Never Deceive a Duke (10 page)

“Yes, ma’am.”

Antonia let her shoulders sag. “Oh, Nellie!” she said quietly. “What am I to do?”

The maid patted her on the knee. “Just hold your head up, ma’am, like the lady you are,” she said. “Let him do his worst. You are the daughter of an earl, and the widow of a baron and a duke. You are ten times better bred than he can ever hope to be.”

“Oh, Nellie, it’s just not that simple,” whispered Antonia. “Nothing is simple anymore—and I am afraid it never will be, ever again.”

Nellie squeezed her hand again. But she said no more. The truth was painfully apparent, and there really was nothing more to be said.

G
abriel watched as his grandmother’s careful fingers smoothed the wrinkles from the freshly embroidered pillow slips. “Pretty,
Bubbe
,” he said. “Who are they for?”

“Malka Weiss.” His grandmother stood back to admire her handiwork. “Tomorrow, Gabriel, on the way to synagogue, I take them to her. It is Malka’s bat mitzvah.”

Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “What is that,
Bubbe?”

“It means she is a woman now,” said his grandmother. “Malka may give testimony, and even marry if she—”

“Marry!” said Gabriel. “Old buck-toothed Malka?”

“Shush,
tatellah,”
his grandmother chided. “Tomorrow is a special day. Her mother will bake poppy-seed cakes and we will kiss Malka, and give her little gifts.”

Gabriel scrubbed one scuffed shoe against the other.
“Bubbe,”
he said hesitantly, “can I go to synagogue, too?”

His grandmother smiled a little sadly. “No, Gabriel.”

“But why?”

His grandmother hesitated. “You cannot,” she finally said.

“It is because I am not one of you!” he said petulantly. “Why don’t you just say it, Bubbe? I am not a real Jew.”

“Gabriel, shush!” His grandmother came down on one knee and gave his shoulders a little shake. “You are a real Jew!” she whispered. “Do you hear me? Being a Jew is more than a synagogue! You are as much a Jew as I am,
tatellah—
but you will someday live in a world where one must never speak of it carelessly. Do you understand me? Do you?”

Halfway along the road which led down to the village of Lower Addington, Gareth reined his mount around to a halt. Shifting his hat, he looked up at the edifice of Selsdon, its impressive stone façade aglow with a pure, almost sumptuous afternoon light. From this angle he could still see the south bastion hanging dramatically out above the cliffs, and to the north, the impressive stable block and estate shops, which together were larger than the village itself. The part of Selsdon beyond his view was just as grand, and stretched further still. He still could not fathom how all this had come to be his. But it
was
his—and he wondered vaguely if ever he would see a moment’s peace within its walls.

A man makes his own peace,
his grandfather had been fond of saying. And there was a certain amount of truth in that. Gareth had spent the last three days trying to come to terms with what had happened between him and Antonia, and trying to accept that he might never understand it. Since their argument, they had not seen one another save at dinner, which they suffered through in stoic restraint, treating one another like—well, like the perfect strangers they were.

Abruptly, Gareth slapped his hat back on his head and spun the fine, long-legged bay around again. He very much hoped the doctor was in when he reached the village. Seeing Osborne would be just one small step, perhaps, toward making his own peace. Gareth was determined to discover if there was any medical explanation for Antonia’s alleged—and very selective—spate of amnesia, though precisely how he meant to glean this was not yet clear to him.

The doctor’s house lay at the end of the road, about a quarter-mile beyond the village proper. It was a lovely half-timbered manor with a wide, welcoming door topped by a rambling vine, which was beginning to show perhaps a hint of burnished red. Gareth tethered his mount to the gatepost, then went up the stairs to ring the bell. A housemaid dressed in starched black and white bobbed, awestruck, and showed him at once into a sunny front parlor. Five minutes later, Dr. Osborne entered, his forehead creased with worry.

“Your Grace.” He bowed perfunctorily. “What is wrong?”

Gareth stood. “Wrong?” he said. “Nothing, I trust. Why?”

Osborne waved him back into his chair. “Lord, I don’t know,” he said wearily. “I suppose I’ve come to expect bad news when anyone from Selsdon turns up unexpectedly.”

He was speaking of Warneham’s death, no doubt. Gareth tried to smile. “No, we are fresh out of tragedies today,” he said. “I wished merely to ask you a few questions about the people at Selsdon.”

“The people?” Osborne looked at him coolly as he seated himself opposite Gareth. “The staff, do you mean?”

