The Princess and the Pauper (17 page)

“
Did you have an affair
with
Mr.
Rees?” asked Snow.

She nodded.

“
And Mr. Rees
was thrown from the house for
it?”

She nodded again.

“
Then your father’s charge had
merit. He believed it, at least.”

T
ears formed in her eyes. She didn’t brush
them away, but let them fall freely.

“
Enough,” said
Rees.

“
Forgive me, Miss Wright. I
didn’
t mean
to cause you unnecessary grief.” The doctor shifted in his seat,
clearly uncomfortable. “I have my own burden to bear. I sincerely
regret my promise to your father. Just before his death, it was
revealed he’d lost his fortune. I thought it providence, divine
justice his murderer should not inherit his wealth and profit from
the crime. But now, well, if you did not commit the crime, then
there was no justice, and I cannot let the matter rest this
time.”

“
Nor can I,” she said
softly.

Someone had killed her father.
Someone had
killed
her father. And for four years, she had lived with the
guilt of it.

Her head throbbed. She felt lightheaded
again. “What will we do now?”

“
I will send for the
authorities,” said Snow.

“
No,” from
Rees.

“
It must be
reported,” the doctor
insisted.

“
If we report the murder now, the
sensational headlines will only frighten the criminal into
hiding.”

“
Then what do you suggest, Mr.
Rees?”

“
A more subtle tactic. First, how
was he poisoned?”

“
In all likelihood, his food was
laced with lead, but . . .”

“
What is it,
doctor?”

Snow
cleared his throat. “Well, I found no
evidence of food tampering. I did speak with the staff, inquired
whether Miss Wright had ever prepared her father’s meals, but they
were aghast at the suggestion and insisted she never ventured into
the kitchen.”

Rees growled,
“And yet you still
thought her guilty?”

“
I believed her father.
And while I had no
evidence, I . . . In hindsight, I should have been more
discriminating.”

“
Precisely,” said
Rees. “Give me some
time to look into the matter now, to see what I can find before we
approach Scotland Yard.”

The older man mulled over the suggestion.
“Very well. But if no arrest is made soon, I will report the
murder.”

Murder.

Even the word pressed on Emily’s
breast, making her grimace. Who would destroy her father? Who hated
him with such passion, he’d
murder
the man?

“
Miss Wright.” The doctor
intruded on her disturbing thoughts. “Whatever the state of your
father’s mind, his heart remained true. He would hear no word of
police or prison for you. He loved and protected you until the end
of his life.”

She dropped her gaze
at his affective
words. Her mind flooded with memories of sonorous laughter and
bear-crushing hugs, fuzzy whiskers pressed against her cheek and
proud, light-filled eyes.

A coldness came over her. Like
frost, it spread through her veins and heart and soul until she was
numb. Someone had
ruined her father, broken apart his mind and
body.

S
omeone would pay dearly for that
sin.

~ * ~

Grey reclined on the bed, an arm
tucked under his head, his legs crossed at the ankles. He watched
Emily from his vantage, curled in the winged armchair beside the
window.
She
was dressed in his robe, her arms circled around her bent knees.
And she gazed through the glass, silent.

The day had passed.
Supper had come. The
food, cold and untouched, remained on the table. She had suffered a
great shock. And she needed time to reflect. Or so he had told
himself. He now doubted the wisdom of such thinking. As each minute
passed, she grew more reticent, slipping deeper into a nether
world. And he had pushed her into that shadowed world.

Grey
rolled off the bed and headed for the
chair. His heart missed a beat when he scooped her into his arms
and she remained as listless as a broken doll.

He carried her back to the
bed,
settled
with her on the mattress. “Emily.”

His lips brushed her pale brow. He raked
his fingers through her thick hair and cradled her head. He kissed
her again. And again. He’d kiss her a thousand times to wake her
from her melancholy sleep.

At last she stirred, snuggled closer to
him, and he sighed with unmatched relief.

“
He thought I’d poisoned
him,
” she
murmured in disbelief. “Papa thought
I
had poisoned him.”

“
He knows the truth
now.”

“
Do you really believe
so?”

“
I do.”

She was quiet for a
moment,
thoughtful. “Who killed him, Rees?”

“
I don’t know,
” he admitted, “but we’ll find
out together.”

His voice,
unbroke
n,
belied the fury in his soul—fury toward himself. In his fanatic
search for the truth, he’d uncovered an ugly, rotting mess. And now
Emily was trapped in the mire, sinking. Fast. He had to pull her
out of it. But how? How to reverse what he’d done?

“
How?” she asked weakly
as if she’d heard
his thoughts. “How will we find Papa’s . . . ?”

S
he choked on the word “murderer,” and he
tightened his arms around her. “First, we’ll contact the former
servants. Do you know what happened to them?”

“
I—I’m not sure. I wrote them all
sterling reference letters after Papa’s death.”

“
We’ll check with
employment agencies, then. I will send someone with a list of their
names.”

“
Your hound?”

“
Do you object?”

“
No, of course not, but I can’t
imagine it was one of the servants. They were all distressed to be
displaced. And they protected Papa, keeping his madness a secret,
even to this day. They were loyal, Rees.”

