“There’s one thing you can do to earn mercy from me,” Edward suggested. “And I’ll give you the chance before the constables arrive.”
She looked up at him. The deadness in her eyes frightened him. He had never seen her look like this—he’d never seen anyone look like this.
“I don’t care what happens to me,” she repeated.
“Well, you might care when they’re locking you in a cell, so I’m going to give you a chance,” he said. “The antidote.”
“What?”
“To the poison you used. You’re not a stupid woman, Margaret, and you’re not careless. If you were dealing in poisons, I believe you must have kept an antidote on hand in case something went wrong. And when you fled Westfrey, you would have taken it with you so that it wouldn’t be found. I think you have it here, and I want you to give it to me at once. If you do that, I’ll ask the constables not to be too hard on you.”
“Why do you want me to do that?”
“Are you joking? You must know. If you give me the antidote, I’ll be able to save Lydia.”
“You don’t care about Lydia. I don’t think you ever did. You proved that when you went off to Bath and left her behind.”
“If you really believed that, you wouldn’t have found it necessary to poison her. You must have understood what I was beginning to realize—that I was falling in love with her. That I have been for some time.”
“Even if you believe you’re in love with her, she deserves much better than you,” Margaret argued.
“Isdeathwhat she deserves?” So far, he had refrained from shouting, but now, at last, he raised his voice. “Do you think the prospect of a life with me is so terrible that she would be better off dead?”
Margaret didn’t flinch. “Perhaps she would,” she said. “Perhaps I would have been better off dead than spending all these years with your horrible father, raising ungrateful children and losing the only one who could ever have been my own. My life has been nothing but a joke. I should have died at a young age—it’s better than living through all this. Perhaps it’s better that Lydia be released from your terrible company now than to go through all the things I did.”
“I’m not my father,” Edward said sharply. “I’m sorry he was cruel to you, Margaret, but I would never treat Lydia in the ways you’re describing. I care too much for her.”
“You think you love her now, but that’s only because she’s convenient.”
“That’s not true. Nothing about this has been remotely convenient. And what’s more, Margaret, even if I wasn’t in love with her, I still wouldn’t want her to die. I still wouldn’t want her to live an unhappy life. That’s not the sort of person I am. It was always my intention to do all I could to make her happy.”
“But you were never going to give her everythingshewanted.”
“You’re insane if you truly think she would choose death rather than a life without love and children. Lydia is a vivacious, clear-eyed lady with a heart full of enjoyment for the world around her. She might have been disappointed by a marriage to me, but she would never want to give up on the rest of her life. Now, give me the antidote.”
“You can’t make me do anything,” Margaret scoffed. “You promised me mercy, but there’s no mercy left for me, Edward. All the worst moments in my life have already happened. Nothing matters to me now. So, take me away. Lock me up. Spend the rest of my days trying to torment me if you think that will help you heal from your pain. You’ll never hurt me as badly as your father did—and I’m rescuing your wife from a life spent suffering the way I did.”
Edward turned and walked away from her as fast as he could. He had to. The anger within him was so powerful now that he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off her if he had to so much as go on looking at her smug face. Instead, he slammed the open palm of his hand against the wall so hard that it stung—at least, he thought it probably did. The fire coursing through him numbed him to the sensation.
There was a knock at the front door.
“That will be the constables,” he said in a low voice. “This is your last chance, Margaret.”
She didn’t speak.
A moment later, he heard voices at the door—the butler was speaking to the constables, who were then shown into the sitting room.
“Your Grace,” said the man in charge, bowing to Edward. “My name is Brockhurst. What seems to be the trouble here?”
“My stepmother has just confessed to the murder of my father, the late Duke of Westfrey, and to the poisoning of my wife, the Duchess of Westfrey,” Edward relayed, speaking quickly before Margaret could tell her own story. “She shows no remorse for her actions, and I feel sure that, if left unchecked, she would commit similar crimes again.”
“This is most disturbing,” Brockhurst said, turning to Margaret. “What do you have to say about this affair, Your Grace? Do you deny it?”
“The only thing I deny is that my actions were unwarranted,” Margaret said hotly. “Any lady in my situation would have done the same thing I did.”
“I was under the impression that the former Duke had died of a heart defect,” the second constable spoke up.
“That was what the physician concluded at the time,” Edward agreed. “But only because there wasn’t enough evidence to draw any other conclusions, and we simply didn’t know what else could be behind his sudden illness and death. Now, though—now, it all makes sense. It was Margaret all along. The two of them never got along with one another. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that she hated him.”