“Yes, the staff,” Gareth agreed. “Everyone, actually. You are the only doctor hereabouts, are you not?”

“I am,” Osborne agreed. “Was there anyone you were particularly concerned about?”

Gareth propped his elbows on the chair arms and leaned forward. “I am concerned for all of them,” he said. “They are a responsibility I have inherited, whether I like it or not. But yes, some concern me more than others. Mrs. Musbury, for example.”

“Ah, yes.” The doctor steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “A hardworking woman, Mrs. Musbury. But she always has a chronic cough this time of year.”

“The duchess tells me Mrs. Musbury has a weak chest.”

The doctor gave an amiable shrug. “Oh, I doubt it,” he responded. “This is an annual ritual. The cough comes on in August and vanishes after our first hard frost. By Advent, she’s fit as a fiddle.”

“So the duchess has overstated the matter?”

The doctor rolled his shoulders, as if his coat were too tight. “The duchess has a kind heart,” he finally said. “And she has not known Mrs. Musbury nearly so long as I have.”

Gareth held his gaze assessingly for a moment. “The duchess seems unwell herself at times,” he remarked. “I could not help but notice your concern for her last Monday evening.”

Osborne looked suddenly distant. “It is true that the duchess is not entirely well,” he answered. “She is a fragile, rather restless soul. And sometimes, she is…well, out of touch with her surroundings.”

“She daydreams? She is fanciful?”

Again, the doctor shook his head. “It is more than that,” he reluctantly admitted. “She sleepwalks, too. Nellie, her maid, must be constantly on guard. On occasion, the duchess must be sedated. Her case is most complex—a form of hysteria, to be honest.”

Again, Gareth leaned forward in his chair. He did not like to probe in this direction, and yet he seemed unable to stop himself. “Dr. Osborne, I must ask you something in the strictest confidence,” he said quietly. “Something which might sound strange.”

The doctor smiled a little grimly. “Few questions shock a doctor, Your Grace,” he said. “But let’s ring for tea first, shall we? A little fortification might be in order.”

He got up at once and did so. They made small talk about the weather until the black-garbed housemaid returned with a broad, ornate tea tray as fine as any at Selsdon. She followed with a plate of thin sandwiches. Gareth’s stomach growled at the sight, and it was only then that he realized that he had once again forgotten to eat luncheon—the third time in as many days.

The doctor poured, then offered the plate of sandwiches. “Well, I can put it off no longer, can I?” he said. “You wished to ask me something about the duchess, I collect.”

Gareth paused to carefully consider his words. “Yes, something of a personal nature, I’m afraid.”

Osborne looked resigned. “I thought as much,” he said. “Go on.”

“What I wish to know is”—Gareth considered how to pose the question—“Well, whether the duchess might do something and…and not be aware of what she was doing? Could she later simply not remember it?”

Dr. Osborne blanched. “Oh, dear,” he murmured. “Back to that, are we?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Osborne shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I do wish those rumors would die down,” he admitted. “As her friend and her physician, I have never believed them.”

Rumors
? Clearly, they were speaking at cross-purposes, but Gareth was curious. “Precisely why did you not believe them, Doctor?” he probed.

Osborne’s gaze grew distant. “In my opinion,” the doctor finally said, “the duchess does not possess the ruthlessness necessary for such a violent act—not even when she is in one of her disturbed states.”

“A violent act?” The doctor was referring to Warneham’s death, then. “I think you’d best tell me everything you know, Dr. Osborne.”

“About Warneham and…and all the gossip?” A look of sadness passed over the doctor’s face.

Gareth hesitated. It seemed Antonia had been right about the rumors. This was his chance to learn more, perhaps. “I have a right to know, have I not?”

“It might be best, Your Grace, if you spoke to John Laudrey, the local justice of the peace.”

“No, I wish to hear from you,” Gareth pressed. “You were often in the house, were you not?”

Osborne lifted one shoulder. “I was the duke’s personal physician for some years,” he admitted. “We often played chess together. I dined at Selsdon at least once a week. Yes, I was there frequently.”

“So, tell me what happened,” Gareth pressed.

“In my opinion, Warneham died of potassium nitrate poisoning,” said the doctor.

“At whose hand?” Gareth demanded.

Osborne opened both hands expansively. “Well…mine, perhaps.”

“Yours?”

“I was prescribing it.” Fleetingly, the doctor looked grief-stricken. “For Warneham’s asthma. The night of his death, Warneham had some guests down from London, which was unusual. The gentlemen played billiards late into the night—and they smoked, of course. I had persuaded Warneham to give up the habit, but his friends—”

“I see,” said Gareth. “Did he complain of breathing difficulties?”

