Page 62 of The Duke’s Suspicion

“My father couldn’t possibly be a spy,” Caroline cried, in the sort of voice one uses when trying to convince one’s self as much as others.

“No,” Vivi declared, her own voice firm again. “He’s a traitor. He started in at Percy’s funeral, trying to get information from me. He told me I would be helping Tris…” She glanced toward her mother and said, more quietly, “I’m ashamed to admit how much I told.”

At Whitby’s hiss of indrawn breath, Tristan said sharply, “She believed she was doing it to keep me safe.”

But it couldn’t have done, of course, and every shocked face in the room seemed to know it. Every detail Viviane had gleaned and passed along to another would only have put her brother in greater danger.

From the floor came a groggy mumble. “The girl lies,” Pilkington rasped out, having roused himself enough to struggle against his bonds and attempt to rise. Remington pushed him back down with the toe of one boot. “I say,” his prisoner protested, “I’ll not have this fellow—”

“Oh, do shut up, Easton.” His wife, whom no one had realized was awake, sat up with her daughter’s assistance. As she spoke, she held one hand to her temple, her eyes narrowed against the beam of Remington’s lantern as if the light gave her pain, though the room was actually quite dim. “Can’t you see no one believes you?”

Caroline, who had been looking from one parent to the other with a frown notched between her delicate brows, gasped. “Mama?”

“Why did you do it?” the lady demanded of her husband in a surprisingly firm voice.

For a long moment, he appeared to ignore the question. Then, with an awkward, resigned lift of one shoulder, he said, “Why do people do most things? We needed money.”

“I brought you a fortune—”

“You brought me half a fortune, long spent. The rest is to be Caroline’s. By law, I could not touch it, though we needed it desperately. I hoped, after she married, she might prove generous. In the meantime, however, I hardly knew where to turn. Then one night I ran into Lord Hawes in his club. He was in his cups and happened to let a few tidbits slip.”

“Percy?” Vivi gasped.

“I found his information…valuable. On that occasion, and others. When he died, I was frantic.” He paused, a distant look in his eyes. “We were in the carriage on the way to the late duke’s funeral when your mother sighed and said that it was a pity you couldn’t simply marry Hawes’s brother instead.”

“I surely wasn’t serious,” Lady Easton protested.

“I was.” His voice was flat. “And so were our creditors. Still, I knew such an arrangement would take time—time for Major Laurens to return, a period of mourning before a marriage could take place… Then I saw Lady Viviane, who seemed to know a surprising amount for a little girl.”

Tristan lunged forward; Captain Whitby held him back.

“Oh, dear child.” Lady Easton looked first at Lady Viviane and then toward her daughter. “Please believe I had no idea. Perhaps I might have been more clear-sighted if it weren’t for these headaches…”

“Headaches?” Tristan echoed. A pause. “Miss Pilkington, didn’t you tell me just this morning that your mother’s headaches have been steadily worsening since the spring?”

Caroline nodded. “Around the time of—” The flush of embarrassment warred with a sudden pallor, leaving her face splotched. “Oh.”

“Good God, Pilkington,” Tristan thundered. “Have you been poisoning your wife to keep her from finding out you’d turned traitor?”

Lord Easton shook his head sharply, though he groaned at the effort. “Not…poison, exactly.”

On Erica’s other side, the duchess lifted her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry, and across the room, Lady Lydgate stopped fanning. “I have a bottle of laudanum in my room. I keep it for the toothache. Shall I fetch it for you, ma’am?” the baronet’s wife asked solicitously.

“No.” Every eye turned to Erica. “She needs to rid herself of whatever toxins she’s been ingesting. A tisane of red clover will help more. It grows wild, of course, but I believe I saw some potted in the conservatory.”

Caroline’s smile was weak, but genuine. “Thank you, Miss Burke.”

After that, the various groups around the room splintered into separate conversations, and with Vivi a warm, drowsy weight against her shoulder, Erica’s attention inevitably began to drift. Across the room, Captain Whitby was calling Miss Pilkington “Caro” and being slapped heartily on the back by Sir Thomas, while Lady Lydgate turned a cold shoulder to Lord Beresford and devoted her attention to the pallid but determined Lady Easton. Tristan and Remington discussed something with great animation, occasionally pulling Captain Whitby aside to join them. And the duchess did as she always did, organizing and comforting, though with tears in her eyes. Tea appeared, and more candles, and at some point, footmen who carted Lord Easton away, accompanied by Remington.

Before she quite knew what had happened or how much time had passed, Tristan was kneeling once more at her feet.

“Time for bed, Viv. We’ll deal with the rest in the morning,” he said to his stepmother, though he looked far from sleep himself.

“C-can you forgive me, Tris?” his sister asked with a yawn.

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

The duchess rose and went to the door. “She’ll sleep in my room tonight. I’ve already rung to have a bed made up.”