Moonlight on My Mind (23 page)

Chapter 24

S
hippington was a town of two lazy streets and a few hundred people. Despite arriving in the middle of an apparent market day—complete with a parade of sheep through the middle of town—it took Julianne approximately three seconds to find the magistrate’s office. She headed toward the stone building with its blue-painted shutters. Her feet might be on a collision course with mayhem but her constitution was proving more reluctant. She’d felt nauseated most of the morning, but was it any wonder?

Patrick had spent last night in the town’s gaol, while she had laid her head on a pillow that seemed to gradually—maddeningly—lose his scent.

She leaned her hand against the door frame to Farmington’s office and breathed in deeply, trying to settle her faithless stomach. The door opened without warning. Scrambling back, she put a hand to her mouth—as much to cover her explanation of surprise as ensure nothing unforgivable came out of it.

Dr. Merial stepped out, pulling his hat down over his brow. He stopped when he saw her. “Good morning, Lady Haversham. Is anything amiss?”

Julianne shook her head. “I’ve come to ask Mr. Farmington for permission to visit the gaol.” She swallowed the bile still lingering in her throat. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, Dr. Merial, but my husband was arrested yesterday.” It made her feel ill just to utter the words. She’d scarcely ever given Britain’s prison system a moment’s thought beyond the fact it kept madmen and criminals from bothering innocent citizens, but everything she’d ever read in the
Times
came flooding back now.

The doctor’s face betrayed his prior knowledge. “I’ve heard,” he answered grimly. “Mr. Blythe was in the King’s Widge last night, sharing all the sordid details.” He eyed her speculatively. “Truly, you look terrible. Have you been sleeping?”

“It is just a little nausea. But why are
you
here?” Worry speared her, worry that she might have come all this way only to find Mr. Farmington discomposed. “Is the magistrate ill?”

“No, I was summoned for a different matter entirely.” He cocked his head, as if sorting out a puzzle. “Have you any fever?”

Julianne shook her head. “Truly, Dr. Merial. I’m already feeling much better.” She tried on a too-tight smile, the sort Patrick—but no one else—would have seen right through.

He smiled encouragingly. “Ah. Well then, nausea without fever is not a cause for alarm in a young married woman of otherwise good health. But, if I may offer a word of advice . . . I do not recommend using Shippington’s midwife on these matters. The woman is one hundred years old, if she’s a day.”

Julianne’s cheeks warmed. “I’ve been married but a few weeks, Dr. Merial. I assure you, it is premature for any discussion of that nature.”

“Of course.” His dark eyes flashed with humor. “But just in case, you might try eating something bland, such as dry toast, upon first rising. It . . . er . . . helps.”

Oh good heavens.
It seemed Mr. Blythe had discussed more than just Patrick’s arrest at the King’s Widge last night. “That is
not
why I married my husband,” she insisted. Truly, it was for a far less palatable reason. She might have preferred the rumor as truth.

The doctor smiled, which had the grave misfortune of making him appear even more handsome. Julianne stared at his straight white teeth, mesmerized by the flash of them. Good gracious. No wonder the entire house had been atwitter during the dinner party.

She fished for a diversion, anything to draw his attention away from her and what might or might not have been the cause of her hasty marriage. “It is said you were of great comfort to the earl in the hours before he died. The family is grateful for your kindness.”

“I only wish I could have done more. His rapid decline surprised me greatly. He was, by all accounts, a man in excellent health, even a week before his death.”

Julianne’s stomach rolled precipitously. “Are you saying there is some truth to the rumors that the earl’s death might have been caused by something untoward?”

Merial’s hands tightened around the handle of his bag. “I am new from university, and have little enough experience in determining such things. But in truth, I am hard-pressed to deny his decline might have been assisted by something more mortal. I am afraid that is why I was summoned to the magistrate’s offices today. Mr. Farmington wanted to question me on the matter. I was asked here this morning to provide a statement under oath.”

Fear threaded its way through her. “Do you believe my husband was involved?”

