Liliana flushed but scooted forward in her seat.
“I think the countess murdered her husband.”
Liliana gasped. Whatever she’d expected to hear, it wasn’t that. “Whyever would you think that?” she asked once she could speak properly.
Mr. Witherspoon bobbed his head, as if he’d been expecting that reaction. “A few weeks before he died, the earl was in a state like I’d never seen him. Secretive, jumpy, excitable…yet agitated, too.”
A chill slithered its way down Liliana’s spine. Her father had been just the same.
“The countess, of course, was off to London. But she came home one night unexpectedly, all in a fury. Seemed she’d caught wind of something the earl had done. Had a terrible row about it. I couldn’t gather what about exactly—the earl sent me away, which was unusual, given I’d witnessed countless arguments between those two before.” He shook his head sadly, then looked Liliana directly in the eyes. “But the very next morning, the earl was dead.”
Liliana sat back in her seat, a hundred scenarios flying through her mind at once. She wanted to ask why he thought that, but she needed another question answered first. Debrett’s had told her that the earl passed in 1804, the year after her father, but not exactly when. “When was that?”
“Around Epiphany, I’d say.”
Liliana gasped again. She couldn’t help it. “You’re certain?”
Mr. Witherspoon nodded.
The late earl had died around January 6, 1804, only a couple of weeks after her father’s death in December of 1803. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? She’d assumed there was more time between their deaths given the dates. What a fool she’d been, allowing herself to focus on the years of their passing instead of the actual days. Her head spun. What did this mean?
She swallowed, asking the next question she must. “But what makes you think the countess was involved?”
Witherspoon grimaced, his yellowed eyes growing moist. His voice cracked as he answered. “I’m the one that found my lord. When I went into his chamber the following morning, he was cold and stiff in his bed. I raised the alarm, of course. The doctor came and, after examining him, said he passed of natural causes. But I don’t think so.”
“Why not?” Liliana asked again, impatient and listening for any clues that might tell her what truly happened to the earl.
“Well, I’ve seen people pass before, and when they go of natural causes, they tend to look all peaceful when they’re gone. My lord, he didn’t look peaceful at all.” He closed his eyes, as if he were seeing it all over again. When he opened them again he said, “And here’s the other thing. He smelled of almonds…his skin, I mean.”
Almonds. A sick dread sprang up in Liliana.
“Which was very odd to me,” Mr. Witherspoon said, his voice hushed. “My lord detested almonds, so much so that he wouldn’t touch amaretto or even nibble a bite of marzipan. So why would he smell of almonds?”
Bile rose in Liliana’s throat. Cyanide was tasteless, fast acting and easy to administer. Death by poisoning would account for the late earl’s harsh visage. And cyanide smelled of almonds…
“All finished,” Geoffrey said, a smile riding his face as he entered the courtyard. Liliana started, her eyes snapping to him. His black hair was tousled, a light sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead and his normally pristine jacket was covered in dust.
As Liliana looked at Geoffrey, something cracked within her. Never had she thought to have anything in common with him, much less something she would never wish upon another person. A piercing empathy filled her.
Someone had murdered his father, too.
Chapter Sixteen
G
eoffrey straightened his cravat as he made his way to the ballroom. Mother was likely incensed, given that he’d skipped supper, but he’d spent the late afternoon and early evening going over strategy with Bartlesby, setting the man several objectives to be met before Geoffrey could take up the investigation himself.
His trip to see Witherspoon had been rather enlightening, only not in the way he’d expected. Geoffrey hadn’t had the chance to ask Witherspoon any questions. By the time he’d finished up in the cottage and joined the former valet and Liliana in the courtyard, Witherspoon had tired. If possible, the man had looked twice as old as he had less than an hour before.
No, the revelation had been Liliana. Every day, perhaps every hour, his regard for her grew. What was it that compelled a young woman to risk her reputation to visit a stranger, simply to make him feel better? What kindness of heart made one go out of one’s way, wanting nothing in return? Indeed, Mrs. Witherspoon had insisted upon paying Liliana, but she’d refused even though Geoffrey knew she was a woman of little means.
More and more, he realized he wanted to delve into the enigma that was Liliana Claremont, to uncover more of what drove her. And that set him on dangerous ground.
But he wouldn’t have to worry about that tonight. The strains of violins and a cacophony of voices floated down the hallway. Tonight, he’d have to “do the pretty,” as it were. More guests had arrived this afternoon, and the numbers were expected to climb until the house party was in full swing in two nights’ time.
The moment he stepped into the ballroom, Geoffrey knew he was in for it. It seemed his mother intended to ratchet up her campaign to see him married, for she was waiting for him. And that was never a good thing.
“Your business is finished, I trust?”
Even her tone set his teeth on edge.
“As much as can be done for the moment,” he said, tugging first one cuff, then the other. He scanned the ballroom, not certain what he was looking for, only certain he had no intention of being caught in a discussion with the countess. To give her eye contact would simply encourage her.
He alighted upon Lady Emily Morton. With her nearly flaxen hair and luminescent silvery gray eyes set off by a low-cut gown of white silk, she was quite stunning. His gaze grazed over pale skin so delicate he could see traces of blue veins. She reminded him of a mute swan, all light and grace and fragility.
Until he met her eyes as she boldly stared him down. Then he imagined how a carcass might feel under the beady gaze of a buzzard.
He turned back to the countess, who suddenly seemed the safer of the two.
“The Morton girl is a bit forward,” his mother acknowledged with a slow nod of her head. “I can see why you’ve largely ignored her. You wouldn’t want an”—she seemed to search for a word—“aggressive wife, I’m sure. I may have miscalculated, thinking she might tempt you.”
Geoffrey nearly snorted. His mother, of all people, should know that he’d choose someone as different from herself as he could find.
Lady Stratford squeezed her arm through the crook of his, pulling him into what likely appeared to onlookers as a casual mother-son stroll around the ballroom.
“But I didn’t make a mistake with Lady Jane,” she said. “She’s sweet and biddable. She’s also young, which should make her easy to mold. Not to mention she’s the daughter of a man without whose support your little bill won’t see the light of day.”