Page 25 of A Duchess of Mystery

“So they’d been to a ball that night?”

Wyndham nodded. “I believe they had. That was why she invited me. She wanted me as her escort. I believe, from what I have heard, that she was forced to go with Marcus when he turned up.”

Now they were getting somewhere. So the duke and duchess had gone out together to a ball somewhere presumably not too far away from Stourbridge, and, on returning, Marcus had met his end. Richard pushed his own plate away as well. “I gather that the ‘accident’ happened at about three in the morning.”

“You have it right. That is exactly what I’ve heard.” Wyndham fiddled with the handle of his coffee cup. “Although of course, we do not talk about it. I wouldn’t be so ungentlemanly as to broach the subject.” He shot Richard a meaningful glance implying he was finding this conversation sat under that same description.

Richard was not about to let this go. “So what was she doing up at that time of the morning? Or were they back that late? Did it happen as soon as they returned, perhaps?”

Consternation returned to Wyndham’s face. “No, no, no. I think she was upstairs in her room. Yes, I’m positive she was.” His eyes darted back and forth like those of a cornered animal. “The shot disturbed her. Yes, that was it. She heard the shot and came downstairs and found him. He’d taken his own life.” His face clouded. “The poor girl.”

“She was there first? You’re certain? Did no one else hear the shot and get there sooner? None of the servants? What about Lady Dora? Didn’t she hear anything?”

Wyndham wriggled in his seat. “The servants mainly sleep in the attics, of course. If they heard anything, then I daresay they would have been slower to react and descend to the library, and perhaps afraid to do so. Besides which, the butler heard. Atkins. He was second on the scene. I know that because he told me.” There was a note of “so there” to this final statement.

“And what was Isabella wearing?” What Richard wanted to discover here was whether she was in her night attire or not.

Wyndham’s eyes narrowed as though he suspected he was being tricked into giving away something he didn’t want to. “How should I know? I wasn’t even in the house. If you want to know something like that, then I suggest you ask the butler. I assume he would know.” He paused, puffing his chest out. “However, I also suggest most heartily that you don’t pester poor Bella with your questions. I would not like to see her further upset. She is just beginning to recover from the shock and questions from you might set her back. She is more delicate than she seems.”

“You are very concerned for her welfare.”

“Of course I am. She’s my friend.”

“And as her friend, no doubt you would defend her whatever she had done.”

Wyndham set his cup down with a clatter, entirely missing the saucer and nearly upending coffee all over the table. “Of course I would. Just as she would for me. That is what friends are for. I can see you can never have had any, or you would know.” He got to his feet. “I find my appetite has quite vanished. I must leave you to breakfast alone. Good day to you, Stourbridge.” And he was gone.

Richard regarded his three-quarters full plate of cooling kedgeree for a long minute. That had been interesting. As far as he could tell, Wyndham did indeed think Isabella had killed her husband, despite his protestations to the contrary. They were far too insistent. He clearly knew next to nothing but believed the rumors true, and thought Isabella capable of such an act. But just as clear was the fact that the man had no intention of ratting on her to the authorities, such as they were. Because she was his friend.

But did he, Richard, agree with Wyndham? And did he really want to know? The answer to the latter question had to be yes. As far as he had made out from his interview with Mr. Allsop, she was now a penniless widow. Anything that had come from her father was part of the estate he himself had inherited from Marcus. None of it was to go to her. She was in the position of indigent poor relation, much as he had been as a boy, and he was cast as her possible benefactor. And beautiful as she was, the possibility that she might be a dangerous opponent still existed. A rather exciting possibility.

The estate already possessed one single woman in his cousin Dora, but she was a different type of person to Isabella. For a start, he knew her and trusted her. She’d been his childhood friend and companion, the only person he’d missed after he’d left to join the army. He could live with her, but could he live in a house occupied by someone who had killed his predecessor in what might have been cold blood? Even someone who looked like Isabella and had such a disturbing effect upon his equilibrium?

