Page 69 of When We Touch

The great manor house was quiet, terribly so after the excitement of the day gone by. Maggie walked down the stairs, and from the landing at the entry to the massive grand salon. Jamie was there, standing before the fire, looking thoughtful and solemn.

“Ah, there you are,” he said. “Charles, as you must know, did not make the night.”

She sat down, shaking.

“The Queen,” Jamie continued, “has sent word that he should be interred at Westminster. He was very fond of it, always telling her that he preferred the truly ancient stones, despite the artistic talents of Sir Christopher Wren, and the beauty of St. Paul’s. Naturally, this must also be in accordance with your wishes. You were his legal wife.”

Maggie lifted a hand. She tried to speak, couldn’t, tried again. “I’m sure that the Queen was more privy to certain of his thoughts; whatever you and Her Majesty agree upon is certainly fine with me.”

“Arrangements will be made for a proper wake . . . tomorrow night.”

Maggie nodded again. It all seemed surreal.

“Arianna is now under sedation. Dr. Mayer has kindly agreed to remain here as a guest for the next few days.”

“Very kind of him.”

His voice seemed to harden. “Next week, you will have an opportunity to spend time with the solicitors for the estate. Naturally, I’m assuming you’ll want your brother to be present.”

She waved a hand in the air. “There is no part of the estate that I want; certainly, there were no such agreements made.”

“Ah, but you do receive a third of the inheritance. Certain assets go to Arianna, and—unless there is the chance of a male heir being born posthumously—the title and properties come to me.”

She lowered her head. “There is no chance of a posthumous heir.”

“Well, it might not do to speak so candidly at any other time,” he said flatly. “Arianna is convinced that you . . . did something to her father. She might attempt to go to the courts and see that the marriage is annulled.”

“What does it matter?”

“Your family estates could be confiscated, in lieu of goods illegally obtained by false promise,” Jamie said.

“What?” she gasped.

“The law can be complex and detailed. Excuse me, due to the circumstances, there are many affairs that I must attend to,” he told her. “Unless, of course, there are certain matters you feel must have your personal touch?”

He was deferring to her as the wife of the deceased. Laughable, of course. She had been engaged for a month, long enough for legal banns to be cried, and no more. She had no right to the life of a man so important, for so many years, to others.

“I have no right to infringe upon your handling of affairs,” she said simply.

“Good. I have sent for your brother. He will be with you soon.”

“Thank you.”

They were stiff, so terribly stiff and formal! Impossible to believe that just two nights ago . . . and yet, impossible to believe that the world had changed entirely, so quickly. Charles was dead. She had determined that she would be a martyr to marriage, albeit he had been a dear one . . . until last night. And now he was dead. And his daughter was screaming accusations of murder against her!

Still, Jamie hesitated. “There is going to be an autopsy,” he told her.

Frowning, she stared at him.

“Why?”

“Sir William wants to make sure that it was his heart, and there were no other factors that brought on his death.”

“Such as . . . ?”

“Poison.”

A chill enveloped her. She stared at him. “Surely, you don’t believe that I . . . ?”