“No.” He offered her a small shake of his head. “But I cannot prove it, one way or the other. And regardless of my opinion, all that matters is that others clearly do.”

“I see,” she said.

And unfortunately, she did. Was it not enough to hang an innocent man once, they needed to charge him with a second murder, just to be sure?

She fought off a fresh wave of nausea as Dr. Merial tipped his hat and took his leave. This was not the time to be ill . . . this was the time to
act
. Because as she knocked on the magistrate’s door, her thoughts tripped over the chilling realization that not only had there been one murder at Summersby, there had likely been two. But whoever had killed Patrick’s father would have needed to be at Summersby
before
the funeral.

And that meant the list of potential suspects was smaller than they had imagined.

M
ore than the silence, Patrick hated the rats.

Not because they skittered over him as he lay on his bunk, jarring him awake with a whisper of toes. Not even because they gnawed at his food and fouled his drinking water when he tried to stretch those precious commodities. No, he hated the rats because they were free to come and go. They appeared out of nowhere, flattening their rib cages to squeeze through holes no bigger than a fingernail. He could respect such creatures of stealth and wisdom, even as they mocked his own desperate straits.

But he didn’t have to like them.

He had no idea how much time had passed. Two hours, two days, it all blurred together with the removal of sunlight. But now the sound of the door to his cell opening sent him scrambling to his feet and the rats scuttling for holes. A light was lifted aloft, and his eyes blinked warily against the breached darkness.

But the sight that greeted him as his eyes adjusted to the light’s intrusion was neither Blythe, returning for another piece of him, nor another awful meal to replace the congealed porridge he’d been given earlier. It was Julianne, accompanied by Mr. Farmington, and the sight of her in his filthy cell proved as sharp and breath-robbing as the light from her lantern.

For a moment Patrick could only blink, his eyes running over her swoop of a chin, lifted in challenge. When Farmington stepped out and the door swung shut behind her, she set the lantern down with the slightest hesitation. And then she flung herself into his arms with a sudden rush of movement. He could do naught but catch her up, having neither the strength nor the good sense to push her away.

He held her a long, trembling moment, though he was sure he would sully her merely with the air he exhaled from his lungs. He absorbed the feel of her, shored up his reserves in preparation for the time when that door would swing shut on her and he would be wrapped in darkness again. Her hands scraped against his injured ribs, and the slight groan of pain gave him away.

She drew back and peered up at him. “What have they done to you?” she whispered, her hands cupping each side of his face. “What have
I
done to you?”

He winced against the stark questions he saw there, and the way her fingertip traced some unseen injury below one of his eyes. “It is nothing, Julianne.” He set her away from him with jaw-gritting determination. “Why in the devil did you come here? I specifically asked you not to. These are not kind men who hold me.”

“You didn’t ask me, Patrick, you ordered me about as if I hadn’t a choice in the manner. Which, of course, I do. Mr. Farmington was not pleased with my request to visit you this morning, but I eventually talked him around.” She untied the string to her bonnet and removed it carefully from her head. “We’ve a quarter hour. I would not spend it arguing with you over whether I should or should not have come.”

Her mention of the magistrate made his teeth grit in anger. Of
course
the man had permitted her this visit, particularly after Patrick had refused to confess during his interrogation. Farmington probably had an ear to the door just now, listening for clues that might be used in the eventual trial. And what did she expect to
do
in this hard-won quarter of an hour, with naught but his bloodied person and a squalid cell to entertain her?

He breathed her in as if she were the very air, but she was a gift he could not have, and a distraction he did not want. Even now, her body held in stiff defiance, he could see the cogs in that pretty head turning with ruthless intent. He didn’t want her putting those hidden freckles to the ground and sussing out more danger, not when he wasn’t there to protect her.

“I asked you to stay away for your own safety, not because I didn’t want to see you.” He’d told her not to come, not to meddle. Yet here she was, in his cell, and damned if she didn’t smell like a bloody cake, fresh from the oven, which only sent his temper—and other unnamed emotions—spiking higher. “Jonathon Blythe is not opposed to using violence to achieve his goals, and Farmington proved little better yesterday.”

