by Darcy Burke
Julian tilted his head to the side. “When you were the seeker?”
Sophie nodded. “And I’d found all the hidden players but you. They waited and waited while I looked for you, but finally got tired of standing out in the cold. I kept shouting that you’d won, that you could come out now…”
“And I heard you, but I wanted you to keep looking. I’d moved a dozen times since the game began, so I’d always be hiding in a spot you’d checked recently.”
“And when I finally found you, you ran away!”
“So you started throwing snowballs at me—”
“—But I couldn’t hit you.”
“You didn’t even come close to hitting me, Sophie. Your aim was so disastrous—”
“—That you stopped to laugh at me,” Sophie finished. “You laughed so hard that you couldn’t run—”
“And you caught up.”
“So I shoved snow into your shirt,” Sophie added.
“My shirt?” Julian laughed. “Into my trousers, Sophie. You shoved two handfuls of snow right into my trousers. I looked like I’d pissed myself when we finally rejoined the others.”
He hadn’t tried to explain, either—that had been just before he proposed, but he’d still had too much concern for her honor to announce that she’d laid hands on his person.
“I did get snow in your shirt,” Sophie pointed out.
“You were very thorough.” He smiled. “You remember that?”
“Just now,” Sophie said. “The way you laughed brought it all back.”
The smile faded. “It was a long time ago.”
“But I was happy.” Sophie took a step toward Julian and some vicious, fanged creature bit into her unshod instep. She screamed and hopped back, flailing as she clutched at her foot, only to spot a red-rimmed shard of porcelain. She’d stepped on a piece of priceless Greek vase.
“Watch out!” Julian jumped to his feet.
Sophie tried to lower herself from one leg into a sitting position, but collapsed halfway down, jarring her outstretched wrist.
Julian reached her, pottery crunching underfoot, and tenderly took up her injured limb. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.” Sophie eyed the broken vase. She’d let her anger froth up and now it had been skimmed away, leaving behind a weak and watery substance. “But my uncle was right. I don’t want to hurt Aunt Jenny. I don’t want to hurt Bettina.”
“That’s why he mocked you?” Julian’s tone sharpened and his grip on her foot firmed. “For being too kindhearted to see your aunt and cousin made casualties in a war against him?”
“He was very proud of himself,” Sophie said bitterly.
“What else did he tell you?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Sophie rubbed her arms. “If something happened to him—if any of my horrid revenge fantasies came true—I’d feel awful. Even knowing what he’s done. You’re wrong about me, Julian. I’m not savage at all.”
“Sophie, what do you think savagery is?” Julian squeezed her foot, prompting her to look him in the eye. “When you thought that I’d hurt you, you cut me out of your life like a rotten limb. That is savagery. You’ve lived the last ten years of your life on your terms even though it meant losing every friend and forgoing every pleasure. That is savagery.”
He let her foot down and crawled closer to her, until they were nose to nose. “You loved me, and you forgot me. That is savagery.”
“That was survival.”
“They’re the same, Sophie.” Julian kissed her softly on the lips. “Cruelty is a fruit of civilization. Savagery is animal, barbarian at best, and far more frightening.”
“But I’m always afraid.”
“That just means you’re alive.” Julian hooked one arm under her knees, the other behind her back, and heaved himself upright. “Let’s get you dressed for supper. We can plan our revenge like civilized people, with full bellies and knives in our hands.”
Sophie’s lips quirked.
“Caught that, did you?” Julian jogged her in his arms and swung her toward the door. “We’ll be very civilized with your uncle, I think.”
Chapter 23
Julian’s valet waited in the corridor outside the library with his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze directed meekly floorward.
“What is it?” Julian asked.
“Your Grace, you wanted to know if Lady Honoria paid a visit. She’s just arrived.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“She asked to see the Dowager Duchess and I prevailed upon the butler to show her to the drawing room, and to wait a few minutes before informing Her Grace of the visitor.”
“Well done,” said Julian.
