Page 44 of Sinfully Daring

“Oh, no.” He was uncertain if he had spoken aloud or only in his head, could not comprehend what he was seeing.

“What happened?” he whispered, staring at her with incomprehension. How could she be dead? Wicked, spiteful Adelia was too full of life to be so still and…. “What happened?” he demanded again, louder now.

“Why don’t you tell us?” called a shrill voice from among his staff.

Sebastian clutched at the railing. No. No, he couldn’t have… he… he couldn’t… Could he?

Desperately, he tried to piece together the events of last night, but his brain refused to cooperate, the combination of alcohol and panic working upon him until he couldn’t think. Adelia, dead? No. No! It was impossible, but there she lay, undeniable proof. Oh, Lord. His stomach roiled, horror and too much brandy souring into a vile mixture in his guts. He hadn’t wanted her dead. He hadn’t. Sebastian wouldn’t have wished this on her… and yet an uncomfortable memory surfaced of having done just that. He recoiled as he remembered. I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it!

His pulse sped faster as he clutched at the railing, unable to look away from Adelia’s crumpled form. She looked so small now. So frail.

He felt the judging eyes of his staff staring up at him. They had heard the rumours that he was having an affair with Lady Rosamund, had they heard too, that he had threatened to kill Adelia only yesterday? Had he meant it? When he’d said it, he had been blind with rage but… No. No; it was only words, a desire to frighten her. That was all. His chest was tight with fear as he tried to convince himself of that. He hadn’t done this. He would remember, surely?

To his eternal relief, Peterson stepped forward.

“You there, fetch a sheet and cover Lady Hargreaves up. You, strong coffee and lots of it. Bring it to Lord Hargreaves, hurry now. The rest of you, stop staring and go about your work, at once. No one is to set foot up here again unless I order it. Go!”

It was testament to the force of Peterson’s influence on his staff that they did as he bid them, many of them casting fearful glances up the stairs at Sebastian as they went.

Peterson, having apparently got over his own shock, mounted the stairs.

“My lord, I have had no choice but to send for the police, though it is clear Lady Hargreaves fell down the stairs. A tragic accident, but an accident all the same. I am sure this matter can be dealt with quickly.”

Sebastian stared blankly at his butler.

“She fell down the stairs, my lord,” the butler said, his voice firm.

It occurred to Sebastian to wonder if Peterson truly believed that or if he just wanted to limit the scandal. Did he think Sebastian had pushed her? Of course, it did not matter what people believed. The police would find what Peterson had said. He was a peer of the realm. His wife had fallen down the stairs. A tragic accident. That’s what the official line would be. What people said in private, however…. How fortuitous that the woman standing between him and the lady he was having an affair with was now dead.

Everyone would believe he’d done it. Perhaps Rosamund would believe it too.

Had he?

The question circled his head until his stomach rebelled, and he fled back to his room to vomit.

Chapter 12

My dears,

I am sending this to every one of you. A meeting is most urgently required. We must do all in our power to counter this vile scandal before it gets completely out of hand. Please come to Dern, at once.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Honourable Matilda Barrington, Marchioness of Montagu, to the Peculiar Ladies.

12th July 1842, Dern Palace, Sevenoaks, Kent, London.

Rosamund looked up from her book at a soft knock on the bedroom door. Not that she’d been reading, only staring at the pages as the words danced before her eyes. She could not seem to settle to anything. The family had elected to remain at Dern. Here, her father and Montagu could present a united front as their mothers rallied their own troops. It was also a private fortress, and Lord Montagu was forbidding enough that no one with any sense would come within ten miles of it without invitation.

“Come in,” Rosamund said, trying to inject some force into her voice when she felt utterly listless and drained of hope.

Everyone was tiptoeing about her, being so kind and reassuring, constantly checking she was all right and not about to take a hysterical fit until she was seriously tempted to scream and rant so they could stop worrying she might. At this point, a hysterical fit looked terribly appealing. The trouble was she was far too pragmatic and strong-minded to indulge in such a display. A pity, really, for she suspected she might feel better for it. Looking up, she saw her brother, Jules, had entered the room.

“Morning, brat,” he said softly.

She summoned a smile for him, praying he would not feel the need to apologise again. He blamed himself for her demise, berating himself over and again for leaving her alone. But how could he have known?

He walked towards her, his expression kind and careful, and she wanted to shake him. Jules only ever teased and was dreadfully rude to her, as any older brother ought to be to a sister. Anyone would think there had been a death in the family.

Her heart turned over as she realised he was pale, and steeling himself to tell her something dreadful.