I Adored a Lord (28 page)

T
HE PRINCE SU
MMONED
his guests to the chamber in which he had announced Mr. Walsh's death. Only Lord Case remained absent.

Standing at the door and flanked by two of his largest and most loyal guards, Prince Sebastiao cleared his throat. “As yesterday's harrowing events proved to us, Monsieur Sepic was mistaken in assigning the murder of Mr. Walsh to his nephew. We celebrated too precipitously. Monsieur Paul did not do the deed. My good friend Courtenay, however, has discovered the truth and will now reveal the murderer's identity.”

As theatrical announcements went, it served its purpose. Guests gasped. Cheeks went pale. Lady Grace's gloved fingers clenched in her maidenly white skirt. But Ravenna's mind still sped. Why would Penelope have killed Oliver Walsh? What had she hoped to gain from it? Or had it been an accident? An accidental
castration
? Impossible.

“This is preposterous,” Lord Whitebarrow protested. “How can Courtenay know any more than the rest of us about Walsh's death?”

“Because,” came a weak voice from the doorway, “my brother spent years in France during the war as an agent of the crown, unearthing secrets of Napoleon's tactics which would no doubt turn all our hair white if we knew them but which benefitted England enormously.” Lord Case leaned against the doorpost, his clothing immaculate but his breathing labored and his face ruddy with fever.

Ravenna went to him. “You must return to bed at once.”

“Ah, the lovely nurse. Will you threaten me now too, or am I never to be so fortunate again?”

“Do as she says, Wes,” his brother said.

“I've no doubt she would make me suffer for it if I did not. And Franklin too, though he of course would deserve it.” His fevered gaze sought across the room for Arielle. He put a hand to his waistcoat, offered her a bow, and then clapped his brother on the arm. “Trust me, my lords and ladies, if this man speaks, it is because he has excellent information. Good day.”

Mr. Franklin assisted the earl away.

“Who was it, then, Courtenay?” Sir Henry said. “In the name of Zeus, it's about time we got to the bottom of this mystery.”

“The note found in Walsh's pocket bears a wax seal that was effected with a fingertip rather than a stamp,” Lord Vitor said. “The author of that note may bear a scar on her finger from the wax.”

“Her finger?”

“The seal is small. Though this does not rule out a man entirely, other evidence suggests it was a woman. Lady Penelope, would you be so good as to remove your gloves?”

Her pale eyes blinked. “I will not, my lord.”

Lady Whitebarrow stood. “This is insupportable. My daughter did not murder a man.”

Grace's palms covered her face and her narrow shoulders crumpled.

“Grace?” her father said. “Did your sister commit this horrible act? Did she?”

“Of course she did not,” his wife said.

“That ye must ask her if she done it, my laird,” the duchess said, “tells a sorry tale.”

He stared blankly at her for a moment while the room hung with tension, then he looked again at his younger daughter. “Grace? You must tell us.”

“Courtenay,” Sir Henry said, “what is the other evidence that led you to believe this young lady did it?”

“A missing dagger, and certain evidence surrounding the circumstances of the death.”

“But what of the handwriting comparison?” Cecilia asked. “Monsieur Sepic determined that none of us were guilty because none of the hands matched the note found in Mr. Walsh's pocket.”

Lord Prunesly scowled. “You foolish girl. Any of us could have disguised our hand to throw off suspicion.”

“Lady Penelope's hand, however, was the closest to the script on the note found in Mr. Walsh's coat.” The voice that spoke from the corner of the room was light and sweet with rounded Italian tones. All eyes turned to Juliana Abraccia.

“How would you know such a thing?” Lady Whitebarrow demanded. “Are you an expert in deciphering script?”

“
Si
,” Juliana said with a taking little smile. “I have spent ever so many hours and days in my uncle's chancery sorting documents and studying the scripts. For six years my tutor was the renowned Jesuit paleographer Padre Georgio di Silvestro. He was ever so entertaining.” Her mouth fell into a pretty pout. “Of course he was terribly strict with me when I failed to study.” She gave a dainty shrug that fluttered the sleeves of her muslin gown like little butterflies circling her shoulders. “Wasn't he, Uncle?”

The bishop patted her on the head as though she were a child. “
Sì, cara mia
. My bright little sun.”

