Her pale eyes blinked. “I will not, my lord.”
Lady Whitebarrow stood. “This is insupportable. My daughter did not murder a man.”
Grace’s palms covered her face and her narrow shoulders crumpled.
“Grace?” her father said. “Did your sister commit this horrible act? Did she?”
“Of course she did not,” his wife said.
“That ye must ask her if she done it, my laird,” the duchess said, “tells a sorry tale.”
He stared blankly at her for a moment while the room hung with tension, then he looked again at his younger daughter. “Grace? You must tell us.”
“Courtenay,” Sir Henry said, “what is the other evidence that led you to believe this young lady did it?”
“A missing dagger, and certain evidence surrounding the circumstances of the death.”
“But what of the handwriting comparison?” Cecilia asked. “Monsieur Sepic determined that none of us were guilty because none of the hands matched the note found in Mr. Walsh’s pocket.”
Lord Prunesly scowled. “You foolish girl. Any of us could have disguised our hand to throw off suspicion.”
“Lady Penelope’s hand, however, was the closest to the script on the note found in Mr. Walsh’s coat.” The voice that spoke from the corner of the room was light and sweet with rounded Italian tones. All eyes turned to Juliana Abraccia.
“How would you know such a thing?” Lady Whitebarrow demanded. “Are you an expert in deciphering script?”
“Si,” Juliana said with a taking little smile. “I have spent ever so many hours and days in my uncle’s chancery sorting documents and studying the scripts. For six years my tutor was the renowned Jesuit paleographer Padre Georgio di Silvestro. He was ever so entertaining.” Her mouth fell into a pretty pout. “Of course he was terribly strict with me when I failed to study.” She gave a dainty shrug that fluttered the sleeves of her muslin gown like little butterflies circling her shoulders. “Wasn’t he, Uncle?”
The bishop patted her on the head as though she were a child. “Sì, cara mia. My bright little sun.”
“After Signore Sepic studied the hands and found no similarities,” Juliana said, “I could not resist checking his work. He mistook it. Lady Penelope wrote that note.”
Ravenna could not remain silent. “But why didn’t you tell us this when you discovered it?”
Juliana’s lashes batted over innocent eyes. “I did not think anybody would believe me. We are all here to win the prince’s favor. To accuse a competitor of murder would have seemed poor sportswomanship.”
“Vulgar chit,” Lady Whitebarrow said. “You will retract this accusation at once.”
“If you withheld the accusation before, Miss Abraccia,” Lord Vitor said, “why have you made it now?”
Juliana directed a sweet smile at Martin Anders. “Because I no longer wish to marry a prince.” She fluttered her lashes again, this time at Prince Sebastiao. “Perdonate me, your highness? I am ever so grateful that you invited me to this festa.”
He bowed.
“Mama.” Penelope’s face had turned white as her gown.
“That girl’s claim proves nothing.” Lady Whitebarrow offered a contemptuous sniff.
“But!” The prince jutted a finger into the air. “I may have further proof.” He snapped his fingers. “Alfonso, bring me the scripts.” A guard bowed and disappeared.
“The scripts, yer highness?” Iona asked.
“The scripts of Romeo and Juliet with which I tested the thespian capabilities of the ladies before I chose my Juliet.” He peered at Penelope. “You wrote notes on your script.”
“I did not,” she said between clenched teeth, adding, “your highness.”
“You did,” Mr. Anders interjected. “I recall it. You asked me how you might deliver the lark and nightingale lines, and as I advised you, you noted it on the page.”
Her nostrils flared in swift breaths, but she did not respond.
The guard brought the scripts to the prince. He flipped through them then announced, “Aha!” and pulled one forth. The remainder fell to the floor. “ ‘It is the lark,’ ” he read, “and in the margin, ‘with gentle resistance, doucement.’ ” He looked up. “Who has Walsh’s missive?”
The butler proffered a silver tray that bore a single sheet of folded paper. “When you began to speak of this matter, your highness, I took the liberty of retrieving this from the parlor in which Monsieur Sepic stored the evidence.”
“Excellent.” Prince Sebastiao snatched it up and studied the pages side by side. The silence of strained breathing gripped the chamber. “The hands are identical,” he declared. “Lady Penelope, you wrote the note that enticed Mr. Walsh to his death.”
“I will not hear of this,” Lady Whitebarrow said. “My lord.” She turned to her husband. “You must put a stop to this slanderous accusation. Our daughter is innocent.”
“What reason did you have to write that note, Penelope?” Lord Whitebarrow said.
“Perhaps she’s no’ so innocent as ye would have us believe, nou?” the duchess said to Lady Whitebarrow.
Lady Whitebarrow’s lips were as white as Penelope’s face. “You would like to believe that my girls are as besmirched as yours, wouldn’t you?”
“Enough, Olympia,” Lord Whitebarrow commanded. “Tell me, Penelope, why you wrote that note.”
Penelope rose to her feet, her chin high. “I did not murder Mr. Walsh,” she stated in a softly trembling voice. “My sister did.”
Grace’s head shot up, her eyes awash in betrayal. “Penny.”
“Look.” Penelope stripped off her gloves. “I do have a burn on my finger, but not because I killed him.” She pointed to her sister. “Grace told me to write the note. She loved him but he scorned her, and she used me to bring him to her so she could kill him.”
“Penny! How could you?” Tears streamed down her twin’s cheeks.
Lord Whitebarrow’s face was stricken. “Gracie, is this true?”
“Oh, Papa.” She covered her face with her hands again and she wept. Ravenna’s heart did churning turns in her chest. Grace’s misery was so powerful. And suddenly she understood. Grace was grieving over Mr. Walsh’s death. Now it seemed so utterly clear—her dull, glassy stare, her lack of animation for everything, her sadness. Her pain reached out to the grief in Ravenna’s heart, and to the new fear she had felt the day before, the fear of losing someone she had never thought to cherish, and she was breathless with it.
“The mystery is solved,” the prince said flatly. His mood of triumph had disintegrated. “The murderer is discovered.”
Lord and Lady Whitebarrow stood as though stunned, Penelope beside her mother with bright cheeks. Grace’s quiet sobs filled the silence.
Ravenna went to Grace, knelt beside her, and reached for her hand. Grace gave it without resistance, as though she had lost the will to do anything at all.
“You truly loved him, didn’t you?” Ravenna whispered.
Her sobs came like her very soul jolting forth from inside her.
She is not the murderer. The truth battered at Ravenna.
“Lady Grace,” Lord Vitor said. “What weapon did you employ to kill Oliver Walsh?”