by Darcy Burke
Julian considered that. “To wait indefinitely? Or for a set length of time?”
“A few months, if Bettina remembers correctly,” answered Sophie. “I didn’t hear it firsthand.”
“And if Mr. Roe believed what you seem to, that nothing could have convinced Clive to change his mind…”
“He must have asked Peter to wait so he’d have time to plan a murder,” said Sophie.
“Your uncle was at High Bend on the day of Clive the Ninth’s death,” Julian conceded. “And they were alone together for a portion of the afternoon. He could have done it, but I don’t think he’s our villain, Sophie.”
Sophie frowned. “Why not?”
“Do you really believe that your uncle would kill one of his dearest, and certainly his most influential, friends, so that his son could make a love match?” Julian snorted.
“But he wouldn’t see it that way. Honoria is an heiress, a lady, and there’s no better family in a day’s drive. Peter wouldn’t do half so well if he had to look elsewhere.”
Julian nodded his acknowledgement. “We’ll keep him on the list of suspects.”
Sophie pursed her lips. “Have you thought of a better possibility?”
“The Dowager Duchess.”
“Why on earth…?”
“A number of reasons: her absence of grief, the speed with which she’s taken a new lover to her bed.” Julian hesitated. “The Dowager also exhibited a certain prescience about Clive the Ninth’s death. She spent part of her marriage settlement on a townhouse in London in December, and now she’s resettling there with unseemly haste.”
“Could they have cooperated?”
“Anything’s possible.” Julian shrugged. “What I don’t understand, however, is why you’ve lost your conviction that Clive the Ninth committed suicide.”
“The note. The things he wrote. How could he… hurt himself… and not be sorry?” Sophie stopped short, blinking quickly to stave off tears. “I don’t understand. He was a better man than that.”
“‘I will not apologize,’” Julian quoted. He paused, seeming to scan the distance. “But he also wrote, ‘I meted out the poison and I drank it of my own free will.’”
“I don’t believe it,” Sophie said immediately. “The more I reflect, the more certain I am. He was out of his mind when he was dying, Julian. Crazy with anger and almost blind—”
Julian interrupted. “Blind?”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
“No, Sophie,” he said quietly. “You didn’t.”
“That’s why I had to write the note. He couldn’t see the paper, couldn’t wield the pen.”
“I wish you’d said something.” Julian rubbed one hand across his eyes, sighing. “Though I doubt I would have paid attention.”
“He didn’t want to die.”
Julian turned to her, his shoulders curving, sheltering. Sophie flinched away, but not in time to avoid the soft brush of his kid-gloved fingers along the side of her neck.
“Are you sure you’re not remembering what you want to believe, instead of what really happened?” Julian asked, the dark music of his voice vibrating over skin sensitized by his touch. Sophie shivered.
“No,” she whispered. “You know I’m not.”
“I know,” he agreed. “Have you taken a look at your journal? What were your impressions, at the time?”
“It didn’t occur to me to doubt his words,” Sophie admitted. “My strongest impression, which I noted at the time, was that he didn’t seem himself. That I’d never seen him so urgent, or so desperate.”
“Not himself,” Julian mused. “But I think any of us, in the grips of strong emotion, can seem not quite ourselves. Even if he took the draught himself, I wouldn’t expect him to be sanguine about it.”
“So you’ve changed your mind?” Sophie folded her arms and hunched into them. Into the shelter of Julian’s body. “You think he… killed himself?”
“I find myself at a loss, unfortunately.” Julian urged her around so that they faced Tidmarsh House again, a homely cube of gray stone, smoke curling up from all the chimneys. “I know you didn’t kill him. I know cyanide didn’t kill him.”
“You do?” Sophie interjected.
“He’d been drinking brandy bitters,” said Julian. “His breath would have smelled of bitter almonds no matter what poison he’d taken. The alcohol provided the scent.”
“So there’s no hope of finding the culprit,” said Sophie.
“I had planned to give up the search.” He leaned in to her, his head tipping so close the brim of his hat bumped her forehead. “But if you want to continue…”
“I do.”
