“Madeline,” Beau said, appearing from behind a door to her right. Though it was late morning, she could tell by the small lines at the corners of his eyes he’d had a restless night. But he’d washed and freshly shaved, dressed in morning attire befitting the grandeur of the house.
It took all of Maddy’s resolve to keep her hands clenched at her sides, instead of throwing her arms around Beau and burying her face in his neck so she could breathe in his warm, soothing scent. His stare washed over her, and, unless she was deceiving herself, she sensed his need to be close to her, too.
But how could she be with a man like him? He belonged in a place like this—grand and beautiful, just like he was. Power such as this only represented a threat to Madeline. In her youth, her parents had used her dowry as a prize and put her in the centre of a heartless game. Now, her entire future—and the future of Everwell—was in jeopardy because of Veronica Turnbull’s unwillingness to see past her own impressions of what was true. Maddy didn’t have the power to just wipe this all away.
But there was something in Beau’s eyes—that fierce determination, like she’d seen yesterday on the train when Nelson cornered her, that made her want to hope she was no longer fighting these battles alone.
She opened her mouth to acknowledge him when Lady Em raised her voice to speak.
“Mr. da Silva, I see you are in one piece.” she said, not bothering to hide her indigence. While Lady Em had a fraught relationship with her aristocratic past, she used the power of the privilege she was born to with great effect when it suited her. She frowned, then pulled out her pince-nez and held it to her nose, inspecting him with the same discriminating gaze one might use to ascertain the value of a painting. “Or maybe not.”
“Miss Everwell, Mrs. Hartley,” he said, turning to Lady Em and Phillipa. “Thanks to Miss Murray, I am very much so.” His gaze lingered on Maddy, and her skin prickled with desire. “I know why you are here, and I can assure you this is a grave misunderstanding. Please, come in.”
He waited until Lady Em nodded, then escorted the women into a brightly lit morning room. Unlike the foyer to the great house, which was cavernous and meant to impress, the parlour was cozier, with a little less of the affected Tudor style the exterior of the house and the entry exuded. Veronica Turnbull’s sharp stare bored into her as she entered the room, and Maddy couldn’t help but wonder if the woman had somehow sensed what had happened between Maddy and Beau.
Which had been an utter mistake.
To her surprise, however, Mrs. Turnbull stood and turned directly to Lady Em.
“Miss Everwell,” she said, “I cannot allow a moment more to pass before I extend my sincere apologies.”
“I should say so,” Miss Everwell replied, still incandescently angry. “You sent my entire household into an uproar. Come Mrs. Turnbull, I know you’re smarter than that.”
Maddy slid a glance to Beau, who stood beside his aunt.
“Well,” she replied, “I should have been. But you can appreciate that my entire family has been turned upside down by this dreadful news. My nephew-in-law, who I believed as amiable as the day is long, shot a man in cold blood, and attempted to frame my nephew—” She took a pause, the events of the last few weeks clearly wearing on her. Beau jumped in instead.
“My aunt was in a vulnerable state when she received a note from a reprehensible villain,” he said. “He told her a very convincing story—one that has been told and retold so many times and fooled so many others.”
“Well,” Phillipa said in that no-nonsense way of hers, bringing everyone back to the issue at hand, “it seems we are in agreement at least about the rumours at hand, and I hope, Mrs. Turnbull, about how we deal with them.”
“Of course,” she said, sitting herself down just as a rather large service of coffee and pastries was brought in by one of the Turnbull’s staff with, Maddy had to admit, an impeccable sense of timing. “Let’s start over, shall we? If there is one thing I cannot abide, it is being taken advantage of in such a way. Aside from the fact I do not like to be made a fool, I am equally enraged by the fact I have put others in harm’s way. For that, I am truly sorry.”
Lady Em seemed to accept Mrs. Turnbull’s apology, which felt for all the world genuine. Regret had softened her spine for but a moment, before her shoulders squared again as resolution took its place.
“Mr. Miller is expected here within the hour,” she said. “Perhaps we can use the opportunity to speak together about the good work of Everwell.”
“What if he asks about Miss Murray?” Phillipa said. “You know as well as I that such stories are hard to refute, especially when so expertly told.”
Beau set down his cup of coffee, his voice taking on an air of authority that seemed to come naturally to him, but, it occurred to Maddy, he had never used with her. He looked straight at her when he spoke.
“Leave that to me.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Beau’s interjection brought banter between his Aunt and the Everwell ladies to a halt, but the only reaction he cared for was Madeline’s. While he owed both his Aunt and the Everwell Society a huge debt, it was her wellbeing—and her opinion—that mattered most to him.
“What are you suggesting?” Miss Everwell asked between bites of strawberry tart. “You have something concrete to dissuade him from making his accusations public?”
“Not yet,” Beau said. “But there must be something out there and I will find it.”
“There is something that might help,” Madeline offered, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. “I didn’t give it much thought at the time. It was something Nelson said, while we were on the train.”
“You spoke with him?” Mrs. Hartley asked, her expression turning from surprise to sympathy. “I’m so sorry, Maddy.”
“It was somewhat cathartic,” she said, pressing her lips together, her gaze turning to Beau. “He said that he’d heard Malcolm speaking—babbling was the word he used. He said it was after I left.”
“I thought you were supposed to be the last person who saw Malcolm alive,” Mrs. Hartley said.
