here for a reason that day,” Kemble pressed. “You were not, I collect, in the habit of calling upon your—well, let’s just call him your uncle-in-law.”
Litting’s narrow shoulders seemed to fall. “Call him what you damned well please,” he said. Then he flicked a quick glance at Antonia. “Your pardon, Your Grace. I do not mean to sound unsympathetic, but I am not pleased that Warneham has caused me to be mixed up in this.”
Kemble was tapping one finger lightly on his wineglass. “You came down to Selsdon on the afternoon of Warneham’s death. Why? Did he send for you?”
Litting twisted uncomfortably in his chair. “Yes, not that it’s any of your business,” he finally said. “And he sent for Sir Harold Hardell as well. Has anyone questioned him? Has anyone been pounding at his door night and day? That’s what I should like to know.”
“Why?” asked Kemble pointedly. “Did he have cause to wish Warneham ill?”
Litting tossed his hand with weary disdain. “Oh, good God, no,” he said. “He came down here because the duke asked him to, just as I did. He said he needed advice, and Sir Harold could scarcely refuse him. Who are you, precisely?”
“Advice?” said Kemble sharply. “Legal advice?”
Litting’s gaze moved back and forth between Antonia and Gareth again. He licked his lips, a nervous gesture Gareth remembered from childhood. “Yes, legal advice.”
Gareth suddenly felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up. “What sort of legal advice?” he demanded. “Damn it, Litting, if it could have had any bearing on his death, you are obligated to say.”
Lord Litting seemed to swell with indignation. “So you really wish to know, do you?” he said, the nasty edge returning to his voice. “And you think it will help you, eh? I ought to tell you, by God. Right here and now.”
Suddenly, Antonia half rose from her chair. “Well, do tell it, then, Litting,” she said, her voice arching. “Get on with it, please. I vow, I grow sick of this.”
“Well, you may grow a good deal sicker, madam,” said Litting. “Fine, then. The duke told us he was planning to press forward a suit of nullity.”
“A what?” said Gareth. “What the devil is nullity?”
Kemble flashed him a dark look. “Oh, dear,” he murmured. “It sounds as if the duke wished to annul his marriage to the duchess.”
Antonia gasped. “An annulment? Of our marriage? Why? How?”
Litting was looking at them in mild satisfaction. “Well, there you have it,” he said. “Are you pleased? He said he was desperate to get rid of her—that he had grounds to do so—and he wished Sir Harold’s advice as to how to most smoothly extricate himself. And then Warneham turned up dead before he could further pursue it. Now, do either of you really wish me to tell that to Mr. Peel’s vulture? For my part, regardless of what happened to Warneham, I should prefer that no more of our family linen be hung in Fleet Street to dry.”
“A most intriguing story!” Kemble murmured, holding his chin pensively. “And what about you, Lord Litting?”
“What about me, pray?” The man turned his haughty gaze on Kemble.
“Why were you here? You are not a barrister—are you?”
“I—well—no, of course I am not!” he said. “It is a ridiculous question.”
“Then why were you here?” asked Kemble again. “What did Warneham want of you? The two of you were not especially close, were you?”
“I—well—that’s none of your business,” Litting finally said. “I was asked. I came. And I did not do a damned thing more—your pardon, ma’am.”
But Antonia had taken on a pale, anxious demeanor. Her hands were braced tightly on her chair arms, as if she meant to leap up. “But this—this is horrible!” she said softly. “How can he have done such a thing? I would have been ruined. I do not understand.”
Kemble reached out and covered one of her hands with his. “Your Grace, the duke could have been given an annulment under very few circumstances.”
She turned and looked at him dully. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, he would have had to claim we did not consummate the marriage—which, I daresay, he would never have done, for his pride wouldn’t let him. Perhaps he meant to claim that I was hopelessly mad, and that he did not know it. But he knew that I…that I had suffered a mental collapse. Papa made that clear before the wedding. And I am not mad. I am not.”
Gareth had risen and gone at once to her chair. This was bad. Very bad. To some, this could conceivably give Antonia grounds for wishing Warneham dead. Gareth now stood behind Antonia, one hand resting protectively on her shoulder. Almost instinctively, her fingers fluttered up to grasp at his. Litting was right, damn his hide. It would be most imprudent to allow this to get out. It would not simply blight Antonia’s future; it would obliterate it. Gareth was beginning to fear that before all this was done with, his meddling would have caused Antonia more harm than good.
“Did Warneham say, Lord Litting, why he wished to do this?” asked Kemble. “Was there…someone else whom he wished to marry?”
