Secret Brides [3] Secrets of a Scandalous Marriage (15 page)

He nodded. “Of course.”

“Why did you seem so standoffish at the farm today?”

He glanced out the window. “Did I?”

She bowed her head and plucked at the folds in her skirt. “You know you did.”

He leaned to the side and braced an elbow on the seat cushion. “The truth is … I’m feeling guilty for kissing you.”

Her jaw dropped. Apparently, she hadn’t expected him to be quite that … forthright. “Guilty? Why?”

“I had no right.”

Her voice was soft. “There were two of us in the ballroom that night, James. It wasn’t just you.”

“I know, but—”

“I feel guilty too,” she murmured.

His eyes narrowed on her. “Why?”

“You’ve asked me to write for you, not to distract you with dancing and…”

He shook his head. “You distract me just sitting there, but that’s no excuse for me to behave like a total jackass and—”

She sat up straight. “But you didn’t. You didn’t act like an ass at all.”

“Didn’t I?”

“No.”

“Thank you for that,” he said. “I shall endeavor to keep my hands off you and allow you to write in peace.”

Was that a look of disappointment on her face? Oh, now he was guilty of wishful thinking. Fool.

Kate glanced away and tugged on her curl again. “Do you think Lily and Annie like me?”

He sobered. “Yes, they do. Very much.”

“They seemed a bit hesitant when they asked about George, and I just—”

“They weren’t sure whether you’re in mourning. It’s an odd situation.”

She cringed. “To say the least. I know. I hate to make them feel uncomfortable, and I know I should be mourning, but I just cannot. George and I … we barely knew each other and the fact was I hadn’t seen him in at least five years. How can I grieve for someone whom I didn’t even know?”

“Believe me, I understand.”

“Do you?” she asked.

James scrubbed his hand through his hair. He wasn’t about to explain to her how he understood, but he did. He simply nodded.

Kate glanced out the window. “And the worst part is, George and I didn’t even have that unconventional of a marriage. I’d say it was more normal than anything.”

James shook his head. “Most wives are not left in the countryside to rot while their husbands gallivant around London if that’s what you mean.”

She laid her head back against the seat cushion. “Perhaps not, but many married couples spend long amounts of time apart. Though I suppose the divorce and the murder make us entirely unconventional.” She tried to laugh but tears shone in her eyes.

“Kate.” James’s voice caught. He leaned forward.

She glanced out the window. “I am sorry he died that way. I’m sorry and I’m angry. Angry with him for being such an ass and angry at myself for how I reacted, and angry at whoever did it and allowed me to take the blame. There’s a murderer out there, James. A murderer.”

He clenched his jaw. “I know.”

*   *   *

James set about making the rest of the journey full of lighthearted discussion and jests. Kate kept remembering the way he’d said, “You distract me just sitting there.” The words made her go hot and cold at the same time. She tried to shove them from her mind, but they came back to make her smile again and again.

He had her laughing the rest of the way, and by the time they arrived at his town house, Kate had forgotten to pull up her hood or close the curtains in the coach.

She gasped and quickly tugged on the hood as they descended the steps. She glanced about surreptitiously. A few people hurried past the alleyway. A couple of horses ambled past the mews on the corner. Kate kept her head down and hurried up the stairs onto the back porch.

*   *   *

James cursed under his breath. Damn it. He should have been paying closer attention. Should have ensured she’d covered her head when she’d alighted from the coach, but he’d been so entranced by her, by their afternoon together.

“You don’t think anyone saw me, do you?” she asked as soon as they were inside.

James shook his head. “No. I don’t think so,” he replied in his most reassuring tone. But if anyone had, it was too late.

CHAPTER 19

Kate sat curled up in her favorite spot in the library, writing the pamphlet. Themis lay at her feet. Kate tapped the nib of her quill against the parchment. It was easy enough for her to record the details, but that’s not what she wanted to convey. She wanted to convey her sense of sadness, sense of horror when she’d found George lying on the floor that morning. Explain why she went to him, cradled his head, tried to save him. And that she wouldn’t, couldn’t—no matter what had happened between them—have killed him. Because murder was not in her heart.

Of course, even if she were able to convey her innocence, it didn’t mean anyone would believe her. She’d have no way of knowing. All she could do was try. Tell her story as honestly as she could and hope at least some among the haughty
ton
believed her.