“Then you may count on my aid.” He showed her his profile, the jutting wedge of his nose, the straight rise of his brow. Blocky but elegant. Reassuring. “Though I suggest we pursue the investigation discreetly. Perhaps it hasn’t occurred to you yet, but to an outsider the two people in the world most likely to have killed the previous Duke of Clive are you and I.”
Sophie blinked. It decidedly had not occurred to her.
“I was his heir.” Julian cocked his head, quirked his lips. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t kill him. The dukedom never seemed within reach to me, even when—as it turned out—it was. But if I tried to explain that to a disinterested observer, I doubt they’d find me any more convincing than you were when you claimed to have been ignorant of Clive’s extraordinary bequest.”
“But it’s true,” Sophie said. “I hadn’t a notion of it.”
“The truth is irrelevant, Sophie.”
“It shouldn’t be,” Sophie replied.
“Should and shouldn’t are irrelevant, too.”
Sophie glared up at Julian. He smiled, bouncing a little as he skipped a step, and Sophie breathed out a low chuckle. “You are horrible!”
Just then, Laura Tidmarsh appeared from around the side of the house, her basket empty. She raised one arm high above her head, waving, then began to cut across the lawn in their direction.
“I’m horrible? Tell me, Sophie: how did you dispatch Miss Tidmarsh?” Julian spoke under his breath, waving jauntily as he said the girl’s name.
“I forged a letter from her mother.” Sophie raised her hand in greeting as well. “With an urgent request for Miss Tidmarsh to bring a jar of preserves to the school where Mrs. Tidmarsh volunteers as a teacher.”
“Your Grace!” Laura Tidmarsh dropped into a curtsey. “What an honor! I’m so sorry that I wasn’t here to greet you when you arrived.”
“Fortunately, Miss Roe was here to keep me company, and she is always a delight,” replied Julian, bowing over the hand Laura extended. “Was your errand accomplished successfully?”
“Oh, yes.” Laura swayed close to Sophie, leaned on her arm. A friendly, conspiratorial sort of gesture. Sophie had no notion of how to react. She bent with Laura’s pressure but was afraid to push back. “Naturally, Mama denied sending any note—but Mr. William Allsop was at the school asking after a jar of preserves when I arrived…”
“I suppose we both know the truth then,” Sophie murmured.
Julian, standing at an angle, smothered his laughter with one hand.
“Forgive me for being frivolous.” Laura straightened. “As sorry as we were to lose the last Duke of Clive, there’s such a rightness to your return, Your Grace. You’ve been sorely missed these last years. Won’t you come in for tea?”
They walked in a row, arm in arm with Julian at the center. It was the closest Sophie had come to the good old days since Julian vanished ten years earlier, and it left her feeling odd. A little disoriented, more than a little sad.
Once inside, Laura invited them to sit on the noisily patterned furniture. While they sipped milky tea from translucent porcelain cups, Julian peppered them with polite questions, interjected with notes of flattery. He kept the conversation local, comfortable, avoiding the topics that would have flattered him, fresh from the metropolis, at their expense.
L
aura was charmed. Of course she was. She simpered. She sighed. She laughed—genuinely—at the smallest cue. That was normal. What Julian had lost in puppyish good-nature he’d more than reclaimed in polished manners and focused attention. When he assured Laura that, “Miss Roe’s friendship has proved invaluable since my return,” Sophie almost believed it herself.
“Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Tidmarsh,” Sophie said finally, a little disgusted with herself. “I’ll be missed if I don’t return to Iron & Wine soon.”
“You’ll allow me to escort you, Miss Roe?” Julian asked.
“Of course she will.” Laura shot Sophie a meaningful stare. “Thank you for visiting, Your Grace. My parents will be so sorry to have missed you.”
“Please let Mr. and Mrs. Tidmarsh know that I hope to see them at High Bend soon—I’m sorry, again, to have dropped in without notice.”
Julian took the reins of his horse in one hand—the other, the one he’d been favoring, remained slack at his side—and led the beast clopping and snuffling at their backs while Julian matched his pace to hers.