“I was not present,” the doctor admitted. “But Warneham had become deeply preoccupied, shall we say, with his health.”

“Who usually prepared the drug for him each night? The duchess?”

“Rarely, but she knew how,” said the doctor. “His Grace usually prepared the medication himself. I think it possible that when he went to bed that night, he simply took too much of it, perhaps fearing that the smoke had affected him.”

“No one else could have done this?”

“Given him the potassium nitrate?” asked the doctor. “Yes, anyone, I daresay. But why would they?”

“You would suggest there are some who believe the duchess did so.”

Osborne shook his head. “I cannot believe it of her,” he said. “I never have, and so I told Laudrey. Moreover, the bottle was labeled merely as his asthma medication. No one ever asked me what was in it.”

“Did anyone else handle the medication?”

“What do you mean?” Osborne looked a little insulted. “I use an excellent chemist in London. I bring the drugs here—Lower Addington has no apothecary—and I hand-deliver them to my patients.”

“Always?”

The doctor hesitated. “My mother used to help occasionally,” he said. “Especially if it was something…well, of a female nature. It saved embarrassment.”

“I understand.”

“But Mother died almost three years ago,” he went on. “There are servants in the house, of course. But they have been here for years and are totally trustworthy.”

“I believe you,” said Gareth. “Tell me, Doctor, were the duke and duchess unhappy in their marriage?”

The doctor hesitated. “I cannot say.”

Gareth watched him warily for a moment. “I think you can,” he finally said. “I’d rather hear it from you than have the bloody servants whispering behind my back. It’s bad enough they think I deliberately killed his son. Now to suspect that his wife may have done him in? It won’t do.”

Dr. Osborne was silent for a long moment. Gareth realized he had said too much; revealed too much of himself. What did he care if Antonia had poisoned her husband? Warneham had deserved worse—and but a few weeks past, Gareth would have cheerfully danced on the bastard’s grave.

But he did care. Murder was wrong, of course, but that was hardly his reason for caring. Gareth felt vaguely troubled by that realization. Good God, this was not what he had come to learn.

Finally, Osborne spoke. “I should preface anything I say further, Your Grace, by telling you that I accounted the late duke a friend and benefactor,” he answered. “Yes, there is no doubt that everyone has been on edge at Selsdon this last year. Yes, there have been whispers. As to the marriage, it was arranged against the duchess’s wishes. That much I knew. But I think she came to be at peace at Selsdon.”

“They had no children,” Gareth remarked.

Osborne shook his head. “The marriage was a brief one,” he explained. “Little more than a year.”

“Just a year?” Gareth was surprised.

“Eighteen months, I believe,” Osborne went on. “And Warneham was no longer young. It can take time to conceive a child.” Again, he twisted in his chair uncomfortably, and Gareth sensed he would say no more on the subject.

“Thank you, Dr. Osborne,” he said, his voice flat now. “Will you now answer my first question? Could the duchess do something and later not remember it?”

Reluctance was etched on Osborne’s face. “Yes,” he finally said. “It is entirely possible.”

“How?” Gareth pressed. “Is she…mad?”

The reluctance deepened. “The duchess suffered an emotional trauma a year or so before she wed Warneham,” he admitted. “One which, in my opinion, she never fully recovered from. Certainly she had not recovered at the time of her remarriage.”

“Her
remarriage
?”

“Yes.” The doctor’s eyebrows lifted. “She was a widow, Lady Lambeth. Did you not know?”

Something stirred in the back of Gareth’s mind. What was it Mrs. Waters had been screeching about all those days ago? Something about burying two husbands, but Gareth had been too angry to absorb it. “I did not even know of the woman’s existence, Osborne, until I arrived here,” he answered sharply. “So far as I knew—and for all that I cared—Warneham was still married to his first wife.”

“Oh, no, she has been dead many years,” said the doctor. “Lady Lambeth was his fourth wife.”

“Yes, it seems Warneham was cursed with bad luck,” said Gareth dryly. “What happened to the other two?”

“The first died tragically,” said the doctor.

“Is there any other way?” asked Gareth.

A rueful smile curved the doctor’s mouth. “I suppose not,” he admitted. “But this was doubly tragic. The girl was carrying a child—the duke’s son—and she fell from her horse during the village’s autumn hunt and was badly injured. In the end, neither she nor the child survived.”