Kit regarded her without blinking. “Perhaps. The boy has dark hair. Edmund’s is light. Baker’s is light as well.”
“What does that signify? Surely, the name is more telling than the colour of his hair?”
His silence felt like an hour had passed when he said, “Violet… your husband’s name is Henry Edmund Rockford Vexley.”
The breath died in her throat. She couldn’t move.
“It gives her motive,” Kit said.
She made herself stand still and think past it.
The boy could be her husband’s. The name, the dark hair, the private meetings with Sarah in his chamber. It would explain everything—the secrecy, the generosity, the years of silence. It would also mean that every word he had spoken to her in the garden, in the carriage, in the dark, had been spoken over a lie.
She did not believe it. But she could not afford not to ask.
Kit continued. “A woman killing to replace the duchess or just purely out of jealousy is nothing new.”
Violet managed to nod. She knew this, of course, but she could not believe him to be a liar or a coward. Gradually, certain facts assembled themselves. Why he would invite Sarah to his bedchamber to discuss the boy. Why he’d not suspected her all these years.
“And the boy is ten. Just turned.”
Violet’s footstep echoed through the corridor as she marched to her husband’s study. The secretary started to rise when the door opened. Violet was already past him.
Henry looked up from the desk. The warmth that had come into his face fell away.
“Leave us,” he said. His secretary gathered his papers and went, rather eagerly, she thought.
Violet stayed near the door and didn’t move toward him. She needed the distance between them. “Your middle name. Is it Edmund?”
He put his pen down. “It is. What of it?”
“Kit followed Sarah yesterday. To a village off the high street. She visits a couple there.”
His fist went to his chin and rested beneath it.
“There was a boy living with the couple, dark hair. Like yours.”
His eyes narrowed but said nothing. Violet swallowed, “They call him Mrs Baker’s son. They call him Edmund.”
His frown deepened and a shadow spread over his countenance. “He is not mine, if that is what you are suggesting.” His voice was eerily quiet.
She took a deep breath and stood tall, lifting her chin. “He is not Harold’s either. He is ten years old. When did Harold pass away?”
“Thirteen years ago. I was told he was thirteen.” He paused. “Has it not occurred to you that the boy may be Edmund’s?”
“Yes. But Edmund is not the one who received Sarah in his private chambers.”
“I told you what that conversation was.”
“I know what you told me.”
He turned around to face the window. His hand went to his nape, holding it there. When he turned back, his voice was calm. “I acknowledge that it was improper. It was convenient and afforded us the privacy for I did not wish to sully my brother’s good name. However, I should not have allowed it. Not especially after our marriage.” He walked around the desk andleaned against it. “However, nothing ever happened between us. I never laid a hand on her.”
Violet studied his face, waited for a sign of guilt or unease. When she found none, she said, “Has Edmund said anything about the boy? About any natural born children?”
“No.” He crossed his ankles. “I never suspected their involvement either.”
“It is possible that he does not know about the child. There is only one way to find out, isn’t there?”