“You didn’t enjoy that,” he observed.
“I’m out of practice.”
“And you want to keep it that way?”
Sophie shrugged. “I’m comfortable with my life as it is.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“What has my social schedule to do with Clive’s murder?”
“Nothing at all,” Julian replied, his easy manner dismissing her rebuff as though it had never been. “But here’s a thought for you, on that subject: if we go about it the usual way, enumerating all the people who could have killed Clive, eliminating them one by one, we will be mired in investigation long after any chance of solving it has passed. I propose another line of inquiry, one more likely to bear fruit.”
“Go on.”
“We start by answering one question: Who would Clive the Ninth have wanted to protect so badly that he’d dishonor himself?”
Sophie blinked. She had to think about it for a minute—but comprehension finally dawned, and her jaw dropped. “The note,” she said.
“It’s not a small thing, to let the world believe you’re a suicide. With his final words, he exonerated his murderer at the cost of his own legacy. A terrible sacrifice.”
“Oh, Clive.” Tears welled up fast and hot. “He died protecting someone he loved?”
“Someone he loved a very great deal,” Julian added.
“You’re right.” Sophie wiped at her cheeks. “That’s a very short list. The Dowager Duchess. Lady Honoria… nobody else, perhaps.”
“And we agree that Lady Honoria isn’t a suspect?”
Sophie frowned. “Whyever not?”
“I’m surprised she doesn’t cry every time Cook strangles a chicken. She hasn’t the temperament of a murderess.”
“Does one require a stalwart constitution to administer poison?”
“No.” Julian tipped his head closer to her, acknowledging her point. “Then let me ask another question: Do you think she loves Peter enough to kill her own father?”
“I don’t know her character, Julian.”
“Nor do I, of course.” Julian sighed. “Very well. We have work to do—have you neglected to mention any other symptoms that Clive manifested at the time of his death?”
“He was blind. He was out of his mind with anger.” And yet he’d been acting out of love. Sophie took a deep breath. She found immense comfort in the possibility that he’d died in a state of charity.
Sophie looked to the intersection where Halftail Road let out onto the main road, frowned. “Julian, I’m sorry, but William Allsop will be here any minute with Mrs. Tidmarsh’s preserves, and I’d rather avoid another confrontation.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Protecting him?”
“Keeping the peace.”
“I have no fondness for William Allsop,” said Julian, following her gaze down the lane. “But he nurses a great deal of animosity for me. I wonder why that is?”
“That’s how it used to be, Julian.” She had a flash of him, in the old days—sleek and quick and blithe—and glanced up at him to dispel the image. He was so different now. “You were the sun. We either orbited you or lived in the eclipse.”
“You never orbited me.” He reached out for a loose curl, rubbed it between two fingers to separate the strands. “You never hated me. Did you?”
“No.” Sophie reached out to take Julian’s hand, gloved and limp at his side. He trembled at the touch, sucked in a harsh breath, and then squeezed back. “I didn’t. And I don’t.”
“Since you asked nicely…” Julian withdrew his hand. His shoulders dropped, and he cast her a wry, laughing glance. “I’ll leave you to the conclusion of your scheme. One last thing to think about, Sophie: The list of people Clive would have dishonored himself to protect almost certainly includes you.”
Chapter 12
Fuck hope. Because he felt… euphoric. If this was joy then no wonder it was so goddamned hard to come by. Never in the entirety of his blessed, lucky, by all accounts enviable life had the future looked so splendid, so ripe, so replete with consummations devoutly to be wished.
He might as well admit—it had never been clearer—that he didn’t give a damn about Clive the Ninth. Fuck Clive the Ninth. Julian had barely known the man. If the old badger had chosen to nosedive into an early grave with a secret or two clenched between his teeth, well, let him. Welcome to it. By all means.
Except that Julian couldn’t pass by the opportunity to ride this little mystery straight back into Sophie’s heart. She’d rely on him, she’d consult with him, and before she’d even realized what was happening they’d be confidantes, partners united against the world.
