The Devil You Know (The Devil DeVere #3)(43)

“Was your groom, Johnson, fond of drink?”

“I could not say, my lord. I never saw him intoxicated.”

“Do you think it possible Johnson may have had too much to drink the morning of the race?”

“I could not say.”

“Yet the groom did not show for the race. Is it possible in your mind that Lord Reginald could have beaten his groom?”

Diana reflected a long moment. “I would not think it likely at all, Sir John. Reggie was of a cold and calculating nature, not a man prone to fits of violence.”

“Yet, he was reputed a compulsive gamester.”

“Yes. I cannot dispute his gaming habits.”

“Had he accumulated considerable debts?”

She bit her lip and finally stole a sidelong look at DeVere who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “I am unaware of the full extent of his debts,” she said.

“Yet he had placed great hopes on the horse race.”

“As had I,” she said wryly.

“Is there anything more that you know, Baroness? Anything at all that might help to explain the events surrounding your husband’s death?”

It was literally the moment of truth. Diana’s heart pounded against her breastbone in rhythm with the pendulum clock. Her gaze darted between the Duchess and DeVere. The Duchess eyed her intently, her lips parted as if to speak. Only they knew the whole of it, or as much as could be known.

The time had arrived to speak up and come clean—about the extent of their financial devastation, of the unnatural relationship between Reggie and Johnson and their plans to elope together, and the planned blackmail of DeVere. But it was all too sordid. Too much to bear. Besides, wasn’t it irrelevant now? Reggie was dead. Her shame-filled life was over. It was a chance for a new beginning. A new life, one she refused to enter under the shadow of such a scandal.

“No. I can think of nothing.” She closed her mouth with a prayer that Caroline would also maintain her peace.

Sir John scratched his head, setting his wig askew. “Then I conclude that we have an accident involving a drunken groom who was discovered by his employer, Lord Reginald, after his horse failed to appear. My lord assaulted the jockey, beating him about the head with the pistol, whereby during the struggle, the weapon went off upon himself—a simple matter of death by misadventure. Unless anyone here has information to refute this, I deem that there is nothing further to pursue.”

“Sir John,” the Duchess interjected. “Since I am sadly ignorant of legal proceedings, what would transpire should any evidence of foul play later come to light?”

“You mean should the groom recover sufficiently to identify another assailant?”

“Yes. Or anything else that might later suggest a motive for violence against the deceased. Just out of curiosity, of course.” Diana noticed the dark looks exchanged between the Duchess and DeVere.

“As there is no statute of limitations pertaining to violent crime, an investigation would, of course, be opened by the proper authorities. As Justice of the Peace, it is only within my domain to determine if additional inquiry is warranted. At this juncture, there is not.”

Diana asked, “Does this mean...”

“That these proceedings are concluded?” Sir John answered. “I only have need of your signature on a statement, my lady, and then you are free to attend to your personal affairs.”

“I’ll conduct you both to my private study,” said DeVere.

“A brief word

***

with you, my lord?” Diana asked DeVere after her business was finished with Sir John.

“But of course,” he answered and rang for a footman to conduct Sir John out.

“What did you mean by coming to my room last night?” She raged after the door had closed. “It was deplorable and unscrupulous to take such advantage of me!”

DeVere lifted a bland brow. “I do not recall any complaint last night.”

“Because I was drugged by laudanum and not in my right senses!” she cried. “And what do you mean by this?” she asked, retrieving from her pocket the document, now crumpled, that he had left under her pillow. “You give me a lease to my own house?”

She appeared both incredulous and infuriated. It was precisely the reaction he had sought to achieve, but it gave him little satisfaction. Ludovic found it a struggle to maintain his impassive facade and blithe tone.

“For obvious reasons, I am unable to convey upon you the title to the estate. Yet this ninety-nine year lease ensures your future security with continued and uninterrupted residence at Palmerston Hall at the negligible sum of one pound per annum. The execution needs only your signature.” With a gesture, he indicated the quill and ink awaiting her on the blotter.

“What of the stables, the horses?” she asked.

He laughed. “I fear my largesse does not extend as far as the horseflesh, as that was what I sought to begin with.”

“It was only for the horses?”

He inclined his head. Best to let her believe that rather than the truth—that he had bought the debt rather than allow her life to be destroyed by her wastrel husband. “You may keep your mare, of course, but all the others will join my stables.”

“I don’t understand. Why do you do this?” she asked, indicating the document.