A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(92)

“No. Only that he trusted me because I had not been here during her disappearance and because he knew that Rosamund and I were barely acquainted and therefore I could have had no motive for harming her. It was that bland little reassurance that taunted me. I read it over and over again, and it suddenly occurred to me, What if he had known? He might have discovered our feelings quite by chance. Rosamund sometimes kept a diary and she was not always careful with it. What if it had come to light and Malcolm learnt of our relationship? Might he have intended to lure me here under false pretenses? Could a maidservant have known? Had Rosamund confided in her schoolmate Mertensia? The more I considered the matter, the more possible loose ends I imagined. And any one of them might have exposed us.”

“And so you determined to come and discover the truth for yourself,” I added.

“More than that. I always resented the fact that whatever had become of her, he had not been able to prevent it. Had she run away? Then he must have been the source of her unhappiness. In choosing Malcolm for her husband, she must have believed he would bring her comfort and companionship. Somehow he had failed her. And then his letter came, claiming he had proof she had been harmed, and that is when I became angry, blindly, redly angry. All I could think was that he had been able to do the one thing denied me—marry the woman he loved—and he had lost her. He had not kept her safe. He had not protected her. And I wanted justice for Rosamund’s sake, visited both upon her murderer and upon the man who had let it happen. So I decided to come here, prepared to deal justice if necessary.”

“How did we fit into your plan?” I inquired.

Tiberius smiled. “I have never done murder before. I thought an accomplice might be necessary.”

“And you expected we would provide that help? Really, Tiberius. You go too far,” I chided.

“Do I? You are not overly concerned with the law, either of you,” Tiberius replied as he looked from me to Stoker. “You care for justice, but not for how it is achieved. If I executed a murderer, would you really give evidence against me? Or would you help me hide the body?”

“Why the pretense?” I demanded. “Why not just explain what you were after?”

“It’s hardly the sort of thing one asks casually. One simply cannot invite people to engage in a spot of justifiable homicide,” he said. “But I thought that if I could bring you here, if you could see it all for yourself, you would both sympathize.”

“You did not invite Stoker,” I reminded him. “In fact, when he asked to come, you specifically told him he could not.”

Tiberius’ smile was patient. “My dearest Veronica, have you not yet learnt that the surest way to guarantee that Stoker will do something is to tell him he may not? He was twice as eager to come for being forbidden the invitation.”

“Of all the bloody, manipulative—” Stoker began.

Tiberius held up a finger. “Effective. I’ve known how to maneuver you since our days in the nursery. You have not changed.”

“Neither have you,” Stoker replied bitterly. “We are brothers, Tiberius. You could have told me the truth.”

“As you did when Caroline de Morgan was trying to put a noose about your neck?” Tiberius asked. “You have never once turned to me for help. Why should I return the favor?”

The question sat uneasily between them, the silence heavy with reproach.

“Did you kill Malcolm?” Stoker asked bluntly.

Tiberius canted his head and gave his brother a curious look. “I cannot decide which answer you would like most. To hear that your brother is as capable of intemperate violence as you are? Or to hear that he is better than you after all and can resist the most primal of urges, that of the killer.”

“Tibe,” Stoker said in a gentle voice, the nickname one I had never heard before. A relic of childhood? I wondered how long it had been since Stoker, since anyone, had called him that, this elegant and fractured man.

Tiberius drew in a deep, shuddering breath and put his shoulders back. “I did not. I came here with the intention of killing him, and I may do it yet. But I have thus far not harmed so much as a hair upon his head. I give you my word—not as Father’s son, but as Mother’s.”

Stoker gave him a long, level look, then nodded. “I believe you. And I will do everything in my power to keep you from making a murderer of yourself.”

“You may try to stop me,” his lordship said coolly, “but you will not succeed.”

“You should give it another thought,” I broke in. “Having a murder on one’s conscience is no easy thing. I speak from experience.”

His lordship’s mouth went slack, but before he could ask anything further, I held up a hand. “Now, on to business. We must be logical and scientific in our method. If you did not murder Malcolm, where is he?”

“Do you want my word upon it?” Tiberius thundered. “I had nothing to do with Malcolm Romilly’s disappearance. But I swear to you, I vow by all I hold dear in this world and the next, if we find him and it is proven that he had anything to do with Rosamund’s death, I will wrench out his still-beating heart with my bare hands.”

He was breathing heavily, the only sound in the taut silence of the room. Just then, Mrs. Trengrouse appeared, her expression anxious.

“My lord! There you are. I don’t know what to do,” she said, coming forwards in haste.