Jennifer took his hand gently. “You don’t really believe that,” she said softly.
“I don’t know what to believe.”
Jennifer did not know what to believe either. Everyone seemed convinced her husband was a murderer. All the
evidence pointed to Grey. She had to get to the bottom of this affair before she went mad. “Carey” she said quietly, “thank you for telling me everything you know. Now I’m going to tell you what I know.
“I found love letters to Diana in her desk upstairs.”
“Letters from Grey, no doubt,” Carey said dully. “He used to write her constantly.”
“Yes. Letters from Grey. And from someone else.”
Carey’s head snapped around sharply. “From whom?”
“I don’t know. I thought it was you. He signed all the letters C. But if it wasn’t you—well, Diana was having an affair. With whom, I’m not certain. And judging from the dates on those letters, it went on
after
they were married.”
Carey was silent for a moment while he considered this. “I can’t believe it.”
“I could show you the letters.”
“No. No, I believe you.” It was painfully difficult to believe the beautiful cousin he had adored could have had an affair, but Carey knew Jennifer too well to believe that she would lie about such a thing. He frowned in concentration as he considered her information.
“Could it have been Catherine?”
Jennifer stared at him blankly. “I beg your pardon?”
Carey reddened slightly but pushed on with his thought. “The person Diana was having an affair with Perhaps you’re not aware of this, but sometimes women, er … that is, they occasionally …”
“I take your meaning,” Jennifer interrupted his stammered explanation, taking pity on his obvious embarrassment. She knew that women sometimes took other women as lovers. She had heard about such things in vulgar conversations at the ordinary.
“Is it possible?”
Jennifer frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t believe so,” she said at last. “The letters I found were written in a very masculine hand. At any rate, I am familiar with Catherine’s handwriting. This was different. No, I believe it was a man.”
Carey shrugged. “We may never know who it was, then. But simply because Diana was having an affair does not justify the fact that he murdered her.”
“I’m not convinced he did,” Jennifer said. She decided it was best not to volunteer the details of the story Catherine had told her, knowing as she did how Carey felt about Grey. Despite the incriminating nature of the story Catherine had told and despite the fact that Carey’s story dovetailed all too well with Catherine’s, she had a conviction that there were facts she had not uncovered. Perhaps it was simply that she could not believe the man she loved was capable of murder. Perhaps she was deluding herself. Or perhaps her heart knew something her mind did not.
And of course, it was entirely possible that Carey was lying. He was definitely still a suspect, and she did not want to tell him too much. He had loved Diana, and he might well have been jealous when she wed Grey.
But jealous enough to kill?
At last she made a decision. She was going to have to confront Grey, despite their differences, and demand his version of the story. If she ever hoped to understand exactly what had happened, she had to ask Grey. She hated to bring up the subject again, recalling as she did how much pain it had caused the last time they discussed it, but she really had no choice.
She had to know.
“I just can’t believe he killed Diana, Carey,” she whispered. “I can’t believe it. He’s no murderer, of that I am certain. I love him.”
“I’ve known Grey a long time,” Carey said slowly, looking at her with sympathy, “and I can tell you that every shred of humanity he had disappeared on the day Diana died. After that he didn’t care anymore, for anything or anyone. Regardless of whether or not he killed her, he’ll never care for you, Jennifer. He
can’t.
”
Jennifer swallowed hard and looked up at him earnestly. “I know that. But I can’t help caring for him.”
The powerful emotions she felt shone clearly on her face, illuminating it to such a degree that Carey felt his
heart melt. He had never seen her face lit by that indescribable mixture of love and longing, joy and torment. For the first time he admitted to himself that she meant something to him. She was more than a beautiful face and a shapely figure.
She was an extraordinary woman.
“And I can’t help caring for you,” he said gently. “I think we’re both hopeless romantics.”
Jennifer smiled, a little sadly, it seemed to him. “I’d like to think,” she said softly, “that nothing is hopeless.”