Just like that, he’d have her back.
All he had to do was find out how Sophie had come by her scar. Find out who had caused it. And then grind the bastard under his boot-heel, like a worm, until there was nothing left but sludge.
Now that the tide had turned, he saw the opportunity in Sophie’s accusation. She’d blamed him for something he hadn’t done. Much as he regretted the bitter years between, he’d call that good news. Misunderstandings could be cleared up. Resolved. Once he removed this small obstacle from his path, he’d have his heart’s desire served up on a platter. With an appropriate garnish—parsley, spun sugar, pheasant feathers. Something celebratory.
Julian navigated the corridors of High Bend, reaching back ten years to the night of his formal engagement to Sophie. Rooms almost unchanged from that night long ago served as a key to unlock the memory palace of his mind.
Julian traversed the card room, the drawing room, the gallery. He remembered parading Sophie through each on the night of the party, like a child with a new toy.
…He leaned close to make an observation. Something inconsequential. He just wanted an excuse to be close to his fiancée. The red rose in her hair tickled his nose, velvety as the inside of her thighs, cool as her cheek after a long walk. And just like that he’d forgotten what he wanted to say and found himself staring, instead, at the inch of marble-pale breast revealed by her décolletage, the shadowy cleft between…
He stepped into the courtyard, which had been converted into a ballroom for the occasion. He’d held her in his arms as they danced with an ease that could only come from years of practice, so perfectly in tune that he could guide her with a fingertip.
…“I feel as though anything is possible,” she said, her lips close to his ear. A lock of hair had worked its way loose from the dozens of pins in her hair and clung to his lips. He blew it away but the next turn sent it floating back, and this time he only smiled. She smelled like lilacs. “If you told me I could drink the ocean dry I would reach for a cup,” she said…
On their way to the refreshment table, they’d paused to greet Mr. Tidmarsh, who’d drawn Julian into a conversation about fishing. Julian had grown up surrounded by substitute fathers, half a dozen men instructing him in their versio
n of manly behavior. Mr. Tidmarsh had taught him to fish. Sophie had drifted from his side, and then the room. He’d watched her go, unconcerned.
…It’s better not to crowd her. She’ll be back for the toast…
Twenty minutes later, she hadn’t returned. Julian had excused himself to search for her, but he hadn’t been worried. Sophie didn’t thrive in crowds as he did; she’d rather be hovering over one of her stinking cauldrons or outside tramping through the hills.
Many people hadn’t understood it, but he’d loved Sophie because of their differences, not despite them. They’d balanced one another.
Only after searching all the public rooms had he begun to worry. High Bend was old and drafty, oversize and peculiar—the sort of building that could rattle even a longtime resident, as Julian had been, under the right conditions.
He retraced the steps he’d taken ten years before, into empty corridors and unlit private chambers, imagining one disaster after another. At the first faint sound of sobbing, he’d felt fear like the tip of a knife dragged down his spine.
…Irregular, human, female… unhappy. Sobs. He moved toward the sound, instantly compelled. He walked and then ran, abandoning all decorum when he could finally articulate with his mind what he’d felt in his bones from the first…
He remembered the blood all over her face. His vision had narrowed and focused, as if he’d been viewing the scene through a telescope. He’d seen Sophie seated behind a small desk, hair a sorry tangle and smears of red across her cheeks and forehead. Everything else was a blank.
He’d had some notion that she’d been speaking, trying to tell him something, but he hadn’t registered a word of it. Only the pain in her voice. Deep, unrestrained, horrible. All the impressive machinery of his brain had slowed to a halt. One thought had freed itself from the clogging horror and panic: I have to make it stop.
He’d fallen to his knees at her feet, wanting to snatch her up and carry her away, afraid to touch her before he ascertained the extent of her injury. Her breath had tickled his nose, sharp with alcohol. He’d examined the wound: a deep cut in her left cheek, a well of blood edged with raw pink. He’d stroked his palm over her thick, unruly hair, knowing from experience not to thread his fingers through the tangles.
