Silver Splendor (43 page)

Her blood chilled and she looked at Owen. “Do you suppose he could have been murdered?”

His hazel eyes widened; then he shook his head. “Why would you think that?”

“Maybe he stumbled onto the truth… the truth about who’s trying to kill me. Maybe he forfeited his life for me —”

“Nonsense, Libby. You’re grasping at straws.”

“There’s something else.” She tried to make sense out of her jumbled thoughts. “I didn’t tell you, did I? He’d rewritten his will, leaving his fortune to me. Perhaps someone hated him for doing so, enough to kill him–” Her voice broke with horror and she buried her face in her hands.

Owen hastened around the table to drape a comforting arm across her shoulders. “I confess I’m surprised Hugh Sterling would make you his heiress,” he said flatly. “Yet you mustn’t blame yourself for his death. You said he had a bad heart. Th’t’s the likely cause.”

“But what if —”

“Stop torturing yourself, Libby. For pity’s sake, you haven’t even heard what the doctor has to report.”

“Yes. Yes, you’re right.” Taking a deep breath, she lifted troubled eyes. “Who would have thought this would happen? He was old and ill, yet so full of life.”

“The sad truth is that we all dwell under the shadow of death. Libby, I’d be a hypocrite if I professed any great grief. But I am sorry, for your sake.”

A tremulous smile touched her lips; she reached up to clasp his hand, which lay on her shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, Papa. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Petticoats rustled as Philippa rushed through the doorway. She must have dressed hastily, for her gray hair stuck out like ruffled feathers from her black lace cap and the sash to her crape gown trailed like a pheasant’s tail.

She wrung her hands. “How can you smile at a time like this?” she snapped at Elizabeth. “Haven’t you heard about the tragedy the family has just suffered?”

“Yes, and I’m so very sorry,” Elizabeth murmured. “If I may do something to ease your sorrow… notify friends or relations, help make arrangements —”

“I’ve no need of
your
help,” Philippa said stiffly. “You cared nothing for the duke. Why, you haven’t even the decency to don proper mourning attire.”

Elizabeth straightened her spine, “I’ve only just heard the news.”

“Have you?” Philippa said, eyes narrowing to calculating brown beads. “Or were you the first among us to know of the duke’s death?”

Elizabeth stared, bewildered. Abruptly her mouth went dry with shock and outrage. “Are you accusing
me
of murder?” she whispered.

Owen’s hands tightened on Elizabeth’s shoulders. “You’ve insulted my daughter,” he said grimly. “I demand an apology.”

“Your
daughter?” Philippa looked perplexed; then her eyes rounded with disdainful recognition. “I remember your face,” she said slowly. “You’re Owen Hastings, that vicar who ran off with Lucy Templeton.”

“I am.”

“Peculiar that the duke would die when you set foot in this house again.” Philippa pointed a bony finger at him. “You must have been Elizabeth’s accomplice.”

Owen bristled. “You’re as ill tempered as you’ve always been. You’ll beg my pardon and Elizabeth’s as well.”

“What have you done now, Mother?” Drew said from the doorway.

Philippa lifted her chin defensively. “Nothing but ask a simple question.”

“You slandered Elizabeth and me,” Owen stated, “all but accused us of murdering Hugh Sterling.”

Sober faced and clad in a dark suit with a black armband, Drew strolled into the dining room. “Is this true, Mother?”

“He’s twisting my words around. But perhaps the facts speak for themselves. Lady Elizabeth is the only one among us who benefits from His Grace’s death.”

Drew stared at Elizabeth; she couldn’t fathom the intense emotion smoldering in those dark eyes. Hatred for her? Grief for his uncle? Or sorrow for the wealth he’d lost?

Looking back at Philippa, he said frostily, “I’m surprised at you, Mother. You’ve overstepped the bounds of propriety.”

“Why, Drew! You’ve no right to address your mother in that tone.”

“I’ve every right. I’m the Duke of Rockborough.”

She uttered a chirp of disapproval. “Nevertheless, I am still your mother —”

“I’m in no mood for your prattle this morning. Apologize, will you?”

The command made her haggard face go rigid. She gawked at him; then her eyes slid away and she said in a grudging voice, “Do forgive me, Lady Elizabeth, Mr. Hastings.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth murmured.

Watching as Drew went to pour himself a cup of tea, she could not help but wonder at his disposition. Never before had she heard him speak so authoritatively to his mother. Had shouldering the responsibilities or the dukedom swept away his indolence?

