When We Touch (22 page)

“I disagreed with your father's decision to marry, Arianna, but I don't believe that she's guilty of any wrongdoing in his death. If it proves to be true, then I will see that she's prosecuted.”

“Hanged.”

“We'll not go in circles here, Arianna. I am not judge and jury.”

She nodded, then, at last. And huge tears of loss came to her eyes again.

“Arianna—”

“I'm fine, Jamie. Honestly. As I said, I just need to be alone.”

At last, not at all comfortable, Jamie decided that maybe he had best leave her be.

* * *

When he was gone, Arianna closed her door. And locked it.

Tears streamed down her face, and she walked about the room, swearing. Swearing in English, and then in French.

Jamie would be appalled if he heard her!

But Jamie continued to think of her as a child. A child! No, not at all. But he'd never understand such things. Neither he nor her father would have ever suspected the way the highborn young ladies had managed to slip beneath the noses of their guardian nuns.

But now . . .

School days were over. The point was that she was really far more mature and world-wary than Jamie would ever suspect.

And her father was dead.

And that wicked witch might be her guardian until her birthday.

No . . . never. Never!

Her birthday was just a matter of months. And what did that matter? The wicked witch might very well have murdered her father, no matter what Jamie had to say. A single day with that hateful woman having any kind of say over her whatsoever was too much!

She wouldn't allow it, she simply wouldn't allow it!

But that was not the worst of it. One way or another, with assistance or pure cunning, the woman had murdered her father. And she had to pay for it. Except that not even Jamie would accept the fact that murder had taken place. There was going to be an autopsy. That might prove that some foul play had befallen her father. But what if the autopsy showed nothing? Then, Jamie would never prosecute, never insist that she answer before a court of law, or even bring up such a matter to the Queen.

Arianna felt a new stream of tears well from her eyes.

She had to pay. The witch had to pay!

But she had said that she wouldn't run about casting out wild accusations. The family could not take anymore scandal. Because, Jamie had said, one day, it might matter to her. But it wouldn't. Nothing could matter anymore. She wouldn't fall in love with any gentleman or nobleman of esteem, because her father was gone, and . . .

She hesitated. And once again, found herself wondering just who that man had been. Handsome, charming . . .

A guest at her father's wedding. He had assumed she was a servant, and still, he had looked at her with such regard. She might, one day, fall in love with such a man . . .

No! How could she even be thinking about such a thing when her father was dead?

Sitting on the foot of her bed, she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Her father! She must think only about her father right now, and the fact that he had died at that woman's hands. What if there was no justice to be had for her father, legally, in a court of law?

Somehow, such a malicious and horrible creature must be punished.

She was going to have to do something about it, and the sooner she moved, the better.

She needed help, though, that was certain.

For a moment, she paused. Then she swung her door open and went in search of Mrs. Whitley.

Chapter 10

For Maggie, the days began to pass in a blur.

She had not intended to take any of the laudanum—she had known far too many women who had come to depend on it to deal with headaches, backaches, female aches, and even the simple ache of ennui.

But by the afternoon of the first day following her wedding, she discovered that she could survive what had happened, the arrangements, her horrible sense of remorse and guilt, and even the way she felt about knowing that she would never live through such a night again—with laudanum.

And so, the first two days following Charles's death became manageable. She simply spent them in her room, and she asked Fiona to see that her meals were brought and that she wasn't disturbed.

She awaited the results of the autopsy.

And at last, they came.

There was no hint of poison to be found in his body. His heart had simply failed him.

When the information was brought to her by her brother, she barely acknowledged what he said. That Justin was concerned was evident.

“You should be jubilant,” he said. “You might even run around screaming and proclaiming your innocence. Of course, that wouldn't be in the best of taste, but . . .”

She felt no real pleasure at being vindicated. Those who condemned her as a murderess would continue to do so. Of course, she might be grateful that there hadn't been poison in his system administered by someone else—
she
would still have been arrested for the deed!

And yet, thanks to the laudanum, she felt very little.

“Now it's time for the wake, and funeral,” Justin told her. “Maggie, whatever is wrong with you? Proprieties must now be met.”

“I know.”

“You'll have to be present, and present this evening. Charles will have his wake in the grand salon, in the house.”

“Of course.”

“Maggie—”

“Justin, please. Let me be. I will follow every propriety exactly, I swear.”

And so she did. And despite the autopsy findings, several things were just as she had expected.

She was aware that when she was in a room, Arianna was not.

Her stepdaughter never spoke, and she appeared only when it was absolutely necessary, and then, in the most comprehensive mourning attire Maggie had ever seen. She was swathed from head to toe in a black dress with a sweeping skirt and heavy brocaded bodice, and a veil so dark, Maggie wondered how she didn't trip.

