Cecilia hesitated, wondering if he was implying that he didn’t believe her. “I hope so. But I understand that both of you repeated my concerns, and now Lord Blackthorne knows I believe these are more than accidents.”
Penelope winced. “Oh, dear. I thought your brother deserved to know. Was that wrong of me?”
Cecilia took her hand and gave a tired smile. “No, I understand your concern.” Then she glanced at Oliver. “I imagine you thought my husband should know.”
Oliver shrugged. “Seems you didn’t bother to tell him. Was that because you think he’s trying to kill you?”
Penelope gasped aloud, and Cecilia stiffened, surprised to feel herself defensive on Michael’s behalf.
“No,” Cecilia said. “There’s no motive for him to do so. He will inherit none of my money. And he was Papa’s good friend for many years.”
Oliver shrugged. “He and I discussed many different suspects.”
“He offered to tell me everything.”
“Asyoushould have done with me,” Oliver countered.
He looked mutinous and angry, as if he realized she didn’t trust him. But how could he know the depths of her suspicions? Even she didn’t want to consider the worst.
Penelope glanced at each of them with concern. “You have had a terrible day, Cecilia. If I’d known, I would have come earlier to help you deal with this dinner party.”
“Mrs. Ellison has it so well in hand that even I have had little to do today, but it is very sweet of you to offer.”
“You could sit and relax, and I would be happy to read to you.”
Cecilia opened her mouth to decline, but Penelope seemed so anxious to help in any small way. She finally smiled. “That would be lovely.”
Penelope glanced at Oliver. “Do you mind, Oliver?”
He gestured with his glass. “Good of you to help. I’ll be in the billiard room.”
Anything to escape, Cecilia thought, faintly smiling as she watched him leave the room. But her smile faded, and her chest hurt, but it wasn’t because of her fall that morn.
Was she losing her last brother?
Michael went down to the drawing room before the dinner guests were due to arrive. Dozens of lamps had been lit to emphasize the ancient weapons displayed high on the stone walls. Fresh flowers festooned each table, and the smell was almost overpoweringly sweet.
It was difficult to think about entertaining guests after what had happened that morning. And it was a mark of Cecilia’s bravery—or stubbornness—that she was going through with it. He stalked to the French doors and looked out through the windows at the gardens, where dusk had fallen. Long shadows crept across the ground like fingers pointing at the castle.
Logically, he understood that since the “accidents” had begun right after he arrived, she might suspect him. But she didn’t, as if she’d grown to trust him. He felt elated and hopeful, until he remembered the bust shattering on the marble, and looking over the balustrade to see Cecilia gaping up at him from where she’d tumbled to the floor. She’d almost fallen down the stairs the first night he arrived. Yet she’d gone on denying what had happened, pretending everything was all right.
He’d thought the way she kept her distance from him was about their marriage, his insistence on remaining in the union and her resistance to the whole idea. And then there was her brother and his many problems, and the future certainty that she’d have to give up running the empire she’d nurtured. There were so many reasons for her to be upset—he’d just never considered that she was frightened for her life.
After leaving her earlier, he’d gone to meet with Talbot, who’d already looked into the new servants again. The page, Francis, was the only one hired without references, but he was a parish boy, whom everyone knew. Talbot had heard a story or two about the boy brawling with friends, or fishing when he should be working, but nothing that would implicate him as a murderer. But then again, a page had tasks all over the house, errands for this person or that. He’d least be missed. But dig a hole to kill his mistress? That would achieve nothing but her death, and how could Francis possibly want revenge against a mistress beloved by the entire staff?
The new watchman, Parsons, had grown up in Enfield, moved to London as a young man, then recently returned to support his wife and two babies. His London references were impeccable. And as for timing, the watchmen had a nightly schedule where they checked in with each other routinely as they patrolled the grounds. A watchman would have been noticed if he was lurking in the Hall the day the bust fell. And Susan, the maid? He’d seen her face during the incident, believed down to his soul she’d been shocked and horrified. And again, her brothers Tom and Will lived in the Hall, too. What motive could she have? Servants as suspects just seemed so implausible.
Voices disturbed Michael’s rumination, and he turned, realizing he stood in the shadows by the French doors, for Miss Webster and Appertan had not seen him. She was obviously besotted with the young lord, worshipping him with her eyes when he wasn’t looking, smiling and tossing her head when he might be admiring her figure. Michael felt so much older than either of them. It seemed long ago that a young girl wanted to impress him. And even then, it had only been because of the lies his father told about the status of their family.
Though Appertan seemed to expect such feminine attention, there was a distant focus to his eyes if Miss Webster wasn’t speaking. Michael wondered if he worried for his sister—or worried he might get caught. How was Michael supposed to make sure Cecilia was never alone with him again? He was her brother! Michael had put together a contingent of servants, led by Talbot and Mrs. Ellison, to make certain that Cecilia never went anywhere alone, though his proud wife would certainly protest.
It was Mrs. Ellison who escorted her into the drawing room. Michael gritted his teeth, remembering the way the housekeeper had reddened when she’d told him Cecilia’s wish to make her entrance without him.
“She’s beside herself right now, my lord,” Mrs. Ellison had whispered. “Give her time. She’s used to being on her own, poor thing.”
He’d acquiesced reluctantly, and now, as Cecilia arrived, he felt himself relax at last. For just a moment, she paused on the threshold, and he saw her gaze take in Appertan and Miss Webster, who stood talking quietly together, not noticing her. Her blue eyes, usually so lively, looked momentarily bruised and sad. Michael couldn’t imagine what it would be like to wonder if the brother she’d helped raise was a villain.
When Appertan glanced up at her, Cecilia blossomed with a smile. It was all an act, but in that moment, she shone with a radiance that made Michael ache both in sympathy for her and in painful desire. Her blond hair was upswept, and several tiny ringlets danced about her ears and brushed her shoulders. Her gown matched the deep blue of her eyes and sparkled with beading across her square-cut bodice. Her bare shoulders looked vulnerable and tempting at the same time, and her cleavage was close enough to the edge of propriety as a married woman was allowed, enough to make her husband practically drool. Her waist was tiny, and her hips flared out, emphasized by the sweep of her skirts and the graceful way she moved.