The sound of footsteps drew her eyes to the door. Nicholas walked inside, followed by Gilbert Marsh. The doctor looked solemn, and his fair hair was mussed, as though he’d run his fingers through the thinning strands.

Rising, Elizabeth slipped her hand into Nicholas’s. “Did you find the duchess?” she said quietly.

He nodded. “As she was riding into the stable yard. She’s gone upstairs.”

“May I offer my condolences… Your Grace?” Marsh said.

Acknowledging the sentiment with a nod, Drew set down his teacup. “I trust you’ve completed your examination?”

“Yes, do tell us,” Philippa added, pressing a handkerchief to her beaklike nose. “If you’ve found anything… irregular, you are duty bound to inform the family.”

His features swept clean of emotion, the doctor stood at the far end of the table. “I’ve little to report, your ladyship. His Grace apparently suffered an asthmatic seizure last night. The effect is rather like suffocation and his heart must have given out under the strain.”

Leaning against Nicholas’s solid warmth, Elizabeth felt a sweep of distress at the terror her father must have endured, the terror of trying to draw a breath.

“Are you quite certain?” Philippa asked sharply. “Is there any chance of foul play?”

Blinking in surprise, Marsh shook his head. “I saw no evidence of anything other than death from natural causes.”

Philippa’s shoulders sagged. She looked at her son, but he was staring out the window.

Marsh cleared his throat. “I’ve spoken to Her Grace and promised my help in making the appropriate arrangements. If you’ll excuse me.” Executing a brief bow, he departed.

The gathering drifted apart, Owen soberly going for a walk, Elizabeth and Nicholas returning to their bedroom. Nicholas dispatched Quinn and Janet to York to purchase mourning clothing. Alone with her husband, Elizabeth felt her numbness lift, unlocking her emotions. Pressing her cheek to his chest, she wept, shedding not the stormy tears of grief for a lost loved one, but the quiet tears of sadness at losing the chance to know the man who had given life to her.

Nicholas drew her to an armchair of faded crimson velvet and cuddled her on his lap. Sunlight spilled through the opened window and the fragrance or wild herbs drifted from the gardens below. The air hummed with bees, the bright summer day a contrast to the bleakness in her soul. Elizabeth sought comfort in the steady beat of his heart, the supportive circle of his arms. As her weeping slowly ebbed, she drew in a deep, sighing breath.

“It’s hard to believe he’s really gone,” she whispered.

His eyes soft, he scooped a tear from her cheek. “I know, love, I know.”

Clasping his arms, she shifted in Nicholas’s lap to study his handsome face. “This
is
just a dreadful coincidence, isn’t it? For the duke to have died now…”

“You heard what Marsh said. Hugh Sterling was a sick man. This could have happened at any time.”

Guilt reared inside her, and she swallowed the knot choking her. “I can’t help wondering if I hadn’t come here, if he hadn’t been so agitated at dinner —”

Nicholas silenced her lips with a finger. “Hush, love. You couldn’t have foreseen the future. I’ll not hear another word on the matter.”

She took solace in the conviction lacing his voice. Yearning swept her, a yearning so intense she could taste it, a yearning to escape the intrigue and danger of this house. “Oh, Nicholas, I can scarcely wait until we can go home, to live a normal life, to begin working again–”

An understanding smile gentled his mouth. “To finish that statue of me?”

And learn if she’d been awarded Lord Buckstone’s commission,
Elizabeth thought. Prudence kept her silent on the topic. She lay her cheek against his shoulder. “To begin our marriage the way it ought to have begun, with joy and love and freedom from fear.”

“I know, Countess.” He tilted her chin up; his eyes were dark with desire, a desire that sent shivers of longing through her. His hand slid down her arm to her breast, offering a comfort that delved deeper than words. Softly he repeated, “I know.”

The eighth Duke of Rockborough had a funeral befitting his status. Countless black bordered notes had been sent out to the peers of the realm, and Elizabeth spent the better part of two days assisting the duchess in penning the letters. At Drew’s command, an army of women from nearby villages spent several days cleaning the neglected manor house. Elizabeth was glad for the activity of directing the women, for it gave her a release for her pent up energy. Despite all the scrubbing and polishing and sweeping, the house retained a gloomy aura, from the crape hung door to the scores of floral tributes scenting the air.