“
Still,
they can tell us who came in contact
with your father’s meals, who delivered the food from market or who
should not have been present in the kitchen. Can you think of
anyone who might benefit from your father’s death?”

“
No one . . . except for
me. I was his heir. And I, apparently, wanted revenge—”

“
Stop.”
He heard the rueful, even sardonic
tone in her voice and curtailed her dangerous thoughts. “You are
not guilty, Emily. No one believes it, not even Dr. Snow. Think,”
he encouraged. “Was anyone in disagreement with your father? A
business rival? Even a neighbor?”

She sighed.
“Papa was disliked by the
neighbors, but not hated, I’m sure. I don’t know about a business
rival, though. Papa never introduced me to his clients or partners
or tenants, well, except you.”

Her muscles stiffened.
Grey
felt the
air in the room change, too. “Emily?”

Slowly she
separated from him. “You hated
him.”

“
Emily, what are you
thinking?”

But he knew precisely what she was
thinking—the unthinkable.

Her voice carried an unmistakable edge.
“You hated him for destroying your grandfather’s
violin.”

“
I did not kill you
fa
ther,” he
returned in an even manner, though his heart rumbled with the force
of an earth tremor.

She scrambled off the bed. “You wanted
revenge.”

“
Emily, stop.”

Her hand shot out, her forefinger pointed
toward him as she backpedaled. “You knew every passage in the
house. You lived with us for five years. You burgled the house and
poisoned him, to get even with him, to get back at me.”

“
Stop!”

Grey deserved everything she was throwing
at him, for he’d unearthed the truth behind her father’s death and
re-opened her wounds. But he wouldn’t let her think a moment more
he’d ever hurt her in such a monstrous way.

For the first time, he realized what it
had cost her to come to him that night five years ago, to risk so
much just to be with him. Her love and reverence for her father had
been the center of her world for her entire life—until Grey had
entered her world. The balance had shifted, then. And she had
braved the consequences of her feelings for him. She had come to
him that night, knowing she would lose her father’s esteem if
caught in his arms. She had come anyway. For him.

As she pulled
further away, her
eyes wide with suspicion, he had an impression of the raw pain she
had suffered when her father had viewed
her
with suspicion.

Grey
left the bed and approached her in
slow strides. “Listen to reason, Emily.”

Again she backed away.

He persisted,
“If I had killed
him, why would I investigate his death? Wouldn’t I keep it a
secret? Wouldn’t I let the past rest?”

“
You want me to
suffer.”

He
reached her, grabbed her arms.
“No!”

“
And you don’t want to
report his murder to the police.”

“
I
didn’t
kill your father. I wouldn’t shine a light
on the murder if
I
was
the murderer.”

“
Then why did you shine a light?”
she cried. “Why couldn’t you leave the past alone?”

“
I didn’t want you to carry any
more guilt.”

“
More guilt?” She struggled with
him until he released his hold. “Papa died thinking
I
had poisoned him. I
couldn’t possibly carry more guilt if I
had
truly killed him.”

“
Emily, I’m
sorry.”

Her eyes turned red, filled with
tears.
“No,
you did this!”

“
I wasn’t
in the country at the time of his
demise. I was abroad, playing concerts. You read the broadsheets.
You know I was on the Continent. I didn’t hurt him.”

“
You did this,” she
sobbed.

And he realized she wasn’t speaking of her
father’s death, but the part he’d played in bringing back so many
wretched memories. And now new torments.

Of that,
Grey was guilty, indeed.

CHAPTER
8

Cigar smoke lingered in the
thick, damp air.
Grey stood in the garden, leaning against a tree. It was
almost midnight. He watched the illuminated, glass balcony doors. A
restless shadow roamed inside the room.

He had not seen Emily
in three days. She’d
locked herself in her newly furnished chamber, allowing only the
kitchen maid to deliver her meals. It was how he knew she was still
alive, that and her midnight pacing.

Slowly he drew on the
cigar, then exhaled.
He couldn’t sleep in his own bed anymore, not since she’d accused
him of murder in it. She might still think him the murderer, he
wasn’t sure. If only she’d confront him. He could brave her tears.
Tears were better than cold, unnerving silence.

He stopped mid breath, smoke
trapped in his lungs.
She approached the glass doors and stepped out
onto the balcony.

At the pressure on his
chest, he released
his breath and the smoke swirled. Attired in a white nightdress,
her long hair loose in the breeze, he could see her silhouetted
figure beneath the fine cotton fabric. He could see her.

He hadn’t realized just how much he’d
missed her until now. She might be hiding in her room, but at least
she was still in the house. If she truly thought him the killer,
she would not have stayed in the house. She would have slit his
throat or poisoned his coffee before fleeing, and knowing that
lessened some of the dread in his heart. Not all of it, though. She
still condemned him for disturbing the past.

Her fingers gripped the iron
rail. She stared out toward Green Park and perhaps her former house
on Arlington Street. Her lips twisted. He could feel her grief. But
he could not rebury the p
ast. It had come up like a corpse in a shallow
grave.

She noticed him, then.
Perhaps
she
saw the burning cigar end in the night. However she’d sensed him,
she whirled around and hurried back inside the bedroom, slamming
the balcony doors closed and pulling the curtains.

Grey
lost his patience.