The gentleman bowed shallowly.
“Go on ahead. Try to keep her from wandering while we’re on our way.” Julian set Sophie down. “Oh, and call for tea,” he added, before disappearing back into the library.
The valet melted away.
Sophie leaned against the door frame and put a little weight on her foot. Bright pain flared, and she discontinued the experiment.
“Here,” said Julian, squatting in front of her. He slid her slippers back over her feet, gently smoothing the heel. “I’d like you to come with me. You know Lady Honoria better than I do, and I’d appreciate a second set of eyes.”
“A second set of eyes for what?” Sophie hooked her arm around Julian’s neck and shifted to accommodate the arm he wrapped around her waist.
“Can you walk if you lean on me?”
Sophie tested out a few steps. She’d rather have asked Julian to carry her back to the sofa so she could sit with her foot up for a few minutes, but if she only put pressure on the ball of her foot and let Julian carry most of her weight, walking didn’t hurt too much. “The drawing room isn’t far.”
“I made an important discovery today,” Julian said, once they were moving. “I found the poison that killed Clive the Ninth.”
“You did? How?”
“Quite by chance, I assure you. I—ah—knocked over a vase in the library and a spray of withered berries tumbled from it. Deadly nightshade.”
“Poison?”
“Yes. And the plant grows wild in the area—anyone could collect the berries. Slipping a handful into a fully grown man’s diet might make him sick, but probably wouldn’t kill him. If he had very bad luck—oh, he might die after suffering for several days. But that’s not what happened to Clive. He sickened and died quickly, in a matter of hours. So he must have ingested something more potent than whole belladonna berries—a concentrate, many berries distilled down into a draught that could be slipped into his food or drink.”
“But you only found berries?” Sophie asked.
“Once I found the berries, I knew to search for a still, as well. That was also located in the library, hidden in plain sight.”
“So the poison was made here, at High Bend,” deduced Sophie. “The Dowager Duchess killed him, then.”
“That was my first thought as well,” Julian agreed. “But I spoke to her, and she didn’t betray the slightest reaction to the suggestion that her husband had been killed. The idea simply didn’t exist for her, it was so far from the realm of possibility. I saw the same when I first accused you, Sophie.”
“So Clive committed suicide?” She oughtn’t feel disappointed, but did. “We’ve been running around in circles for weeks, only to end up back where we started.”
“You forgot that there’s another option. Lady Honoria. Harmless as she seems, she was strongly motivated—one can’t doubt the sincerity of her love for Peter Roe, or the strength of her desire to marry him—and she moved quickly after her father’s death to achieve the goal from which he’d barred her. Combine that with her interest in horticulture, her skill with the domestic arts, and she’s by far the likeliest candidate.”
“But she loved her father,” Sophie protested. “You’ve seen her weeping.”
“Love is no impediment to murder,” Julian repl
ied, kissing the top of her head. “Grief doesn’t make her innocent.”
A footman opened the door to the drawing room, where Honoria hopped up from her perch on the sofa. She wore a plain black frock, light enough for summer, and cunning fingerless gloves of black netting, a beaded reticule forgotten on the cushion beside her. “Your Graces. I’m sorry to have visited without sending any advance notice, but admit that I’m surprised to be treated like a stranger in a place that was, until so very recently, my own home.”
“And still is, Lady Honoria,” Julian soothed. He helped Sophie to the nearest chair and gently lowered her into it.
“I appear to have injured my foot,” Sophie explained, bending and smoothing her dress over the offending limb. “We hoped to have a moment to speak with you. Do you mind terribly?”
“Well—” Honoria huffed but when Julian took a step closer to her, she automatically extended her hand and let him bow over it. The reflexive, habitual activity had a calming effect. “No. Of course I don’t mind.” Her pale cheeks colored. “And it’s just lovely to see you both—Sophie, I am so sorry about your foot, and really it’s kind of you to come see me when you’re injured—”
Julian interrupted. “I’ve called for tea, if you’d like some?”
