Page 45 of A Duchess of Mystery

This was awkward. Isabella bit her lip. How to imply Dora’s fragile nerves were only recently acquired without making him suspicious? “I think the loss of Marcus has hit her hard.” There, that wasn’t too incriminating. And it was true. The truest thing she’d said so far.

Richard’s stare intensified. “I can see that for myself. She’s a bag of nerves, Isabella, and I fear for her sanity. I really do.”

Good heavens. Fear for Dora’s sanity was a third thing that hadn’t occurred to Isabella, possibly because her own sanity had never been in question. Now he’d pointed it out, though, she could see it with clarity. She should have seen this coming. She’d always known Dora was not as strong as she was, despite having had to live with Marcus far longer, or perhaps because of that. Why had she not seen that Dora’s fragile grip on sanity was what had caused this in the first place? Or had it? Had it not been her own fault?

For want of anything else to say, she resorted back to her customary dismissive response. “Nonsense. Given time, Dora will get over this. She’s still upset about Marcus’s death, that’s all. He was her brother, when all’s said and done.” All of which was true, if not quite enough of the truth.

He frowned down at her. “But is she really upset about his loss? Are you sure of that?”

The skepticism he’d loaded those words with cut Isabella to the quick. Could he not use his eyes? Did he not believe Dora upset?

“Of course she is.” She kept her own voice light and airy, as though discussing nothing of more import than the weather. “She will be better shortly, I can promise you.” With a good talking to from Isabella herself, that was. Dora needed to learn to hide her feelings, or they’d both be lost. She had to be more like her determined sister-in-law and less of the frightened mouse.

Richard caught hold of her hand. “Tell me what happened that night, Isabella.” The intensity in his voice sent a chill down her spine. Hadn’t he already been told what had happened? Hadn’t he asked everyone but her already? Perhaps he was unaware she knew about all his questions to everyone but her. Might his steering clear, until now, of questioning her point in one direction only—showing that he believed the rumors? For once in her life, she didn’t know what to think or how to react.

“Marcus killed himself,” she said, and clamped her lips together, her whole body stiffening and thoughts of snatching kisses flown.

His dark eyes bored into her very soul. “So everyone says, but I know, and so do you, that isn’t true.” He paused. “Is it?” His words fell leaden in the damp air.

The chill clutch of fear closed around Isabella’s entrails. She wrested her hand free of his. “Of course it’s true. He was drunk. Maudlin. Whether he did it by mistake, playing with his dueling pistols, or not, he did it himself. I can assure you. The magistrate, whom I know you saw today, declared it so. I have no idea where the vile rumors have come from that suggest otherwise.” She tossed her head. “But people do like to gossip about their betters whenever they can, I find. Only a fool listens to rumor.”

“No, Isabella. We both know he didn’t do it himself.”

The conviction in his voice sent further chills running through her. How could he be so certain? How did he know?

The best thing was to ask him. She gave a little laugh, trying to infuse it with casual interest and failing. “Whatever makes you think that?”

He was gazing into her eyes as though searching for something. “Isabella, just answer me one question, if you don’t mind. Tell me if Marcus was right-handed or left-handed? You were married to him for ten years. You must know.”

Fear trembled through her and for a moment she thought her legs might give way. He knew. He’d spotted what no one else had done. She could lie, but he would know her for a liar if she did, even if no one else did. He’d been brought up with Marcus, after all, shared a schoolroom with him, watched him write and shoot and eat. Best to be truthful. She met his gaze with a challenge. “He was left-handed.”

Richard nodded. “Correct.” She couldn’t read his expression but was glad she hadn’t lied.

Determined to stare him out, she stiffened her backbone. “Why? What does it matter?” She could brazen this out.

Richard sighed. “Because he’d been shot in the right side of the head, and afterwards, someone had put the pistol in his right hand. He couldn’t have done it himself. Not with him being left-handed. It would have been impossible for him to do so.”

He knew. The one thing they’d not been able to change. He’d spotted it where no one else had. For a moment, she was lost for words, but not for long. “Why could he not have done so? I’m sure if I wanted to, I could shoot myself with my left hand, even though I’m right-handed.”

He shook his head. “You couldn’t.”

She fell silent, still staring into his eyes. She concentrated hard on what they looked like, refusing to think about what he’d just said. Right now they’d lost the gentle expression they’d held before when he looked at her.

“Did you kill him, Isabella?”

It took a huge effort not to tremble at his words. He believed the rumors. He thought she’d killed her husband. What should she say? Seeking wildly for words, she opened her mouth to speak, to tell him the truth. Surely he would understand and forgive her if she did so.

But she was not going to need the words. Footsteps sounded on the gravel path, her head swung around and she saw five people coming into view: Atkins, hurrying behind two men and two women. The women were Lady Dangerfield and Lady Brocklebank, galleons in full sale, determined expressions on their triumphant faces. The men were of a different class altogether. One was Hooper, the local constable who’d attended with the colonel on the day of Marcus’s death. The other she didn’t know. Short and wiry, with stringy brown hair streaked with gray, he wore a countryman’s brown wool suit of matching frockcoat, breeches, and waistcoat, and a look of satisfaction on his cunning, ratty face.

“That’s her,” Lady Dangerfield said, pointing at Isabella, as though she might be unrecognizable. “Seize her.”

“Your Graces, I couldn’t stop them,” Atkins, breathless with hurrying in front of them, spluttered, his honest face full of anguish. “They demanded to see you immediately.”

Hooper, as a local man whose own father had worked on the estate, had the grace to look embarrassed. Not so his cocky companion. He stepped forward as bold as brass, shouldering Atkins out of the way as though the elderly man didn’t matter. “Lady Stourbridge, duchess, I’m arresting you for the murder of your husband. You’ll have to come along with me and Constable Hooper now and answer some questions.” His ratty face was smug with self-satisfaction. As were those of the two ladies.

Isabella’s heart gave an unruly lurch. She glanced back at Richard. Too late now for the truth, if it had not always been too late. She leaned in close to him. “I did it. I killed him by myself. Take care of Dora for me, Diccon. Please.”

His frown deepened and she recognized the shock in his eyes, but whether it was due to her confession or this arrest, she had no idea. “Bella…”