The Swordmaster's Mistress: Dangerous Deceptions Book Two(37)

As Guin stood up so did everyone in the front row, exchanging seats until she was sitting between Sophie and Mrs Cutler. She saw the jury glance over towards her as they filed out and she realised that the other women’s movements had been quite deliberate, not only to give her female support but to remove any possible impression that Jared Hunt was someone she might turn to for comfort.

That question about lovers. The hot, stuffy room suddenly felt very cold. If those twelve complete strangers thought she had murdered her elderly husband then she would be facing a different jury next, on trial for her life.

Time dragged on. The clock struck three and the on-lookers seemed to be holding their collective breath. What could be taking the jury so long? Not the identification, not the cause of death and surely not the question of whether it might be accidental.

Murder by…

A door banged. The clerk came back into court followed by the Coroner and then, finally, the jury shuffled in. They seemed to be looking anywhere but at her as all except the Foreman sat down,. She had heard a dinner guest, a lawyer, remark once that the jury never looked at the prisoner when they came back into court if they had a guilty verdict on a capital offence.

They are going to accuse me. I must be calm, I will not panic. They are going to…

‘Have you reached a decision?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then inform the court of it. Who do you find the deceased to have been?’

‘Augustus Quenten, Viscount Northam, sir.’

‘And the cause of death?’

‘Deliberate poisoning by means of marchpane sweetmeats which had been interfered with, deliberate like, with some poison what isn’t known.’

‘You find, then, that this is murder?’ Mr Runcorn’s voice was cool and precise and a thousand miles away. ‘Not an accidental poisoning?’

‘Yes, sir. Murder.’

He made a note. ‘And do you find any person or persons responsible for this heinous crime?’

My sweetmeats. My supposed lovers. My first husband dead… Guin lifted her head and looked steadily at the Foreman of the jury. She was not going to break down, she was not going to provide a spectacle by screaming or weeping or fainting. She was the Viscountess Northam and Augustus would expect her to behave with dignity and courage, even on the steps of the gallows.

The man’s lips moved. He was speaking but she could hear nothing. Nothing but the thudding of her heart, the whisper of air through her lungs. Nothing.



‘We do not, sir. It’s a right mystery to us all. We have to agree on saying person or persons unknown.’ The Foreman gave a hasty bow to the Coroner and sat down as the court erupted into talk and speculation.

Jared let out the breath he seemed to have been holding since the jury re-entered and looked across to Guinevere, stark white and still as the marble statue she resembled. She had been holding up remarkably well, so far. Too well, probably. She needed to give way to her feelings, but not here.

He went to the clerk who was filling in details on some printed form. ‘Is there a back way out of here? Lady Northam has had about as much as she can stand without fighting her way through that mob.’

The man looked up, glanced from Guinevere to the milling throng around the door and stood. ‘Bring the lady with me, sir. Through this door at the back.’

Jared stood right in front of her before her eyes focused on him. ‘Come with me.’ He held out his hand and she took it as though in a trance, let him place it on his arm and then walk her to the far door and through to the shabby vestibule behind it. Stairs led down and he took them, not waiting to talk, focused only on getting her away and safely home.

A hackney was standing almost outside the door, held up by the press of traffic in Piccadilly and he opened the door, almost pushed Guinevere inside and snapped the address to the driver.

‘Sorry about this hackney,’ he apologised as he sat down beside her. ‘But I didn’t want to wait for your own coach. Too much of a crowd around the entrance by now.’ He drew down the blind on that side as they pulled out into the main road at last.

‘Where are we going?’ She sounded as though speaking was an exercise in willpower, the words a phrase in a foreign language.

‘Home, of course. Your house. Guinevere?’ He swivelled on the seat to look at her. ‘Where did you think we were going?’

‘I thought… prison? I couldn’t hear what that man said and then everyone – you and the Duke and Sophie all looked so strange.’

‘We were trying not to look relieved.’ And had managed to look grim in consequence. Lord, she must be going out of her mind with terror. ‘They found murder by person or persons unknown, Guinevere.’

She did not speak, simply turned to him, put her arms around his neck, buried her face into his neck cloth and shook.

‘It’s all right. There now, it’s all right.’ He sat and rocked her, awkward and uncertain. He had never had a woman turn to him for comfort like this. It was not sexual, far from it, but the intensity of her hold on him, the quivering that ran through her, was as physical, as powerful, as any carnal encounter he had ever experienced.

He was used to male emotions, male despair and fear and courage. He knew how to respond to those, how to support his friends, encourage or condole. He had not the first idea what to do with a woman who needed him like this, like a lifeline holding her back from an abyss.