When her father was waked in the grand salon, Arianna appeared, then managed to slip away, feeling ill. She refused to speak with Jamie, or anyone at all. Maggie kept her vigil, not retiring until the last of those who came to pay their respects had left.

Then came the solemn day of the funeral.

Once again, Arianna avoided a conversation with anyone, lifting a gloved black hand to stave off sympathy from any well-wisher. She was, in fact, so completely immersed in black that, if Maggie didn't know her stepdaughter was the one joining her and Jamie, she wouldn't have recognized the girl.

She expected the ice and silence she received from Charles's daughter. Thanks to the laudanum, she didn't care. Arianna was welcome to be as headstrong and wretched as she chose. For her part, Maggie determined not to fight the girl. It was all difficult enough.

Jamie, however, seemed irritated. But even he seemed to feel he had to give Arianna time to accept the situation in her own way.

There were other factors that might have upset Maggie more at the time.

There were whispers that stopped when she passed, and began again as soon as she was assumed to be beyond earshot. There were those who found it all amusing—the poor dear old fellow had gotten far too excited over such a young bride and . . . well, such things happened. There were others who mused that it was quite amazing that she'd managed to wed the old boy, and then have him drop dead so conveniently. Perhaps she hadn't poisoned him but still . . .

The Queen herself, surrounded by royals, nobles, and servants, attended the actual funeral service at Westminster; she arrived to a moment's high fanfare at the stroke of twelve, when the archbishop was to begin the service, and naturally, time was arranged for her to depart. There was a tear in her eye as she listened, and Maggie was heartened to realize that the Queen really had considered Charles a very dear friend. It was said that since her very good friend, Mr. Brown—rumored at times to be more than a friend—had died in '83, she had depended heavily at times on her friendship with Charles.

The Queen didn't, however, stop to speak with Maggie or the family; she gave Maggie a very royal nod before she departed, and Maggie assumed that was her way of expressing sympathy. Later, when the rites were long over and Charles's coffin was taken away to join others in the catacombs for his eternal rest, Justin told his sister softly that she should be very grateful for the Queen's appearance, and her acknowledgment. Victoria, by her appearance, had not just shown her grief for an old and dear friend; she had shown her support for Maggie, and that would influence the society throughout London, indeed, through all of the country and beyond. Maggie was vaguely grateful, but still in her blessed, drugged fog.

She was correct in every way; she painstakingly made certain of that fact, and that she kept a cool distance from Charles's family.

She spent no intimate moments with Jamie, but did stand with him and Arianna at the reception following the funeral, and thanked all those who attended, many of whom had just been there for the wedding. Eventually, it was all over.

Except that it was not.

That night, both her brother and Mireau planned to return to the house in Mayfair. She was eager to leave, herself, eager to leave Jamie and Arianna to one another, and yet, the attorneys were coming sometime soon, and, according to Jamie, she had to meet with them.

That night, however, she asked Fiona to see that she was brought her supper in the room, along with a pot of strong tea—and a bottle of stronger whiskey.

Fiona faithfully followed her every wish, as she always did.

Except that she must have been worried about Maggie and the laudanum and the liquor, because Maggie had barely chewed a few mouthfuls of some meat concoction and enjoyed two cups of whiskey-laced tea before there was a knock on the door.

“Please, I don't wish to be disturbed!” she called out.

And was ignored.

Jamie entered the room.

“Good God, what on earth are you doing?” he demanded.

“Dining?”

“You barely touched the plate. And it smells like a distillery in here.”

She arched a brow. “Drowning my sorrows?” she suggested.

He walked over to her tray, picked up the bottle of fine, single malt Scots whiskey, and threw it angrily into the fire. She leapt up from the winged-back chair at the hearth in protest.

“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded.

“Growing impatient.”

“With what?”

“You!”

“I'm not really your concern. You said that I had to stay to see the solicitor. After that, I'll be out of your hair.”

“What? Are you trying to prove Arianna right?”

“In what way?”

“That of being a worthless . . . witch.”

“You're simply too kind, Lord James!”

She stared at him furiously, wishing with all her heart that she had not come to know him so well, and that she were back in her encompassing widow's weeds, and not dressed in the thin fabric of a cotton nightdress and only slightly thicker robe.

“Actually, under these circumstances, I am. I don't remember you being a blazing coward above all else.”

She was about to respond angrily, but suddenly found herself deflated. She stared at the fire. “Perhaps I am a coward—because I am a worthless witch.”

“A self-pitying one, so it seems.”

She shrugged, watching the flames, then stared at him. And to her horror, tears, which surely, she should have been out of, sprang to her eyes.

“What if she is right?” she whispered.

“You are a worthless witch?” he queried.

“Perhaps I killed him,” she said.