Black plumed horses drew the hearse to the tiny church of St. Mary’s, where the eulogy lasted for over an hour beside the family’s stone crypt. Afterward, the cream of English society crowded the house for the customary reception. Dignified in her widow’s cap and crape-trimmed gown, the duchess accepted the condolences with an aplomb that won Elizabeth’s admiration. Yet she couldn’t help but wonder how much Adelaide truly lamented the loss of her husband.

Once the last guests had departed the next day, the family and beneficiaries assembled in the library for the reading of the will. The dismal gray afternoon required the candlelight of an immense chandelier. Above bookshelves crammed with musty tomes hung the age dulled portraits of ducal ancestors.
Her
ancestors, Elizabeth thought, studying their reptilian eyes and antique costumes. She felt no kinship with those posed figures, no bond of shared blood. Was it the ever present prickle of danger that made her so ill at ease? Would she ever feel happy in this house, ever bring her children here to learn their heritage?

Thunder grumbled in the distance. Glancing around, Elizabeth saw only somber faces; Nicholas sat beside her on a sofa of well worn gold brocade, the duchess in her widow’s weeds occupied an armchair apart from the group, and Philippa perched like a sharp eyed crow beside Drew. At the rear of the room a few of the old duke’s employees gathered, including Mrs. Drabble and Gilbert Marsh, who had been given modest bequests.

Before a mullioned window stood the bespectacled Aubrey Dimsdale, partner in the legal firm of Qeggs, Dimsdale, and Faberley, Moorgate Street, London. Dimsdale’s dry dissertation named a substantial amount for building an armory in which to house Hugh Sterling’s collection of weapons. A dower house on the grounds and the stables were to remain under the lifetime control of the duchess, with the entailed Yorkshire estate going to Drew. The remainder, in the guise of vast properties scattered throughout England, went to Elizabeth.

As Dimsdale droned to a halt, Nicholas gave her hand a squeeze. “Wait here a moment, love,” he murmured. “I’ll make arrangements for transferring the deeds.”

The instant he walked up to the solicitor, Philippa glared at Elizabeth. “I shall challenge this,” the older woman hissed. “You may be certain of that.” She glided out of the library, her black shawl flapping like the wings of a vulture.

Disturbed, Elizabeth wandered restlessly to a bookcase near the door. An icy suspicion nipped at her. Could Philippa have aimed her enmity at the duke? Though he had died of natural causes, might not Philippa nave paid him a late night visit and unwittingly provoked the fatal attack?

Gilbert Marsh walked past, his fair head bowed in contemplation, his boyish face cleansed of expression.

“Excuse me, doctor.”

He swung to her; his blue eyes widened slightly, as if in surprise that she would address him. “Your ladyship?”

When he made no move to come nearer, Elizabeth closed the gap between them. “I’ve been wondering,” she murmured, her fingers tense around the folds of her ebony skirt, “if the duke took his sleeping draught the night he died?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

“I was curious to know if the potion was so strong he wouldn’t have awakened when he suffered the seizure.”

Marsh eyed her warily. “I administered his usual dose of laudanum. It never before stopped him from summoning me during the night.”

Her gaze lowered to the doctor’s sober frock coat. So Philippa
could
have roused the duke. “I see.”

“What is it you see, your ladyship? I trust you’re not thinking I gave His Grace an overdose of medication.”

Marsh held himself stiffly; the coldness in his eyes dismayed Elizabeth. “Of course I don’t blame you, doctor. If anything, I must thank you for how well you cared for my father all these years.” A thought occurred to her. “Where will you go now?”

He blinked, his eyes blank. “Go? Oh… you mean because the new duke won’t be requiring my services. I suppose I shall look for new lodgings, perhaps in Wrefton.” Marsh subjected her to an intent stare. “I shall be leaving as soon as I wrap up my affairs here. Good day.”

Frowning, Elizabeth watched him walk out of the library. She had the distinct impression Gilbert Marsh hadn’t voiced everything on his mind. Did the doctor, too, suspect someone in this house might have caused the duke’s death? Could he be guarding a family member from scandal?

Hands in his coat pockets, Drew strolled to her. “My compliments, cousin,” he drawled. “You’ve had quite the run of luck these past few weeks. First your marriage to Hawkesford, now your Sterling inheritance.”

With steady eyes, she met his sardonic gaze. “I’ve no intention of accepting the bequest.”