“Tea would be just the thing, thank you.” Honoria sank back down onto the sofa and folded her hands on her lap. “I was hoping to have a few minutes with my stepmama before she leaves for London. She hasn’t gone yet, has she?”
“She doesn’t leave until tomorrow, and she’ll be delighted to see you. I’ll send word and ask her to join us.” Julian walked to the door, which earned him an odd look from Honoria, and returned, rubbing his hands together. “All taken care of. How’s married life suiting you, Lady Honoria?”
“Oh, I couldn’t be happier! I feel like my life has finally started. So many new things to do. Do you know,” said Honoria, her hands twisting anxiously, “I had no notion of how difficult it would be to manage a household? That’s another thing I need to tell my stepmama. She made it look so easy but in an establishment of this size…”
Sophie widened her eyes and gave Julian a look. He’d been managing all the servants? He shrugged, and then mouthed, “Ten minutes.”
Sophie frowned.
Julian jerked his chin to the side.
Sophie frowned harder.
Julian mouthed something at her again. She struggled to read his lips until she realized he was repeating something. Dowager. He’d gone to the door so that Honoria wouldn’t overhear him asking for the Dowager Duchess to be fetched on a delay.
Sophie indicated her understanding with a brief nod.
“I’m sure you’re figuring all the same things out yourself,” Honoria continued. “And I do love being in charge! Peter loves it too. I had no idea, but apparently his mother wouldn’t allow the cook to prepare any dishes with garlic. Not ever! Every time our new cook serves up a dish with garlic in it, Peter says, ‘Kiss me!’ and I say, ‘Oh, but the garlic!’ and then he says, ‘Kiss me twice!’” She giggled, then pressed the back of her hand to her lips. “Should I not have told you that? I thought, among family… it’s just such a funny story.”
“I had no idea Peter liked garlic,” Sophie said.
“There’s no need to keep silent, Honoria.” Julian smiled gently. “Unless you’re afraid of making us jealous, which you needn’t be.”
“It’s just—he’s so sweet, you know.” Honoria folded her hands again. “Of course you do. You probably know him better than I do! One learns so much about a person, living with them…”
The tea arrived and Sophie dutifully poured for their little group. Julian passed Honoria her cup and kept close to take his own. Sophie spooned sugar into her own cup, to balance out the tart linden leaves already filling the air with their acrid, floral incense.
“Lady Honoria,” said Julian, once they’d all settled with their steaming cups and taken tentative sips. “Earlier today I fear I precipitated a small accident in the library. The vase on the little round table by the window fell and broke.”
“The vase…” Honoria took a sip of her tea. “Oh! The one with the silk flowers? I kept telling Papa that he should let me replace those with real ones, as I did everywhere else—I changed the flowers in all the vases every week, you know, and I’ve kept up the habit for Peter now, who loves it—one should never underestimate the cheering influence of fresh flowers.”
“Didn’t you find that odd?” Julian asked. “Why would your father have objected in this one instance, when he appreciated fresh flowers everywhere else?”
“I don’t know.” Honoria shrugged and looked to Sophie. “Sometimes Papa could be hard to understand.”
“He had a right to his eccentricities,” Sophie said.
“That’s right.” Moisture collected in Honoria’s eyes. “He did.”
“Tell me, Lady Honoria,” Julian asked. “Did your father ever take an interest in distilling?”
“How did you know?” Honoria clapped her knees, her sorrow dissipating as quickly as it had arrived. “He did! Last summer. We spent so much time together—I only wish I’d known to appreciate it—he wanted us to make a perfume together to celebrate my birthday. I helped him through the whole process, step by step. We gathered all the flowers on walks we took together.”
Julian met Sophie’s eyes over Honoria’s head. The disappointment she read in his expression mirrored her own. Either Honoria was the world’s most proficient liar—which Sophie simply could not believe—or she’d told the truth and, just as it had seemed from the moment he died, Clive had taken his own life.