They faced off, two determined souls, neither willing to give an inch. “I am perfectly safe, Patrick,” came her firm retort.

“The very fact that you are here suggests otherwise. You could fall ill, or be charged with conspiracy.” He stared down at her in growing irritation. Christ, she looked . . . exquisite. Like a flame-haired ghost, haunting his private hell. Impertinent gown she had on too, some confection of air and lace that made her skin glow to perfection, even here in the squalor of this cell. “I do not want you anywhere close to their crosshairs, Julianne.”

A long, wordless moment passed before she spoke again. “I spoke briefly with Dr. Merial this morning. He told Farmington he believes your father might have been murdered. Were you aware such accusations were being lodged against you?”

Her words burrowed into his brain. It was not a new idea, and so he did not react as he might once have, but it
was
new to hear it fall from Julianne’s lips. “Are you asking if I killed my father?” he asked hoarsely.

“No.” She shook her head, and raised her voice. “It never crossed my mind. I think the more logical presumption is that whoever killed your brother also killed your father.”

“Please, Julianne.” He glanced toward the door. “I would ask you to keep your voice down.”

“But whoever killed your father would have needed to be at Summersby
before
your father died,” she whispered, still far too loudly. “Which narrows our list of suspects down quite a bit, don’t you think?”

Patrick tried to find his voice. He’d hoped Avery’s warning would come to naught, that it was nothing more than a rumor, a twisting of facts against him. He hadn’t truly
believed
his father might have died from unreasonable circumstances. But Dr. Merial was an excellent physician, as well as a friend. If the doctor believed the earl had been murdered, Patrick was inclined to trust the man.

Julianne had cobbled together a logical, chilling explanation he had not previously considered. He’d initially presumed the person who had wanted Eric dead was someone from whom his brother had borrowed money. But she was right. The pieces of this puzzle could easily fit into a far more sinister shape. He could come up with
two
men who made sense. Always underfoot. Always wanting more than they had.

A person who murdered an earl was mad, desperate, or stupid. Truly, either of his bloody cousins could fit the bill.

“It could be Blythe,” he admitted. “Or Willoughby.”

Julianne shook her head. “I cannot believe it of George. He would never do such a thing.”

The air between them stilled. “George, is it?” Patrick’s voice deepened with distrust. “I do not like how close you have become with Willoughby.”

“He believes you are innocent. And I think we both know that George Willoughby is far too simple to be involved in such a complex plot.”

“There are layers to both men you don’t understand,” he warned her. Hell, he was beginning to suspect there were layers to both men
he
didn’t understand, and he’d practically grown up with them. George Willoughby might be too simple to conceive of a murder plot, but he was proving devilishly clever sidling up to Julianne.

But he shook off the pull of petty jealousy, and concentrated instead on the facts as he knew them. He could not deny that, given their history, Blythe made more sense as the killer.

“I need to find Prudence.” Julianne’s voice echoed rudely across the low stone ceiling.

Patrick glanced toward the door. He could see a light hovering, in the crack just above the floor. “I am not yet ready to discuss such things with Farmington,” he warned.

“She saw the killer pull the trigger, Patrick,” she argued, though she at least lowered her voice. “If I can put her in front of Blythe, she can identify him.”

“No. If Blythe is our man this is infinitely more dangerous. It is not safe for you to be involved.” Hadn’t his cousin already proven himself capable of violence, especially when expended in the name of a cause he believed in? But what was the cause here? Patrick could think of little by way of human emotion that could justify such an urge as murder. Love and family certainly knocked around at the top of that list. In this moment, he could well imagine killing someone who threatened those he loved.

He refused to be moved by the flash of hurt surprise on his wife’s face. After so much recent loss in his life, the thought of losing her was untenable. Quite simply, saving her neck was worth risking her ire.

“I am more capable than you credit me.” Her voice remained calm, though her words were thickened with distrust. “I would not say anything that would alter your defense.”