G
rey did not turn at the sound of his study door opening. In his conversation with Kayne yesterday, he had finally admitted, both to Kayne and to himself, just how desolate he was without Jennifer. He was wretched, and he did not want to talk to anyone. He simply wanted to be left alone.
“Grey?”
At the sound of Jennifer’s voice his head snapped around. Silver eyes filled with empty misery stared at her in shocked surprise, their expression rapidly metamorphosing into one of hope. After two weeks of loneliness and despair, Jennifer had finally sought him out. Perhaps she wanted to speak to him. Perhaps she would accept an apology. Perhaps she did not despise him after all. A hundred hopeful scenarios filled his mind.
“I need to talk to you,” she announced.
Grey rose to his feet and gestured politely to a chair. “Please sit down.”
Jennifer sat, wondering at Grey’s courtesy. He had never come to his feet when she walked into a chamber before. Never before had he made the simplest gesture to suggest he considered her a lady, worthy of his respect. He settled back down in his chair and fixed her with an oddly hopeful gaze. “What may I do for you?”
“I need to talk to you about Diana.”
The hope drained out of his eyes. “Diana?” he repeated in a dull voice. “What about her?”
“I need to know how she died.”
“I already told you” Grey said a little too quickly, remembering her sympathy in Williamsburg, remembering how she had held his hand and told him that he was incapable of murder. Remembering how her misplaced faith in him had touched his heart. Remembering how they had made love.
“This time I want to know the truth.”
Grey stared at her steadily for a long time. “You’ve been talking to Catherine,” he said at last.
Jennifer nodded.
“Very well.” He spread his hands in a gesture of defeat. “I’ll tell you the truth.
“I killed Diana.”
The admission struck her like a fist in the stomach. Despite everything she had learned from Catherine and Carey, she had simply not been able to believe that Grey was a murderer. And yet it explained so much—the relentless, unbreakable, inescapable prison of grief and guilt he had built for himself, his erratically vicious behavior, his violent self-loathing. “Why?”
“We had an argument,” Grey said softly. His voice was very calm, as though he was discussing the weather. “She—she told me she was with child. And she told me that since she would be presenting me with an heir in seven months, she would no longer be sharing my bed … that she would never share it again.”
There was a world of hurt in his tone. She could imagine how much that rejection, from the woman he loved so dearly, had injured him.
“I was taken completely by surprise,” Grey went on in the same level, quiet voice. “I knew that she did not enjoy lovemaking as much as I did, but I had never imagined that she intended to shut me out of her bed completely. We quarreled. And when she left my study, I—I got drunk.”
Jennifer noted that his explanation of their fight involved no mention of another man. Evidently Carey’s chaste kiss had had nothing to do with it. Nor did Grey have any idea
that Diana had been cuckolding him. Well, she certainly wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. It was just as well he had never known about it. But the fact that he had no notion of Diana’s illicit affair, she reasoned, meant that he had had very little motive for killing her. An argument over conjugal rights was hardly likely to drive a man to murder.
“And then what?”
“And then—I have no idea,” Grey said unhappily. “I can’t remember what happened. Damn it! If I could only remember—”
“If you can’t remember,” Jennifer asked reasonably, “then how do you know you killed her?”
“Catherine found me, not ten feet from her body, scratched and bruised. She told me that I said over again that I had killed her, that it was my fault. I have no memory of anything but seeing her body. I—”
He broke off with an anguished expression on his face. Jennifer, recalling his vivid description of Diana’s mangled body, was sorry that she had had to force him to relive those painful memories a second time. But she went on doggedly with her questions.
“So you have no proof that you killed her except Catherine’s word?”
His head jerked up abruptly, and he looked at her oddly. “Are you suggesting that Catherine may have been
lying
?”
“Yes. That is exactly what I am suggesting.”
“Why in the world would she have done that?”
“To protect someone else, perhaps.” She paused significantly. “Or even herself.”
Grey thought about her statement for several seconds. “I take it you’re suggesting Catherine killed Diana. Ridiculous. They were not the best of friends, I’ll grant you, but Catherine had no motivation to kill Diana whatsoever.”