“No, no,” said Litting irritably. “It was nothing like that.”
Kemble took a long, slow sip of his sherry, then swallowed with equal languor. “Warneham was desperate for an heir,” he said musingly. “Did he mean to find another bride? Attend the season, perhaps?”
>
“What good would that have done him?” Antonia cried, springing from her chair. “He could not—it was not—it was not me who was the problem!”
Gareth caught her by the hand. “Please, Antonia, sit down,” he said. “We shall get to the bottom of this. No one will learn of it, I swear.”
“You had better hope, Ventnor, for her sake, that they do not.” Litting finished off his sherry in one hearty gulp. “The old gossip hasn’t yet died down. She does not need more on the heels of it.”
Kemble set his glass down with a sharp clatter. “Forgive me, Lord Litting, but Warneham simply must have said more than this,” he pressed. “I will go to London and speak with Sir Harold if I must, but I really should rather not.”
Litting shifted his weight uneasily. “Warneham simply claimed that his marriage to the duchess mightn’t be legally valid, and that—”
“If the marriage was not valid, why annul it?” Kemble swiftly interjected. “Must one do such a thing?”
Litting opened his hands questioningly. “All I can tell you is that Warneham said he wished to minimize the damage to the duchess, to the extent he could,” he said. “I think he was concerned about angering her father. He said Lord Swinburne had too many friends in Parliament, and that he would rather quietly sue for nullity and buy Swinburne off.”
“Buy him off?” said Kemble sharply.
“In a manner of speaking.” Litting made an equivocal gesture with his hand. “He was going to settle fifty thousand pounds on the duchess through her father, and give her his house in Bruton Street in exchange for Swinburne’s not contesting the suit.”
“Nonetheless, he was going to ruin me forever.” Antonia’s hands were shaking. Her eyes darted to their faces in turn, wide and anxious. “He was going to say I was mad. Wasn’t he? Wasn’t he?”
Gareth set his hand on her arm. “It is all right, Antonia,” he murmured. “No one can hurt you now.”
Kemble lifted his elegant shoulders. “We may never know what he meant to say, Your Grace,” he said quietly. “I rather doubt he could have got away with a claim of madness were you to appear.”
“He would not have let me,” she whispered. “He would have shut me away, just as Father did. He—why, he would have called witnesses. To say things. Vile things.”
Kemble looked at her pensively. “I am not at all sure that is what he meant to do,” he answered. “He may have been prepared to claim non-consummation.”
“And then what?” said Gareth sardonically. “Marry again?”
“Yes, to what end?” asked Antonia witheringly. “Did he think that someone else would be able to—oh, never mind! This is mortifying. Simply mortifying.”
Litting rose abruptly. “And it is also none of my concern,” he said. “I’ve told all of you what little I know. Now the two of you had best advise your friends in Whitehall to call off the dogs, for if they darken my door again, I’ll tell to them what I’ve just told you. And it will look dashed nasty for the duchess when I do.”
With obvious reluctance, Kemble retrieved Litting’s coat.
“It is rather late in the day to be driving back to London,” said Gareth, hating what he must say next. “May we put you up for the night?”
Lord Litting sneered. “Given the luck I’ve had, I should rather not spend another evening under this roof,” he said. “But thank you. I have a sister near Croydon with whom I shall stay.”
Kemble held open the door. “Allow me to show you out,” he said smoothly.
In an instant, they were gone.
Gareth was half hoping Antonia would bolt into his arms, but she did not. She was pacing restlessly through the room, her hands fisted in the delicate lace of her shawl. Gareth went to her and deftly extracted the ends. She looked down as his fingers unfurled the fine fabric, watching almost as if the hands were not hers but someone else’s.
Gareth flicked an anxious glance up at her. He hoped desperately that Lord Litting’s visit did not set Antonia back, for it had seemed lately that she was far more in charge of her emotions.
“Antonia, I won’t let this hurt you,” he said quietly. “I swear to you I won’t. I will shut Litting up if it comes to that, but I think he has no reason to talk. I will see that you are protected.”
But Antonia’s mind had taken a different turn. “Oh, Gabriel,” she said, sinking back down into her chair. “I had no idea Warneham was even contemplating such a thing as an annulment! Please say that you believe me.”
“Of course I believe you, Antonia,” he answered.
She looked up at him at little grimly. “Many people would not,” she said. “Some would say it gives me a motive for murder.”
Gareth shook his head. “I believe you, Antonia,” he said quietly. “And I believe in you, too. There is nothing anyone could say that would make me doubt you—certainly not Litting. He was speaking in half-truths, anyway. We do not yet have the whole story—but I will get it. I swear to you.”
