never get the opportunity to tell the truth.”
“They will have their day in front of a judge.”
“Yes, but they can’t afford things like Bow Street runners and no one will ever know the truth if they are sentenced to die horrible deaths. There are no pamphlets for them.”
“Unfortunately, the justice system does not always mete out justice.”
“I cannot stand to think of the wrongly accused who have no one to fight for them.”
“I can understand your concern, but for now I am only worried about you. Let Abernathy and Horton finish their investigation and then we can discuss the others.” He turned to go.
“James?”
He stopped, turning his head to the side. “Yes?”
“Why do you believe in me? My innocence, I mean?”
He straightened his stance. “Perhaps it’s because I know what it feels like to be innocent and accused of killing someone.”
CHAPTER 23
Wearing a spring-green gown, Kate slid into the chair next to James at the dinner table that night. He’d left earlier. Stalked out of the library just after he’d made that amazing statement about knowing what it was like to be innocent and accused of killing someone. He hadn’t given her a chance to ask any questions. The accusation couldn’t have been public knowledge. She would have read about it in the papers. There’d be whispers. Rumors. Lady Mary would have mentioned it. His reputation wouldn’t have been so pristine—well, prior to his association with her at least. No, there hadn’t been a hint of scandal around the man. He was obviously harboring a secret, however. What was it?
She took a sip from her wine glass and cast her glance over the beautifully set table. She traded the solitude of her room for his company at dinner. Their meals together had become the bright spots of her day. She’d been enjoying their interludes, looking forward to them. That thought scared her more than she cared to examine. But she refused to leave here tonight without learning what James had meant by his cryptic statement in the library earlier.
A toasty fire crackled in the hearth while the cold wind whistled against the windows outside. The smell of the burning logs and roasted meat permeated the air. It was positively cozy in the dining room tonight. Would it be the last time she’d ever feel cozy?
Kate salivated when the footmen served roasted beef with watercress. The dinners James’s French chef cooked were absolutely delightful, so much better than the meals at her husband’s estate. She took up her fork and knife and began with relish.
James glanced at her. “How did the writing go today?”
Kate bit her lip. Apparently, they would begin with innocuous conversation. Very well. But she was loath to tell him that she was nearly finished with the pamphlet. She would never be so sneaky as to lie and tell him it wasn’t done when it was, but she had to admit, despite her vow to finish as quickly as possible, she’d been procrastinating and daydreaming a bit when she should have been writing. She glanced away. She’d been dreaming of him, actually. But she wasn’t about to tell him so. Her heart ached. James was the sort of man she might have fallen in love with ten years ago, had circumstances been entirely different. Of course the circumstances were not different, but it didn’t hurt to daydream, did it?
“Very well, actually,” she answered noncommittally, taking a bite of the delectable beef from the plate in front of her.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” He smiled at her.
Oh God, if only he knew what she’d been thinking. She glanced down at her plate and stabbed her fork into her watercress.
Two hours later when the dinner plates had been cleared, Kate pushed out her chair and stood to go. She dropped her napkin onto her chair. Somehow they’d managed to spend an entire evening together, and she hadn’t been able to summon the courage to ask James what he’d meant earlier. And now she was about to leave him. This was always the most melancholy time of the evening. James usually went back to his study to read or work, and she went back to her room or the library to write and to do her best to forget how lonely she felt, how awful things were.
“Thank you for yet another lovely dinner,” she said with a weak smile, turning toward the door.
“Kate.” The tone of his voice stopped her. There was something about it. Something different.
She turned back toward him. “Yes?”
“Would you … would you care to have a drink with me, in the study?”
“Would I…? Why, yes I would!” She smiled at him brightly.
“Excellent.” He extended his arm toward her and she moved forward and took it, so happy to have a reprieve from her maddening thoughts for one evening at least.
They walked down the hall discussing their very favorite parts of the meal they’d just enjoyed. James stopped in front of the doors to the study and pushed them open with one hand. “My lady.” He bowed, allowing her to precede him into the room.
“Thank you,” she answered, laughing.
The room was dark, save for a brace of candles resting on an end table. James saw her settled on the sofa before striding to the sideboard and pouring two glasses of Madeira. He returned to the settee, sat next to her, and handed her one.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the glass from his strong, warm hand. “It’s been an age since I drank Madeira.”
“Me too, actually.” He winked at her.
She took a long draught and closed her eyes, letting the wine play across her tongue. Madeira. The fine Portuguese wine so popular during the war with France when French wine had been in short supply. She’d savor it. It might well be the last time she’d ever drink it.
James expelled his breath. “I don’t want you to worry,” he said. “About the case, I mean.”
She snapped open her eyes. “Worry?”
“I could tell you were upset when Abernathy was here. Horton is the best Bow Street has to offer. He’ll discover the truth.”
She took another small sip of wine. “I wish that could comfort me.”
“I know it must be difficult, Kate.”
She met his gaze. “Even if he discovers the identity of the murderer, he’ll have to prove it.”
James nodded. “He will.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I have confidence.”
She reached out and touched his sleeve. “Thank you, James. For your faith in me. You don’t know what it means.”
“No need to thank me.”
It would be the perfect time to ask him about his statement from earlier. She met his gaze. She opened her mouth. Oh, her blasted nerves failed her again. Perhaps because she didn’t really want to know. She trembled and looked away at a portrait on the wall near the fireplace. She couldn’t discuss her case anymore.
“My father.”
Kate took another look at the picture, basing her opinion of the man on what Mrs. Hartsmeade had told her
