No new leads, no new suspects, and the case was still very much a present problem.
Not today, however, she had noted as she got out of bed earlier than usual. Before the frustration over her position and task could settle upon her, she recalled a few facts.
Valerie was awake. Valerie was immensely grateful for Isobel’s efforts and even more thankful for her presence. Richard said he had a plan to get them definite proof of the culprit’s actions.
Those were all things she did not have yesterday morning, or the morning before that. Or the one before that.
And she chose to see it as a sign that things were going to be just fine, despite how slightly ridiculous Richard’s words had been when he had addressed the situation and proposed a solution before breakfast.
“We need evidence of her misdeeds. So I propose that you make your way through her room as discreetly as possible. I will keep her distracted and buy you some time.” He had told her seriously.
Isobel had balked, promptly demanding a more detailed explanation and plan.
“I do not think I can –”
“Valerie is counting on you. You are the only one who can do this. I promise – you will be just fine.” Richard told her earnestly.
His eyes had been so clear as they bore down on her, and for the first time in her life, she felt as though she could trust someone wholly with her life. Every passing moment she spent with this man broke down the resolve she had pulled up in his absence.
His plan might have been risky, but it was all that they could do in the meantime. And so Isobel nodded, praying that this would not backfire.
After breakfast, the plan was set into motion. Isobel stood near one of the large windows in one of the drawing rooms,pretending to admire the snow–covered gardens. Her true agenda was to keep an eye on the duke as he moved through the room, dripping easy confidence as he made his way to the subject of his focus.
Several other guests milled about the room, having gathered after breakfast for morning tea and conversation in a bid to relax before the day’s activities began.
Deborah was sitting in a comfortable chair near the fireplace, a cup of tea balanced delicately in her hands, and her face lit up when she noticed Richard approaching her.
The sound of Isobel's heart hammering against her ribs as Richard approached her aunt seemed to grow louder and louder the closer he got. She inhaled shakily and turned back to the windows, sternly telling herself to calm down and ensure this went as smoothly as possible.
The plot was simple enough; Richard would retain Deborah’s attention, and Isobel would use the opportunity to search her aunt's chambers for any evidence of her involvement in Valerie's poisoning.
The danger was apparent straight away. If Deborah realized what they were doing, or if someone else noticed Isobel's absence and went looking for her, the entire plan would fall apart. And it would be worse if they were somehow wrong and Deborah had nothing to do with it.
But they were rapidly running out of time. The wedding was tomorrow, and they still lacked concrete proof of who had tried to harm Valerie and why.
“Mrs Wightman,” Richard said, his voice carrying across the room with perfect aristocratic pleasantness. “Might I have a word with you?”
Deborah was clearly pleased by the attention, and she sat up even straighter. “Your Grace! Of course. Please, do sit.”
Richard settled into the chair beside hers, and Isobel watched with rapt attention as he leaned in slightly, adopting the posture of someone about to share something confidential.
“I find myself in need of some advice,” Richard started, his tone warm and engaging. “I have heard that this topic is one that carries your interest, and seeing as you are a woman of excellent taste, I thought perhaps you might be able to offer some guidance. You see, this matter has plagued my mind for a while now.”
“Oh?” Deborah's expression brightened further. “I would be delighted to help in any way I can, Your Grace.”
“You see,” Richard continued, and Isobel had to admire his acting skill, “I have been considering establishing a small plot of land on my estate specifically for growing vegetables. For my future wife, you understand. I believe the lady of the house should be granted the opportunity to entertain hobbies and interests outside her duties. If she has her own garden to tend,she would have something to occupy her time and also benefit the household through the acquisition of fresh produce.”
Deborah's eyes lit up with genuine enthusiasm, as though she had been waiting for someone to inquire about this interest of hers. “What a wonderful idea! I myself maintain several garden plots at my own estate. I assure you - there is something so immensely satisfying about growing one's own vegetables. Nothing quite like the satisfaction of harvesting one’s marvelous-looking produce! And it tastes much better than what is purchased in the market!”
“My thoughts precisely,” Richard agreed easily. “But I confess, I know very little about such matters, and because I want to prepare it all ahead of the arrival of my duchess – whoever she might be – I need to put things in order soon. What vegetables would you recommend for a beginner? Which are most suited to English soil and our climate?”
Isobel watched as her aunt put down her teacup as though she had been challenged to defend her honor, launching into an animated discussion of root vegetables and brassicas. Isobel was meant to take advantage of Deborah’s captured attention as quickly as she could, in order to do what was needed, but she felt rooted by the strange mixture of confusion and amusement. Why on earth had Richard chosen vegetable gardens as his topic of choice to distract her aunt?
She could not deny it was working, though. Deborah was completely absorbed in the conversation, making grand, enthusiastic gestures as she described the merits of variousplanting techniques and seasonal rotations. But something about it still felt purposefully engineered on Richard’s part.
As though the duke sensed something was amiss, he shifted his gaze to Isobel and glanced at the door, sending a message she received clearly.
It was time.