“Did you poison him?” Jamie asked pointedly.

“No! You know that—there was an autopsy!”

“Shoot him, stab him?”

“Good God, you know that I did no such thing, whatsoever!”

“Then how did you kill him?”

She paced before the fire, exhausted, nervous. “I . . . I . . . oh, God!” There was too much laudanum in her. That should have made her half asleep, apathetic, calm, and silent. The opposite seemed to be occurring. She clenched and unclenched her hands, staring at him, groping for words. “I hadn't imagined that . . . he wanted . . . oh! God, I felt mortified. Miserable. And I tried to do what he wanted.”

“Um,” Jamie murmured, eyeing her, “Charles was a dear man, especially so to me, but if you did what he asked after your wedding, you are hardly responsible.”

“But I was responsible.”

“Um . . . but you were manipulated. You'd married the man. He expected intimacy. You can hardly be blamed for trying to avail him. You shouldn't have married him, perhaps, but that's my opinion, not what he wanted.”

She shook her head, swallowing hard. It was none of his affair, really, her determination that she had to go through with the wedding. Of course, if she had known then what she knew now . . . would she have changed anything?

Oh, God, yes! Being in frightful debt and at the heart of a simple scandal would surely have been far better than being in this position.

“You really don't understand.”

“Then, keep trying.”

“If you would just go away . . . !”

“Sorry.”

“Jamie, don't make me be rude. Just get out.”

“Not until we finish this conversation. What else is it that's making you feel so atrociously guilty?”

“I am not guilty!”

“Then . . . ?”

“Oh, Lord! Yes, I am guilty!” She backed into the chair.

She was startled to look up and find that he was standing before her. She was more startled when he hunkered down in front of the chair, closer still. “Explain,” he said, and his tone was gentle, but had an edge.

“I think I prayed him dead!” she whispered.

“Prayed him dead?” His brows shot up.

She shook her head, face coloring as she turned to the flames once again. “I had thought . . . I don't know what I had thought. I'd wanted . . . darkness. I knew what marriage was, but I had thought . . . and he wanted light. And he wanted . . . a show. And I was miserable and mortified, and I was praying that I didn't have to go through with it, and then . . .”

He was just staring at her. She'd expected total condemnation. She was stunned to see a slight curl to his lips.

“Maggie, I don't believe that you prayed him dead.”

“But I did.”

“You said, ‘Oh, God! Please strike this man dead!'”

“No, but, you see, I prayed that I wouldn't have to go through with it . . . and then Charles fell back.”

Jamie's smile deepened. “I wouldn't divulge this line of thought to anyone else.”

“I didn't intend to divulge it to
you
. You were simply too rude to leave, and so boorish as to demand an answer.”

“Yes, well, do excuse me, he was my uncle, and I loved him very much.”

“I did love him, too. I really did. I recognized him for a truly honest, considerate human being, one who cared about the world, people, social reform . . . I love the man he was. I just . . . I didn't actually want to be his wife, though.”

“Maggie, I don't believe that God just decided to strike Charles dead because you wanted to avoid your wifely duties,” he said.

“He wouldn't, would He?” she said, hopefully.

“I quite honestly don't believe so,” Jamie assured her. “Actually, it's a little presumptuous of you to be so worried.”

“Presumptuous?”

“Charles was a good man. God wouldn't have taken him unless it was his time—I mean, certainly not just on your say-so.”

She flushed again. “Yes, you're right, that was horribly presumptuous of me. But still . . . I was so awful. In what I was thinking. I mean, after all, I did marry him.”

“Yes, you did,” Jamie said abruptly. He seemed very angry again, and stood, moving away from her. “The solicitors will be here at ten. Please be ready to see them. And stop with the laudanum, now. It was something you perhaps needed at first. No more.”

He strode across the room, reaching impatiently for the door. The he paused, looking back at her. “The thing is, you see, there is no going back. And you're now Charles's widow, and there are responsibilities.” He stared at her curiously another minute. Then, impatiently, he turned and nearly took the door off its hinges in his haste to leave.

* * *

Justin awaited Mireau in the grand salon. It seemed incredible that Lord Charles, Viscount Langdon, had been dead nearly a week. As he stared at the flames, he was grateful that his sister had been cleared of wrongdoing. Officially, of course, she had never been charged with anything. Unofficially, of course, there were those who still remained highly suspect of her.

He wondered at the wisdom of all that he had done. Perhaps Angus had been the one to make the contacts and inform them that it was really their only choice, but he was Lord Justin, Baron Graham, and he had set his signature to the consent forms. He reflected that, most men of sense and business would still consider that the right moves had been made. Lord Charles had been elderly—it wasn't as if the marriage might have gone on for a spectacular number of years. He was a good man, and his death was sad.