She thought about her mother-in-law, the dowager duchess of Markingham. “Not fit to shine your boots,” she’d told her son when he’d introduced Kate to her all those years ago.

“George is momentarily turned by your pretty face,” she’d sneered to Kate when George had left them alone to become acquainted. “But rest assured he’ll return to his senses.” Kate winced at the memory. Unfortunately for everyone, neither of them had come to their senses before the wedding took place. And her mother-in-law had continued to detest her with a shocking virulence.

It had struck Kate to the core. But she’d been so naïve believing their supposed love would conquer all. She’d spent years trying to court the woman’s favor, all to no avail. Finally, she’d given up. She hadn’t seen the dowager in years, even though the lady lived only a mile away from Markingham Abbey in her dower house. Kate had realized finally that George’s mother had been right. A match between a duke and a dairy maid (as his mother was fond of calling her) was a hideous idea. Absolutely awful. And now she could only imagine the dowager duchess’s pain … and anger. In addition to hearing the news that her beloved only son had been murdered, she believed the murderer was her own detested daughter-in-law. Oh, Kate hadn’t blamed the woman for hating her in years and now she certainly couldn’t. Her heart wrenched when she thought of the awful pain George’s mother must be going through now. Losing a child was completely unnatural. And to lose him in such a way … unimaginable.

Kate laid down her quill on the parchment and rested her head in her hand. Her thoughts turned to George again. Poor George. He hadn’t deserved to die that way, a bullet to the chest. And he’d seen whoever had killed him, Kate was sure of it. He’d seen the face of his murderer with those cold, staring eyes.

Kate dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. Oh God. Who had done it, and why? She’d gone to her room, begun packing her things. She’d decided to leave him for good. He might have refused to grant her a divorce, but she’d refused to remain under his roof.

She’d decided she’d live on the streets rather than spend one more day a prisoner at Markingham Abbey. Her whole marriage had been a sham, and she would no longer spend another day dead. For that’s what her life had become, a living death.

Dead. The word stopped her cold. George’s body, lying on the carpet. George was dead. But she had been too. For years. Just in a completely different way. She shuddered.

She shook her head. Who would have killed George? Lady Bettina? That made no sense. The two had been wrapped around each other. That lady had flaunted her relationship with George in Kate’s face, in her own house. Lady Bettina supposedly loved George. But who else?

Perhaps someone had sneaked in. George’s cousin? The next in line to the dukedom? She’d only met Oliver a few times, and he seemed perfectly nice, but she supposed it was possible. People had been killed for lesser things than a dukedom.

One of the servants? She couldn’t imagine which one. Aside from George’s valet who was gone with him to London most of the time, the other servants were people she’d come to know, come to rely upon. Her only friends really. And she saw no reason why any of them would want George dead. He was their provider. Their employer. She’d never heard any of them speak ill of him.

She scrubbed her hands over her face. Mr. Abernathy had assured her he’d be investigating every possibility in great detail. She could only hope he found something … anything.

The door to the library opened just then, snapping Kate from her reverie. Mrs. Hartsmeade walked in in her usual brisk, efficient manner. “Oh, your grace. I didn’t know you were here. My apologies, I’ll come back another time.”

Themis leaped up and ambled over to get a pet from the housekeeper who clearly adored her.

“No, Mrs. Hartsmeade, please stay,” Kate called, eager for any small bit of company to distract her from her thoughts.

“I was just going to get a book I sometimes consult for removing stains from linens,” the housekeeper explained, patting Themis on the head.

Kate nodded. “Please don’t let me stop you.”

Mrs. Hartsmeade made her way to one of the bookshelves on the far wall, pulled a tome from the stack, and turned around. She made her way over to the settee where Kate sat. “Is there anything I can get you, your grace?”

Themis curled up on the rug near Kate’s feet again.

“No, no, I’m quite all right,” Kate replied.

Mrs. Hartsmeade smiled and turned to leave when Kate stopped her. “Wait. There is one thing…”

Mrs. Hartsmeade stopped and turned back around. “Your grace?”

Kate cleared her throat. “Won’t you … wouldn’t you … that is to say. I’d like it if you’d sit and talk to me for a bit, Mrs. Hartsmeade.”

