Her heart hammered against her ribcage, and she wasn’t even surewhy. These were Carlisle’s most private thoughts, up for any interpretation really, and she shouldn’t have been reading them in the first place. But a poem about a woman, a son, like him, but not really his.
She pushed the chair back. Surely she had misread something—a line that would explain everything in a way that made sense. Pacing, she tried to calm herself, focused on the windows at the back of the room.
There, tucked between the windows and a bookcase, a large rectangular object had been covered with a sheet. One corner had fallen off, revealing the corner of a familiar painting. She squinted down at the upside-down frame, reading the nameRousseaunow that she knew to look for it.
Footsteps approached from the hallway, and Margaret forced a neutral expression before returning to the hallway.
Carlisle appeared suddenly in his riding coat, gesturing for her to come with him.
“The ride will be long and hard, duchess,” he said. “Are you certain you wish to proceed?”
“It is far too late to turn back now,” she replied, hesitating before following him.
Some decisions cannot be unmade. Or some things, unlearned.
Carlisle rode quietly in front of Margaret in the direction of Old Sarum—an hour’s ride, perhaps, from Somerstead Hall. He had tried to animate a few anxious conversations on the way. ButMargaret’s thoughts had been elsewhere, analyzing the poem he had written, in a quiet panic.
A full moon shone overhead. Margaret could barely make out the shapes in the distance, ruins becoming trees, masses of land confused with clouds. The cold night air slipped beneath her clothes, chilling her skin. For as long as they rode, they did not cross another soul. This path had obviously been chosen on purpose for its privacy.
“It occurs to me that we might have taken a carriage,” Margaret murmured, slowing her gallop as the road began to twist. She patted Selene when she protested at the change of pace, cautiously eyeing the path before them. “Would that have been faster?”
“With you or me at the helm of the vehicle, I fear not.” Carlisle stared straight ahead, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “She selected this night on purpose.”
“She?” Margaret straightened. “Do you mean Isadore?”
“Yes. Waited until the full moon to illuminate the way for her victims. We could never have operated these roads on horseback otherwise.” He slowed until Margaret rode beside him. “While she remained at Somerstead, you spent most days with her. Did she seem clever enough to plan this all herself to you?”
“Is it really a question of cleverness? Not wickedness?” Margaret thought back to their interactions, hoping Carlisle couldn’t read her unease on her face. “She did not seem particularly clever orwicked to me, either way. A perfectly average woman. Perhaps that was my mistake. If I had peered behind the curtain, seen her for who she truly was...”
“No, duchess. You will not hold yourself responsible for this unfortunate chain of events. You did notpeer behind the curtain, as you say, because in your heart of gold you have left no room for suspicion.”
Perhaps not with Isadore, but Margaret was certainly suspicious now. She narrowed her eyes at Carlisle in the darkness. He had always seemed so sure about Isadore. Now she suspected she knew why.
“You must have felt that way from the first, My Lord. From the moment you were introduced, you swore that Miss Bell was a fraud,” she said, knowingly. “How were you able to see what we could not?”
Carlisle was quiet a moment, discretely commanding Arion into a faster trot. “Experience, duchess,” he replied. “A long life led.”
“I see.” Margaret swallowed. “It is only that Alexander’s father entertained the affair with Miss Celeste Rousseau for many years—or so the story goes. It seemed entirely possible to me that theycouldhave had another child. Alexander is not a man easily convinced. He must have seen some evidence that Miss Isadore Bell truly existed at some point.”
“Proof is easily forged.” Carlisle’s tone was detached, cold.
“Do you think the painting was a forgery, too? Is that why you had it removed?”
The air grew unnaturally still around them. Margaret had sidled Selene beside Arion. In the moonlight, she saw Carlisle’s face twitch, his hands flex on the reins. His mouth opened and shut again, but what she had seen could not be unseen: that look of pronounced terror on his face, a man caught in a trap.
“The painting?” he asked.
“The painting of Somerstead Hall that you removed from the gallery. The one hidden in your office, painted by someone bearing the name Rousseau. I saw it years ago, but someone removed it right before Miss Bell’s arrival. It was obviously you. I see that now. But I don’t understand why.”
“How did you...?” Carlisle slowed his horse, staring toward the dark horizon. “You saw it when I went to fetch the horses..."
“I had not been looking for it on purpose. I thought all this time that you had rejected Miss Bell because you were concerned about another scandal. The late Duke of Langley’s affair cost your family much. His royal wife, heartbroken. Ties with the king, irreparably damaged. Alexander has worked tirelessly to prove his worth. If more secrets were unearthed, things which could threaten his position?—”
“That’s quite enough, Margaret.”
She scowled, knowing she was right.
“He is owed the truth,” she said.
