“Is he?” Whit asked, but didn’t lower the weapon. “Well then, it’s not really murder at all, is it?”
Hartsinger’s mouth began to work rapidly, though it was a moment before sound came out. “A lie. The girl lies—” he shrieked and ducked when Whit raised his weapon an inch. “A misunderstanding! The lady misunderstood! I implore you—!”
“Whit, please,” Mirabelle cut in, and wondered if she could walk the distance to where he stood without falling. “I just want to go home. You promised you’d take me home.”
For the first time since leaving her beside the carriage, Whit turned and really looked at her.
And lowered the gun. “So I did. Tie them up, Christian. See McAlistair gets them.”
Unsteady, Mirabelle reached behind her to grip the carriage. “McAlistair?” She took a second look at the tall man standing beside Whit. “Christian?”
“I’ll explain—” Whit broke off at the sound of approaching horses. “That would be Alex,” he commented and striding to her, lifted her off her feet into his arms. “With any luck, he brought a second carriage.”
Alex had, as it turned out, and in short order Mirabelle was tucked warmly next to Whit and on her way to Haldon.
The carriage rocked gently beneath her, lulling her into a lethargy that fear had earlier kept at bay. She stared unseeing out the dark window, longing desperately for sleep. But her mind refused to settle. Everything had changed. Her plans, her future, her hopes—all had been dashed in the course of a single day.
“Mirabelle?” She felt Whit’s hand move from her shoulder to brush at her hair.
“He took my dowry,” she said softly. “My uncle, he stole it.” She looked to him. “I don’t know what to do. I had it all planned. Now I don’t know what to do.”
When the tears came, he simply gathered her in and held on.
Twenty-six
Haldon was a riot of noise and activity when they arrived.
Nearly every servant had descended on the front hall looking for a way to help. Kate, Evie, and Sophie surrounded Mirabelle and bustled her off to her room. William Fletcher appeared from the library looking harassed, followed by Lady Thurston who looked to be doing the harassing.
Mr. Lindberg returned from a second trip to the baron’s, carrying the contract that assigned Mirabelle to St. Brigit’s. And with the news that the baron had babbled an extended confession within minutes of being left alone with McAlistair. Lord Eppersly claimed to have been blackmailed by Mr. Hartsinger into using the bank notes after attempting, in desperation, to pass several off in payment to the asylum for Mirabelle’s future care. He denied all knowledge of a printing plate, and when asked how he’d come about the counterfeit notes, would only answer that it was meant to be a grand joke.
Assuming that no other information would be available on that score until McAlistair’s return, Whit made his way upstairs and for the second time in a fortnight, found himself standing outside Mirabelle’s room, anxiously waiting for news. He refused offers of food and drink, and demands for explanations alike. The thought of eating made his stomach churn, and he couldn’t provide answers he didn’t have.
The physician, paid handsomely to be available to the Cole family at a moment’s notice, arrived within a half hour. He spent what seemed to Whit to be an exceedingly large amount of time in Mirabelle’s room before finally emerging to announce that Miss Browning’s wounds were not life-threatening, though she would likely have a very unpleasant headache and a very unattractive black eye by morning. The physician then provided a list of instructions for dealing with a blow to the head that Whit passed on to Mrs. Hanson with the express order that every member of the house hold was to memorize its contents.
Then he went in search of William. He found him once again in the library, and once again, apparently, being harassed by Lady Thurston.
They stood in front of the fire, and barely spared him a glance when he entered.
“You said she was safe,” Lady Thurston accused William in a voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Nothing of this sort was supposed to happen.”
Whit came to a stop in front of a small reading table and glared at the pair. “What are you talking about?” he demanded, and was roundly ignored.
“I never would have suggested the ruse if I thought for even a moment her safety would be compromised,” William replied defensively.
“What ruse?” Whit demanded, for all the good it did him. Neither his mother nor William even flicked their eyes in his direction.
“Mr. Lindberg and Christian should have informed us of the potential danger—” Lady Thurston began.
“Neither have ever reported the baron becoming violent in their presence,” William cut in. “And none of us suspected Hartsinger’s involvement.”
“How did you know of Mr. Lindberg—” Whit tried.
“Have they had blinders on for all these years?” Lady Thurston snapped.