The question was, why had she killed Marcus, if indeed she had? She must have known she’d be left penniless if he died. Why would she be willing to risk that?

His cogitations were interrupted by the sound of the door opening, accompanied by the tap of a stick, and girlish laughter. Dora and Isabella came into the breakfast room together, both clad in what should have been somber black day dresses. Although Dora’s was demure and unadorned, Isabella’s had about it the look of a dress that didn’t want to be classed as mourning. The black showed off her ivory skin to perfection, and her auburn hair gave a splash of color to her ensemble. His stomach gave a disturbing flip. Was he falling for her all too evident charms?

Isabella, spurred on by her usual morning appetite for breakfast after her ride, had spent no more than a few minutes in changing from her riding habit into something more becoming for daywear. Hawkins, her maid, who was used to her mistress’s habits, made no objection to the speed and merely buttoned her into one of the requisite black mourning dresses Isabella had designed herself and had made by the local dressmaker in Newbury—Miss Chaloner. That they were black was the only concession to true mourning, as Hawkins had more than once pointed out, but now knew better than to comment on. She knew all too well that Isabella always did what she wanted, especially since the death of the duke.

Once changed, Isabella emerged onto the galleried landing where she encountered Dora, much more demurely clad. Her best friend’s solemn face softened into a smile of welcome, but nevertheless didn’t lose its perpetual worried frown. “Bella, are you going down to breakfast? Perhaps you will lend me your hand on the stairs? My leg is troubling me more than usual this morning. I must have slept awkwardly on it.”

“Of course.” Isabella held out her arm and Dora linked hers through it. They descended the stairs together, Dora’s cane tapping on the dark oak of the treads with every step, just as Wyndham strode across the hall and disappeared into the drawing room looking as though he was in a huff. The staircase was the one thing in the house that threatened to daily defeat Dora, and Isabella had helped her up or down the flight many times.

Dora squeezed her arm. “And what do you think of our prodigal returned?”

Isabella shrugged. She would need to be careful what she said here. “He looks a sight too much like Marcus for my liking, although as far as I can tell, he doesn’t seem to share his personality. Thank goodness.” She chuckled. “And I can tell you he’s no horseman. We had a lovely ride, but he could do with some pointers on his seat.”

Dora pulled her friend to a halt on the half-landing. “Never mind the way he sits a horse. Trust you to think that the most important thing about him. Does it bother you that he’s a little like Marcus? I know there is a familial resemblance, but I’ve never thought it overly worrying. Although when last I saw them side by side, Marcus was a man grown and Diccon still very much a boy.”

Isabella frowned. “I suppose when he smiles he is nothing like Marcus, but every time I look at him, I admit to finding myself seeing Marcus before me again. It’s like seeing a ghost, or maybe a blurred reflection. I’m not sure I like it.” She shook her head. “I’ve a mind to suggest to him that you and I should go and live in the Dower House. Then I wouldn’t have to keep looking at him.” Which might be a very good idea considering how looking at him was really making her feel. Most confusing.

Dora nodded, a tinge of relief in her eyes. “That sounds an excellent idea. As for me, I would give anything to be away from this house with its unwelcome memories.” She shuddered. “We could do so, but I fear we would have to ask his permission and would need him to provide us with an allowance. Neither of us are in possession of an income that would furnish the required servants nor cover our living expenses. We would be, in fact, we are, very much beholden to our cousin for our living.”

Isabella’s frown deepened into a scowl. “And that in itself is enough reason for me to take an active dislike to this interloper.” She paused, Richard’s undeniably handsome face dancing before her eyes. Most annoying. “And he’s had the infernal cheek to ask me to help him find a wife. A woman who will come here and take over the running of the house and… and…”

“Take your place. I understand your annoyance. But if you are to choose him a wife, you can choose someone who will suit both of us, as well. Better to have a new friend installed here than a potential enemy.”

“I already thought of that.”