Antonia set the heel of her hand to her forehead, her expression one of indescribable fatigue and defeat. “I cannot believe this is happening,” she said. “I feel like such a gudgeon for coming in here. For imagining, even for a moment, that I might be of…” She let her words break off and shook her head.
Gabriel knelt down and held her gaze. “That you might what, Antonia?”
She glanced away as if she was unable to look at him. “I did not know Mr. Kemble was with you,” she said. “I did not wish you to have to see Litting alone. I feared he had come to do some sort of mischief. I thought for once I might be of help to you, instead of it being the other way round. It was silly of me.”
He took her hands in his and gave them what he hoped was a squeeze. “Thank you, Antonia, for worrying about me.”
She still did not look at him. “I am sorry he came here, Gabriel, to cut up your peace.”
Gabriel gave a muted smile. “I think we both know my peace had already been sliced pretty well to ribbons,” he said quietly. “And that the doing of it was all mine. As to this business with Litting, well, I am sure you know that, too, was my doing. I have asked Kemble to help me uncover the truth, to try to dispel all the uncertainty surrounding Warneham’s death. And now it seems I have but deepened it.”
At last she looked at him, her gaze locked with his as he stood. “Oh, Gabriel,” she whispered.
But Antonia was forestalled from whatever remark she had meant to make. The door latch clicked, and Kemble came back into the room. “Well!” he said speciously. “Wasn’t that a pleasant little chat!”
Gareth gave a disgusted grunt. “I think we should all have another glass of sherry to wash it down with,” he said, crossing the room to get the decanter.
Antonia turned to Mr. Kemble at once. “None of this makes any sense, does it?” she said. “First the rumormongers whisper that I poisoned Warneham because I was unhappy in our marriage. And now Litting suggests I killed him so that he could not end our marriage? Is it too much to ask that they should all settle on one lurid tale or the other?”
Kemble, for once, looked confused, too. “Here is what I cannot comprehend,” he said, settling gracefully into a chair as Gareth refilled the wineglasses. “Why didn’t Litting simply tell the truth about Warneham’s plans when the justice of the peace questioned him? Why would he bother to protect you, Your Grace, from a charge of murder?”
“Indeed, I barely know him,” she agreed.
Gareth watched Kemble carefully. One could almost see the cogs of his mind meshing together. “I think that the answer is that he was not protecting you,” Kemble said pensively. “He was protecting someone—or something—else.”
“That makes no sense,” said Gareth, falling back into his chair. “What was Litting doing here in the first place? And why did Warneham fear Lord Swinburne’s wrath?”
“Papa can be very vindictive,” said Antonia.
“I do not doubt that, my dear,” said Gareth. “But what did Warneham have to lose? H
e did not go about in society. He was not remotely involved or interested in what went on in London. He had even let out his town house for the last five years. I fully expect he could have lived the remainder of his life without ever laying eyes on Swinburne again.”
Antonia looked unconvinced. “Papa wields a great deal of influence in the House.”
Gareth shook his head. “What could the Lords do to make his life difficult?”
Kemble sipped at his wine. “The House of Lords is the only institution that can grant a peer a divorce,” he said pensively.
“But he was going to annul our marriage,” said Antonia. “And all his other wives were dead.”
Gareth leaned forward anxiously. “Perhaps he feared his suit of nullity would fail, and he would have to resort to a divorce?”
Kemble seemed to consider it. “No, there is not a chance in hell,” he said, almost to himself. “It would have taken years, possibly. He would first have to appeal to the ecclesiastical courts for a separation, then file the bill for divorce with the House. And what grounds could he use? He would need two witnesses to the adultery or the—”
“The adultery?” cried Antonia, almost coming out of her chair.
Kemble waved her back down again. “I am speaking theoretically, Your Grace,” he said soothingly. “No, there would have been no possibility of a divorce.”
“Perhaps he feared he might need the House’s support in some other sort of unpleasantness?” Gareth suggested.
Suddenly, Kemble turned in his chair to face Antonia. “Your Grace, you earlier gave the impression your marriage was never consummated,” he said. “I must ask you why.”
“I beg your pardon?” Antonia’s face flooded with pink.
“Damn it, Kemble,” said Gareth.
Kemble looked at him and opened his hands expressively. “Your Grace, I work for you,” he said. “Do you wish this cloud of blame lifted from her shoulders or not?”
Gareth merely glared at him.
“I do not mind to answer your question, Mr. Kemble,” said Antonia quietly. “I am sure it was whispered about within the house anyway.”