“After Signore Sepic studied the hands and found no similarities,” Juliana said, “I could not resist checking his work. He mistook it. Lady Penelope wrote that note.”

Ravenna could not remain silent. “But why didn't you tell us this when you discovered it?”

Juliana's lashes batted over innocent eyes. “I did not think anybody would believe me. We are all here to win the prince's favor. To accuse a competitor of murder would have seemed poor sportswomanship.”

“Vulgar chit,” Lady Whitebarrow said. “You will retract this accusation at once.”

“If you withheld the accusation before, Miss Abraccia,” Lord Vitor said, “why have you made it now?”

Juliana directed a sweet smile at Martin Anders. “Because I no longer wish to marry a prince.” She fluttered her lashes again, this time at Prince Sebastiao. “
Perdonate me
, your highness? I am ever so grateful that you invited me to this
festa
.”

He bowed.

“
Mama
.” Penelope's face had turned white as her gown.

“That girl's claim proves nothing.” Lady Whitebarrow offered a contemptuous sniff.

“But!” The prince jutted a finger into the air. “I may have further proof.” He snapped his fingers. “Alfonso, bring me the scripts.” A guard bowed and disappeared.

“The scripts, yer highness?” Iona asked.

“The scripts of
Romeo and Juliet
with which I tested the thespian capabilities of the ladies before I chose my Juliet.” He peered at Penelope. “You wrote notes on your script.”

“I did not,” she said between clenched teeth, adding, “your highness.”

“You did,” Mr. Anders interjected. “I recall it. You asked me how you might deliver the lark and nightingale lines, and as I advised you, you noted it on the page.”

Her nostrils flared in swift breaths, but she did not respond.

The guard brought the scripts to the prince. He flipped through them then announced, “Aha!” and pulled one forth. The remainder fell to the floor. “ ‘It is the lark,' ” he read, “and in the margin, ‘with gentle resistance,
doucement
.' ” He looked up. “Who has Walsh's missive?”

The butler proffered a silver tray that bore a single sheet of folded paper. “When you began to speak of this matter, your highness, I took the liberty of retrieving this from the parlor in which Monsieur Sepic stored the evidence.”

“Excellent.” Prince Sebastiao snatched it up and studied the pages side by side. The silence of strained breathing gripped the chamber. “The hands are identical,” he declared. “Lady Penelope, you wrote the note that enticed Mr. Walsh to his death.”

“I will not hear of this,” Lady Whitebarrow said. “My lord.” She turned to her husband. “You must put a stop to this slanderous accusation. Our daughter is innocent.”

“What reason did you have to write that note, Penelope?” Lord Whitebarrow said.

“Perhaps she's no' so innocent as ye would have us believe, nou?” the duchess said to Lady Whitebarrow.

Lady Whitebarrow's lips were as white as Penelope's face. “You would like to believe that my girls are as besmirched as yours, wouldn't you?”

“Enough, Olympia,” Lord Whitebarrow commanded. “Tell me, Penelope, why you wrote that note.”

Penelope rose to her feet, her chin high. “I did not murder Mr. Walsh,” she stated in a softly trembling voice. “My sister did.”

Grace's head shot up, her eyes awash in betrayal. “
Penny
.”

“Look.” Penelope stripped off her gloves. “I do have a burn on my finger, but not because I killed him.” She pointed to her sister. “Grace told me to write the note. She loved him but he scorned her, and she used me to bring him to her so she could kill him.”

“Penny! How could you?” Tears streamed down her twin's cheeks.

Lord Whitebarrow's face was stricken. “Gracie, is this true?”

“Oh,
Papa
.” She covered her face with her hands again and she wept. Ravenna's heart did churning turns in her chest. Grace's misery was so powerful. And suddenly she understood. Grace was grieving over Mr. Walsh's death. Now it seemed so utterly clear—­her dull, glassy stare, her lack of animation for everything, her sadness. Her pain reached out to the grief in Ravenna's heart, and to the new fear she had felt the day before, the fear of losing someone she had never thought to cherish, and she was breathless with it.

“The mystery is solved,” the prince said flatly. His mood of triumph had disintegrated. “The murderer is discovered.”

Lord and Lady Whitebarrow stood as though stunned, Penelope beside her mother with bright cheeks. Grace's quiet sobs filled the silence.

