The Gentleman Who Loved Me (Heart of Enquiry Book 6)(83)

Papa’s pen poised above the page. “And this crony’s name?”

“Viscount Cranston.”

“Mrs. James?” Emma prompted, going along the circle of seats.

“I was in Ashford,” she said with clear reluctance. “I fancied some solitude so I did not bring a maid.”

“Am I to understand that both you and your stepson were in Kent that day?” Papa said.

“It was a coincidence.” She wetted her lips. “Kent is a large county. We did not see each other.”

“Aunt Charlotte and I were in Town,” Eloisa chimed in. “I cannot recall for the life of me what we were doing, however.”

“We visited the haberdasher’s that day,” Lady Charlotte replied, “because you wanted new ribbons for the St. Clare affair that night, remember?”

“Quite right,” Eloisa agreed. “And we saw oodles of people there.”

“Were you with them, Miss Fossey?” Emma turned to Sybil.

“No, I was visiting a friend in Lancashire. I didn’t have a maid with me either since my friend lives in a tiny cottage,” Sybil said apologetically. “You see—”

“As I’ve mentioned, my older sister has a charitable nature.” Eloisa’s sapphire eyes were mocking. “She befriends outcasts wherever she goes.”

“Miss Bunbury is not an outcast,” Sybil protested.

“She’s an invalid spinster with no connections to speak of.” With a sniff, Eloisa confided to Rosie, “Miss Bunbury is my sister’s old schoolmistress and forever on her deathbed. Don’t you think Sybil could make better use of her time?”

“I think Miss Sybil’s loyalty speaks well of her,” Rosie said.

Sybil sent her a grateful smile.

“Are we done?” Mrs. James said abruptly.

“I have a final question.” Mama’s emerald eyes circled the group. “How would each of you describe your relationship with the former earl?”

Tension blanketed the room.

Alastair James spoke first. “I’ll say what everyone is thinking: George was a mushroom. The pushy merchant relation that none of us wanted anything to do with until the title fell into his lap.”

“Speak ill of yourself if you wish,” Eloisa said heatedly, “but not of the rest of us. Aunt Charlotte generously entertained Cousin George in our home for years. Long before he became the earl. And Sybil and I were always nice to him.”

“Quite right. And George always made a point of telling me how much he enjoyed his visits,” Lady Charlotte agreed.

“He reeked of trade,” Mr. James said with a sneer.

“Alastair,” Mrs. James said faintly, “don’t be unkind. You were George’s favorite.”

“George had only one favorite: himself. He didn’t give a damn about anyone else. Did you know he used to make fun of you all when he was in his cups?” Mr. James’ derisive glance swept around the room, pausing on each of his relations in turn. “He called you a whiny milksop, Peter.”

Theale’s shoulders stiffened.

“And you, Charlotte, a fat old hen who couldn’t lay eggs.”

Lady Charlotte’s hands pressed to her bosom, her lips trembling.

“He thought Eloisa was pretty,” Mr. James went on. “And a conniving bitch.”

Eloisa’s nostrils flared. “How dare you.”

“As for Sybil,” Mr. James said, his eyes gleaming with malice, “George said she was like cut-rate goods that a shop couldn’t get off its shelf.”

Tears shimmered in Sybil’s pale blue gaze.

Peter Theale surged to his feet. “Stop picking on her, you bastard!”

“Really, Alastair.” Even his stepmama looked uncomfortable. “Is this necessary?”

“Mrs. Kent asked about our relationships with George; I’m answering her question.” Alastair aimed a sardonic look at Mama. “George also thought that my stepmother was a grasping termagant and I a toadying fool who was after his money. There you have it: our splendid family portrait. Now are we done?”

A chilling awareness swept over Rosie. Her dead husband had had enemies—and not just because of his money. Hostility crackled in the room.

“We’re done.” Papa closed his notebook. “For the time being.”

One by one, Daltry’s stony-faced relatives filed out.

As they passed her, Rosie shivered. Which one of you killed Daltry? Which one of you wants me dead?





Chapter Thirty-Four


Rosie awoke, a scream crowding her throat.

Disoriented, breathing heavily, she waited until the tentacles of the nightmare receded. She must have dozed off in the wingchair whilst waiting for Andrew’s arrival. Rising, she went to check the ormolu clock on the mantel: it was nearing midnight? Andrew had said he’d be here by ten o’clock so that she could fill him in on the outcome of the interviews today.

Where is he? Although she told herself that her panic was due to the bad dream, she couldn’t stem the feeling of dread. An icy fear that something had happened to Andrew.

She pulled the bell.

When Odette appeared, Rosie blurted, “Have you heard anything from Mr. Corbett?”

“Yes, my lady. You were asleep when his messenger arrived, so I didn’t disturb you.”