“Your grandfather died in his mistress’s bed in Paris, your uncle George was shot in a duel, and your father, God rest his soul, died of a fever on his last expedition.”
“Could any of them have been… not accidental?”
Simms raised his brows. “Deliberate, but made to look like an accident, you mean?”
Justin nodded.
The majordomo pursed his lips. “Well, yes. A few of them, I suppose. But not all. The death in Venice could easily have been murder, but the drunken fall from the horse would have been harder to orchestrate, although not impossible. The head injurymighthave been inflicted by someone other than the deceased. There were no witnesses to that one, after all.”
He continued. “Your uncle might well have been goaded into accusing someone of cheating at cards, but I don’t recall the particulars. He was always hotheaded. The other deaths, however, I don’t think could have been planned. Certainly not your father’s. You and I were both with him when the doctor said there was no more that could be done.”
Justin hissed out a breath at the unhappy memory. “That’s true. And half the crew died of the same fever. There was no foul play there.”
“Indeed. Might I ask why the sudden interest in your predecessors?”
“Because I’m starting to think that someone’s trying to kill me,” Justin said. “Or possibly Tess. But that’s less likely.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Do you remember a few weeks ago, in London? I was almost knocked down by that brewer’s cart in Charing Cross. At the time I dismissed it as a freak accident, but now I’m not so sure. When you add it to the fact that someone took a shot at us in the woods yesterday, and that both of us narrowly avoided serious injury from a suspiciously unsafe cartwheel today, it all adds up to too many near-misses for my liking.”
Simms nodded, and Justin ran his hand over his face, struggling with a niggling suspicion that refused to be ignored—that all his near-misses had started at the same time he’d become involved with Tess.
Was it possible that his beautiful, brilliant wife might not be as naive—nor as innocent—as she appeared?
In his experience, anything that seemed too good to be true, generallywastoo good to be true. There was always a catch, some reason to be wary. He’d seen it a million times in his business dealings: spices at a price so low they had to have been adulterated with lesser-quality ingredients; a ship whose freshly painted boards attempted to hide myriad structural failings.
Such deals might fool the greedy, the unwary, but life had given him a healthy suspicion of all that glittered.
Was Tess herself too good to be true? Was he being blinded by lust and infatuation, guilty of ignoring the very logic for which he prided himself? When viewed unemotionally, the facts seemed to paint a very incriminating picture.
She’d definitely lied to him. He didn’t truly believe that saucy print was the sole reason she’d been at Case’s house. And she wasn’t above using subterfuge, either—she’d been happy to dally with him incognito at Careby’s. How many other times had she done such a thing?
He shook his head, annoyed at himself for being so disloyal, so untrusting, but unable to stop.
Tess could have been seriously hurt herself this afternoon. She could have been thrown from the cart, or crushed if it toppled, or trampled by the horse.
The thought of her in any kind of pain made him feel queasy, even as a cynical little voice in his head remindedhim that it could have been a calculated risk to appear innocent and allay suspicion.
Bloody Hell.
He resumed his naked pacing. He had to think clearly. To push emotion aside.
What would Tess gain from disposing of him? She’d keep her title whether he was alive or dead, so it couldn’t be that. And while she’d get her widow’s portion if he died, just as they’d agreed in writing, she’d lose the allowance he’d promised her while he lived. Financially, she’d be worse off with him dead. That couldn’t be a motive.
Could there be an emotional reason, though? Had she lied to him about having a lover? If not Case, then someone else? Did she regret their bargain, and long for another man’s embrace?
He’d glimpsed a letter addressed to a “Charles King” yesterday when he’d added his own correspondence to the outward pile. At the time he’d assumed it was some business matter, but now he wasn’t so sure.
His chest tightened with what he assured himself was anger at being deceived, and not jealousy. Jealousy would require the presence of other, more complicated emotions, the likes of which he was unwilling to entertain in relation to Tess. He’d instituted his three-month rule to avoid precisely this kind of painful situation.
Belatedly realizing that Simms was still watching him as one might a caged tiger, Justin pulled himself up short. Unwilling to voice his suspicions of Tess, even to his most loyal employee, he merely frowned.
“I want you to look into it, Simms. Talk to the coachman and see if there’s any proof that the gig wheel was tampered with. See if you can find any suspicious circumstances regarding the previous heirs. And find out whatyou can about a man named Charles King, of Lincoln’s Inn Fields.”
Simms, the soul of discretion, merely bowed. “Of course, sir.”
The hot water for Justin’s bath arrived at that moment, and he dismissed Simms and sank into the steaming tub with a sigh.