Mrs. Hartsmeade’s blue-gray eyes went wide. “Your grace?”

Kate bit her lip. Oh, she was making a royal cake of herself in front of James’s perfectly ordered servants, wasn’t she? “It’s just that … well, I’m lonely, Mrs. Hartsmeade. And my housekeeper at Markingham Abbey, she used to sit and talk with me sometimes.”

Mrs. Hartsmeade gave her a kindly smile. “I understand … but … I hardly think it’s appropriate if I—”

“It’s not,” Kate admitted, shaking her head. “But I won’t tell anyone if you won’t.”

Mrs. Hartsmeade smiled conspiratorially at that and looked around. “Since you put it that way, how can I resist?”

“Excellent!” Kate cleared a spot on the settee next to her and Mrs. Hartsmeade hesitantly settled in, the book propped upon her lap.

“What would you like to speak about?” Mrs. Hartsmeade asked.

“Let’s see.” Kate tapped her chin with her fingertip. “How long have you been in Lord Medford’s employ?” She pushed her paper and quill aside on the table in front of her and pulled up one foot to tuck it beneath her.

“Since he was a boy,” Mrs. Hartsmeade replied. “In fact, I was the maid to his father, the former viscount.”

Kate blinked. “You knew James’s father?”

The housekeeper nodded. “Yes. For many years.”

Kate leaned closer. “What was he like?”

Mrs. Hartsmeade shook her head emphatically. “Oh no. I couldn’t possibly gossip about his lordship, your grace. No. No. No.”

Kate gave her an innocent look. “I’m not asking you to gossip, Mrs. Hartsmeade. Just describe him.”

The housekeeper appeared to be a bit mollified. “Well, he was tall, dark. Looked a great deal like the current Lord Medford though not quite as handsome.”

Kate nodded. “Go on. What was he like?”

A frown covered Mrs. Hartsmeade’s face. She glanced over her shoulder. “I do hate to speak ill of the family, your grace, but the current viscount, he’s a sight better man than his father ever was.”

“Really?” Kate leaned closer still. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to know every detail. James had already mentioned that he and his father had been at odds. But was there more to it than that? Perhaps
he
should be the one to write a pamphlet.

Mrs. Hartsmeade nodded. “Yes, the former viscount, he was very hard on our Lord Medford. Always insisting he get perfect marks in school, maintain a perfect reputation. Wouldn’t allow him to bring shame or scandal on him. Obsessed with scandal that man was.” The housekeeper clucked her tongue.

“So that’s why James is so … particular?” Kate said slowly, tapping her finger against her jaw.

“Yes,” Mrs. Hartsmeade said, nodding. “Every morning, the former viscount would inspect the work Lord James did for his tutors. If he found so much as a spot of ink, the slightest smudge, the boy would be forced to start completely over again before he had his breakfast.”

Kate reached down and patted Themis on the head. “He sounds positively dreadful.”

“Oh, he was. And I do hate to speak ill of the dead, but … Well, Lord Medford’s always been so hard on himself. Harder on himself than even his father was. If the old viscount was an exacting master, Lord James is twice as exacting … on himself.”

“I see.” Kate’s mind drifted off. It stood to reason that James’s insistence on perfection, his reputation as Lord Perfect, was well earned, but there was another side to him, a rebellious side, the side that owned a printing press and harbored a supposed murderess.

“What about his mother?” Kate asked.

Mrs. Hartsmeade sighed. “It’s an awfully sad tale to be sure, but his lordship never knew his mother. Died in childbirth, she did.”

“So that’s why he has no brothers or sisters,” Kate murmured.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Hartsmeade replied with a shake of her head. “I often wonder how his lordship would be different had his mother lived.” She expelled her breath and clutched at the book on her lap. “Though I expect it does no good to wonder.”

Kate wondered too. “I’m glad he’s had you, Mrs. Hartsmeade.” She reached over and squeezed the housekeeper’s wrinkled hand.

Mrs. Hartsmeade smiled at that then suddenly sat up straight, dropping the book to the floor. “Oh, your grace, please don’t tell his lordship I told you these things. He’d dismiss me immediately for being so improper.”

Kate leaned down and retrieved the book. She handed it to Mrs. Hartsmeade with a smile. “Is he such a hard master, then?”