'So I really learned nothing,' I concluded. 'Except that Eggleston and Breckenridge were most put out that I should be investigating them. I have not yet made acquaintance with Connaught, though Grenville is trying to contact him.'
'He is much the same as the other two, I am afraid.'
I tapped my fingers to the arm of the chair. 'I wonder that your husband did not cut his acquaintance with them after the war. They are thoroughly unpleasant, and not men whose company I would have thought your husband would seek.'
She opened her hands in a helpless gesture. 'I asked him why myself, but he never would tell me. He only said that they had shared the camaraderie of battle, and so they must remain friends. I knew he did not much like them, but he refused to break the connection.'
I remembered Lady Breckenridge describing how Lydia had begged her husband to take her home when Breckenridge wanted to play his disgusting card game. 'He ought to have spared you.'
She shrugged. 'It no longer matters.'
It mattered to me.
I continued, telling her what I'd learned from the Spencers and from Pomeroy. She listened attentively, the garnet on her ring winking as she twisted the band again.
'What this means,' I said carefully, 'is that not only could Breckenridge, Eggleston, or Connaught have killed your husband, but the Spencers could have also. And they might have killed Breckenridge as well.'
She looked surprised. 'But why should they?'
'Because John Spencer longs for revenge against those connected to his father's death. He reeks with it. And Kenneth Spencer worries much about his brother. He might have murdered your husband believing that John would be satisfied once Colonel Westin was dead. He seemed much distressed that John wanted to continue his search for the truth.'
Her eyes widened, pupils spreading to swallow the blue. 'Could they have gained the house?'
'Indeed. The same way Breckenridge or Eggleston could have. I have toyed with the idea that their two lordships had an early morning appointment with your husband, that he let them into the house himself. But suppose the appointment had been with the Spencers? They admitted he'd asked to meet them at a coffeehouse, but what if he had told them to meet them here instead? He goes downstairs and lets them in. They murder him and leave.'
She watched me in growing dismay. She had wanted the three aristocrats to be the culprits, wanted it with her whole being. The possibility that Breckenridge or Eggleston or Connaught had nothing to do with it meant that she might have made a grave mistake.
'I must agree with Mr. Allandale on one point,' I said gently. 'Perhaps you should go to the country. Stay with your daughter and brother. I will write you of anything I find.'
She shook her head. 'I am not ready yet. I would go mad in the country, waiting.'
'Your daughter might need you.'
She raised her hands in supplication. 'Do not ask me, Captain. I cannot go. Chloe's uncle will look after her well.'
'But the country might be safer for you. There is real possibility that someone closer to home killed your husband, as I suggested before. You should face that. William, for instance.'
She stared at me in baffled outrage. 'I have told you, that is impossible. William refuses to kill even insects. The idea that he might have hurt my husband is preposterous.'
'But he is large and strong and could easily have struck your husband down. Or Millar could have done the same.'
She shook her head, her eyes sparking anger. 'Millar had been my husband's manservant for twenty years. He grieved and still does. And he and William are both devoted to me.'
'Perhaps too devoted,' I suggested. 'Perhaps William saw that your life would be eased if your husband died.'
She sprang from her chair and paced in agitation to the pianoforte. 'No. Please stop this. He cannot have.'
'Forgive me. I simply want no harm to come to you.'
'I did not ask you to investigate my husband's death, Captain Lacey. I asked you to clear his name.'
'I know. I cannot help myself. I want to be certain.'
She swung on me, her head high. 'Certain of what? You have no right to accuse my servants. How dare you?'
'I accuse them to stop myself from speaking something still more repugnant, from drawing a conclusion even Sergeant Pomeroy leapt to without prompting.'
'What conclusion? What are you talking about?'
'Good lord, Lydia, have you not seen it? That you killed him yourself.'
Her face flashed white with shock. 'What?'
I went on remorselessly. 'You most easily of all could have crept into your husband's chamber and stabbed him while he lay abed. The servants were asleep; who would notice you move from your bedroom to his? And then in the morning you pretend to find him and swear your servants to silence on the matter.'
She stared. 'How can you say these things to me?'
'Because they might just be true.'
Her look turned furious. 'They are not.'
She moved as though to flee the room. I stepped in front of her.
'No? What was he to you? You had no marriage; you admitted so yourself. He was about to bring disgrace to you and your daughter, and his friends disgusted you. If he died, you would be spared an ordeal, and if you could push the deed onto the foul Breckenridge, so much the better.'
I could not still my tongue. My fears were pouring from me, words spilling into the still room.
'If I am so clever,' she flashed, 'why on earth did I tell you all?'
'Because when I helped you on the bridge, you saw a chance to move your plan along. You saw that you could stir me to pity, that you could make me do anything you pleased. That I would scramble to cast the blame on your husband's disgusting colleagues, anything to keep them from you and the taint from your name. You must have seen how easily I'd promise you anything.'
I ran out of breath. She stared at me, lips parted. A slight draft of air stirred the tapes of her cap.
I eased my hands open. 'You see,' I said, lowering my voice. 'You are barely a widow, and I make declarations that I should not. I take the unpardonable liberty of speaking your name, uninvited. And who am I? A nobody, here on your leave, hardly better than a servant.'
She continued to stand still in shock, her gaze fixed on mine. 'No.' Her whisper was cracked. 'Not a servant. A gentleman.'
'Hardly, at this moment. I am ready to ask for what I do not deserve.'
Color climbed in her cheeks. 'And if I say you may have it freely?'
'Then I will count myself most blessed of men.' I shook my head. 'But I cannot ask it. I will go.'
'No,' she said quickly. 'I was willing once before to grant it. Do you remember?'
How could I forget? I recalled her warm lips against mine, her arms about my neck; I had thought of the incident every day since it had happened.
'You were ill, and frightened. And a bit foxed, as I recall.' I made a slight bow, my throat aching. 'Forgive me. I will go.'
'Please do not leave me alone, Gabriel.' She held her hand palm out, as if pushing me away. 'Not yet.'
'Lydia.' I could not stop myself saying her name again. The word filled my mouth, liquid and light. 'If I stay…'
'Stay. Please.'
She stood motionless until I came to her and gathered her into my arms. She leaned to my chest, and the clean scent of the lawn cap drifted to me as I pressed a kiss to it.
Her hold tightened, and she raised her face to mine. I kissed her. I tasted her lips, her brow, her throat, the lace at her neck.
'Gabriel,' she whispered. 'Please stay.'
