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Jerking to her feet, Sarah crushed the foolscap into a ball and tossed it into the fire.Do not be foolish!Hope was the most worthless emotion ever created. She hadhopedher father would find a way to manage his money. She hadhopedthe business marriage he had made for her with Owen Ainsworth would be at least pleasant. She hadhopedfor children. But hope was as worthless as a child’s wishes on a shooting star.
She straightened and took a long breath. Marriage to Matthew would happen. Or it would not. And if a marriage happened, it would be another business arrangement. Another distant spouse. But at least her servants would have a place, and some security. That would be enough.
Thatshouldbe enough.
So why did she now feel as if it were not?
“Damn you, Matthew Rydell.”
Sarah rang for Reid. She would make her bedtime preparations quick, no lingering chatter, as Reid had been working fervently to alter another dress sent over by the duchess for tomorrow night’s appearance at Almack’s. At least Sarah would have that memory to take with her into the future. Perhaps it would even be a pleasant one.
Tuesday, 26 July 1814
Embleton House, London
Nine in the evening
Matthew shut thedoor to his father’s study and motioned for Hiram Lewis to sit in one of the chairs before the desk. Grateful that his mother had already retired for the evening, Matthew had opened the front door for the runner himself. The fewer people who knew about the runner’s late-night visits, the better.
Mark sat in a wingback by the fire, watching. Neither of them had been able to stop thinking of this room as their father’s study—it was, after all, now Matthew’s study—and it brought both of them comfort to spend as much time here as possible, absorbing the lingering smells of tobacco, old leather, and mint—Robert Rydell had chewed mint leaves for years and pots of the small plants littered the house, including two on the windowsill of the study.
But Matthew welcomed Mark’s presence. For all his gaiety and nonchalant humor, Mark had been one of the best observers Matthew had ever known. He seemed to take in every detail, and his assessment of those details often provided Matthew with the wisest advice.
Matthew settled behind the desk, taking in the runner’s opening salvo, delivered before they had even entered the office, the results of the tests on a certain white powder. “So it is arsenic.”
Lewis nodded. “Yes. The locals interviewed the estate servants again. None will admit to knowing how it got there. Or when.”
“Not good news for the dowager countess.”
“No, but something is odd. Two things we noticed made the entire discovery of that box curious. That box were full.” Lewis formed a small shape with his hands. “Small box, more like a lady’s gift box or a place for one small trinket. Hardly large enough to hold enough poison to kill more than a rat, much less a full-grown man. And it had so much of the powder in it that it spilled when opened. If this were the arsenic used to poison the earl, why is there so much of it left? The current countess said she found it at the back of a shelf used to store shoes. That’s a reckless way and place to store it. Would be easy for a pet or child to stumble on it, or to wind up accidently wearing it yourself.”
Mark shifted in his chair. “Someone who does not know anything about arsenic.”
“Exactly. And”—Lewis reached into his coat and pulled out a folded sheet of foolscap—“I heard from Dr. Havers.”
Matthew held out his hand. “The doctor who attended Lord Crewood’s death?”
“Yes. I wrote him about the arsenic speculation, especially since he had closed the case as accidental, presumed poison.” He handed Matthew the letter. As he unfolded it, Mark wandered over to read over his shoulder.
Mr. Lewis,
I have received your letter of 15 March, and I am appalled. What utter rubbish. The gossip mills of thetonnever cease to astonish me with their creativity and ludicrous details.
To make this clear, there were absolutely no signs of arsenic poisoning—which is brutal and leaves clear demarcations on a corpse—on the body of Lord Crewood. The man had a rather well-known fondness for opium, which the family thought was a secret—it was not. I ruled his death an accidental poisoning to save the family the notoriety of declaring it an accidental suicide, not to cast aspersions of murder.
I was trying to be kind, not deceptive, as from all appearances the man was in a stupor and aspirated his own vomit. I certainly did not intent to stir up a storm of gossip against the then Lady Crewood, who was a gentle soul suffering from the agony inflicted on her by her husband. If people knew the hell he had dealt that household for years, they would have been surprised he had not died much sooner.
As to the bribes, Francis Montague paid me nothing—the man barely had two pence day by day. Nor would I have taken money to falsify documents. To hear my name besmirched in such a manner infuriates me. I would appreciate if you would respond and tell me whether this vile rumor persists. I may not be practicing medicine any longer, but I will not tolerate being slandered. I would gladly return to declare such a charge if this does not stop.
Thank you for alerting me to this situation. Please keep me apprised of any further developments.
Sincerely,
Daniel Havers
“Well,” Mark said. “That certainly—” He stopped, looking down at Matthew.
Matthew placed the page on the desk, pressing it flat with one hand, his chest tight with rage—yet relief. “So it was not, in fact, murder.”