“On the contrary, she did.” Jennifer briefly sketched out the tale Catherine had told her about how her leg had been broken. “So, you see,” she finished, “Catherine hated Diana far more than she ever let you know.” When Grey still looked skeptical, she said strenuously, “Grey, it’s the only
explanation that makes any sense! You didn’t kill Diana, I
know
you didn’t! Catherine had motivation, and she lied about it to you to divert suspicion from herself.”
Grey leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “Your theory has several holes in it, Jen,” he pointed out. “If I didn’t kill Diana, then why was I in the woods a mere ten feet from her body?”
Jennifer paused, and her face showed her dismay. “I didn’t think of that,” she admitted slowly. “Could Catherine have taken you there in order to make it appear that you were guilty?”
“It was a long way from the house. She certainly couldn’t have dragged me out there. Nor could she have gotten me up onto a horse. She was still recovering from a broken leg, remember. No, Jennifer, I must have gotten there by myself.”
“You were terribly drunk,” Jennifer countered. “It would have been simple enough for her to lead you into the woods, or anywhere else she wanted you to go, for that matter.”
“Perhaps. But you’re forgetting that Catherine lied to everyone about my whereabouts that night. If she was trying to set me up as the murder suspect, why would she tell everyone I spent the night in the stable?”
“I don’t believe she was trying to set you up as the suspect. I think she wanted you to believe you killed Diana so that you would not suspect that she did it. After all, you loved Diana so much that if you did suspect Catherine, she might have feared for her life. As for why she lied to everyone else … she was dependent on you, Grey. You were her guardian. If you had been hanged, what would have become of her?”
“Good point. But you’ve forgotten one important fact. Diana was beaten and raped as well as having her throat cut. A man killed Diana. There can be no question.”
“You’re right,” Jennifer said glumly. “Catherine couldn’t possibly be the murderer.” Though she was distressed at her failure to clear Grey, she was immensely relieved that Catherine was not the culprit. After all, Catherine had
been her best friend for many months now. She could no more imagine Catherine as a murderer than Grey.
She was no closer to a solution to the mystery than she had ever been. And yet …
Grey looked at her, his features harsh with mingled self-hatred and sorrow. “I’m a murderer, Jennifer. I’m sorry that you know it, for it means that there can be no hope for us, but even sorrier that I lied to you in Williamsburg. I cannot tell you what it meant to me that you believed in me. If only I had been worthy of your trust. I wish—” He stopped abruptly and turned away. “Never mind. What I wish for doesn’t matter. If I weren’t such a damned coward, Fd have dangled at the end of a rope long since. You deserve better than someone like me.” He sighed and finished in a harsh near whisper. “It’s too late for us.”
Jennifer scarcely heard him. In her haste to solve the mystery of Diana’s death and clear Grey, in her certainty that she had found a suspect with motive, she had forgotten the last piece of the puzzle. Grey’s words, resounding in her brain, filled her with a sudden insight.
A man killed Diana.
A man.
A man.
At last she knew who had killed Diana.
She did not tell Grey of her suspicion, deciding that she had made enough unfounded accusations for one day. This time she would have absolute proof of who the murderer was before telling Grey her suspicions. But her intuition told her she was correct.
She
needed no proof to be certain that Grey had not killed Diana.
She stood up suddenly, filled with resolve, and crossed the chamber, settling down on the arm of his easy chair. “I still don’t believe you killed Diana,” she said with soft sincerity. “Despite all evidence to the contrary, I simply don’t believe it. I love you.” She took his hand and held it tightly. “It’s not too late, Grey.”
Grey’s eyes met hers, and in them she saw the wounded
vulnerability he ordinarily took such pains to conceal. Then his expression became shuttered. “I told you before” he said coldly, “that I was not interested in unskilled, inexperienced women.”
To his surprise, Jennifer only smiled. “It isn’t going to work, Grey,” she murmured, stroking his onyx-black hair. “I know what you are trying to do.”
Grey tried to ignore his overpowering reaction to her caressing hand. “I don’t know what you mean,” he ground out, wondering how her briefest touch could ignite surging desire in him so rapidly.