More than that. He’d begun planning almost a year ago. Gathering supplies. Acquiring a new skill. Biding his time—so that he could die at the wrong moment, in the wrong way.
Sophie laid her palm flat against her chest and took a deep breath, fighting through a sudden tightness. This was worse than anything she’d imagined. Deliberate, meticulous, and awful. She didn’t want this knowledge.
“What are you two about?” the Dowager Duchess asked. She swanned into the room wearing a house-dress, with her hair loosely gathered at her nape. Dishabille enhanced her imperious beauty. “All these questions.”
“We were just catching up with Lady Honoria,” Sophie said mildly. “Would you like a cup of tea, Your Grace?”
“No,” replied the Dowager Duchess. “I would not. Honoria, have you come to visit the Duke and Duchess? I hate to intrude…”
“I came to see you,” Honoria responded, all guileless blue eyes and sunny blond ringlets. “I didn’t like to be detained, but it’s been so encouraging to talk with another newly married couple!”
“I suspected as much,” said the Dowager, laying a protective hand on Honoria’s shoulder. “Whatever your designs, I think it’s time that you share them in plain language. This prying is, to say the least, unseemly.”
“My wife and I had some concerns about your husband’s death, but we’ve put them to rest,” answered Julian. “Perhaps we can leave it at that? I’d rather not embark upon an explanation that would only cause the pair of you further pain.”
“Concerns.” The Dowager Duchess pursed her lips. “I’ll thank you not to hide behind our tender feelings, sir. You were my husband’s heir. That doesn’t make you the guardian of his legacy.”
“Stepmama?” Honoria covered the Dowager’s protective hand with her own and twisted around, her delicate features crumpling. “What’s the matter?”
Julian remained impassive, haughty and silent.
So Sophie answered instead. “We feared that Clive the Ninth might have left behind a suicide note only to protect someone close to him,” she explained. “That he’d been poisoned and wished so badly to save a loved one from prosecution that he accepted the cost of besmirching his own name.”
“You mean…” Honoria gasped. “If he didn’t… But what if…” She clapped a hand over her mouth. “No!”
“Our suspicions were un
founded,” Julian intruded, raising his voice but maintaining an even, calm tone. “Unfortunately, it’s quite clear at this point that Clive did indeed take his own life.”
“Then why dredge all of this up?” snapped the Dowager. “Look what you’ve done! You’ve upset my stepdaughter—and me, I’ll grant—for what? To amuse yourselves?”
“Madam, you must admit that the circumstances of his death were… hard to credit,” Sophie said. “If you were astonished, as I was, and searched hard to understand but found all explanations wanting…”
The Dowager cut her off with a harsh laugh. “As though tragedies ever make sense! As though any explanation could satisfy. Poor child.” Her voice dripped with pity. “That is not the world we live in.”
“As it happens, madam,” Julian countered, “we discovered a grave error in the coroner’s assessment. Dr. Loomis attributed Clive’s death to prussic acid when the true cause was quite different—a concentration of belladonna.”
The Dowager Duchess considered that. “And?”
“And that discrepancy ignited my interest in piecing together a more accurate picture of his last hours,” answered Julian.
“He wrote a note,” the Dowager said flatly. “In his own hand he wrote a note, confessing his sin and refusing to apologize.”
“But didn’t that strike you?” Sophie asked. “The man I knew would have been sorry. It wasn’t in his nature to do wrong without regret.”
Honoria began to sob.
“You should be ashamed.” The Dowager squeezed her hands over Honoria’s shoulders, but her voice was fierce. “Upsetting his daughter like this. Spouting such ridiculous fantasies.”
“We will leave you to comfort her, madam,” said Julian, standing up. “My apologies.”
He returned his still-full cup of tea to the tray and held out a hand to Sophie. “Do you need help getting up?”
Sophie took Julian’s hand and held on tight, but she didn’t let him lift her. She looked past him, to the Dowager Duchess and Honoria.