Ravenna went to Grace, knelt beside her, and reached for her hand. Grace gave it without resistance, as though she had lost the will to do anything at all.

“You truly loved him, didn't you?” Ravenna whispered.

Her sobs came like her very soul jolting forth from inside her.

She is not the murderer
. The truth battered at Ravenna.

“Lady Grace,” Lord Vitor said. “What weapon did you employ to kill Oliver Walsh?”

“Good God, man,” Sir Henry choked. “Can't you see the poor girl is all broken up about it?”

“My lady?” Lord Vitor said.

Ravenna squeezed her hand. “Tell him, Grace.

Grace shook her head and mumbled, “Poison. In the wine.” Then she choked and the tears began anew.

She did not do it
. Ravenna looked across the room and saw in his eyes that his thoughts matched hers.

Penelope took her mother's arm. “She made me give him the wine, Mama. She told me it was to relax him so that he would accept her when she offered herself to—­ I am too ashamed to say it.” She pressed her palm to her mouth and shut her eyes as though horrified by her sister's wanton indiscretion.

“He was a handsome man, Grace,” Iona said quietly. “Ye coulda done much worse.” She understood too. Grace had not killed the man she loved.

Penelope was lying.

“Grace.” Ravenna leaned forward and said beside the girl's bent head, “If you do not tell the truth now, they will hang you for the murder of the man you loved.”

“I don't care.” Her words were barely a breath. “I don't wish to live now.”

“If you do not do this for yourself”—­Ravenna's throat caught—­“do it for he who loved you and would wish your happiness now above all.”

Grace's shoulders stiffened. Then she lifted her head and looked straight at her mother. Her face was blotched red and white, and damp, but her eyes glittered.

“I did not ask Pen to offer him wine to make him accept me. I had given myself to him before and he wanted to marry me. He begged to marry me and I wanted to be his wife more than anything in this world.” She looked to her father. “But Mama would not allow it. I offered him the wine because Mama said I must. He came here to beg you for my hand, though Mama had warned that she would ruin him if he came between our family and marriage to a prince. When I refused to endanger him, she told Pen to write the note and then she poured a drug in the wine to make him sick.” Her face crumpled. “But instead she poisoned him. She gave him too much and she killed him.” She dissolved into sobbing again and Ravenna drew her against her shoulder and stroked her smooth locks.

“I did not,” Lady Whitebarrow said coldly.

“What did you not do?” Lord Whitebarrow's face was hard with fury. “Indulge in overweening pride sufficient to break our daughter's heart, or kill a man in cold blood? For, let us make no mistake, I believe you capable of both.”

“He was unsuitable,” Lady Whitebarrow said through pinched lips. “Their liaison was unseemly.”

“So speaks the coldest woman I have ever known,” her husband said.

“His situation was vastly inferior to that which I intended for my daughters.”

“So you killed him?”

“Of course I did not.” Scorn coated her words. “I intended to make him ill so he would not be able to press his suit upon Grace here. I only dosed him with the smallest amount, enough to sicken him but certainly insufficient to cause permanent harm.” She turned to Grace. “It was for your good and your sister's. Do you see how you have ruined us now, bringing scandal upon our family? What prince will have your sister now?”

“Not I, that's for certain,” Prince Sebastiao said with a shrug.

“Lady Grace,” Lord Vitor said, “why in his drugged state did Mr. Walsh don a suit of armor? Do you know?”

Her lips made a quavering smile. “He always called me his gracious lady. He pretended to be my knight and he said he would build me a castle and make my dreams come true. Perhaps the drug made him imagine that . . . Perhaps . . .” She looked to her father. “He wanted to make me his queen.”

“How was he killed?” Lord Whitebarrow demanded of Lord Vitor. “With poison?”

“He bled to death,” Grace said quietly, as though all her grief had been spent and now she knew only numbness. “After Penny and Mama went to bed, I went searching for him. I f-­found him.” Her voice broke again and her chin trembled. “There was nothing I could do. It was too late. I closed his eyes and kissed him and bid him adieu.” She looked at her twin and her eyes hardened. “Did you do it, Penelope? Did you cut him there because you had never known a man's touch and you were jealous of me? Of Oliver and me together? Do you fear that your heart is so cold that even if a man does touch you, you will never enjoy it?”