“No. But she knew exactly what he looked like, didn’t she?”
They had found Crispin’s last letter to Emma tucked into her reticule, and its presence there told them all they needed to know about her feelings toward him. Now Hero set aside her sewing and came to stand behind Sebastian, looking over his shoulder as he flipped slowly through the dead woman’s drawings. She said, “Do you think Crispin could have killed Emma?”
“I’d think it more likely if she’d died that night—if he’d killed her in a rage. But I find it difficult to believe he rode off, only to come back twenty-four hours later to put his hand over her face and quietly smother her to death.”
“But he could have done it. He did lie.”
“He did. Although I’m beginning to think he may have lied to protect his mother.”
“Lady Seaton?” Hero sank into the chair beside him. “You can’t be serious.”
“I wish I weren’t.”
She shook her head. “I’m not following you.”
“Let’s suppose, for argument’s sake, that the man who raped Lady Emily Turnstall twenty-two years ago was the same gentleman who impregnated Sybil Moss and Hannah Grant.”
“We don’t know for certain that Hannah was with child.”
“No. But bear with me a moment. We’ve been assuming that Sybil and Hannah were killed by whatever gentleman seduced them—namely Lord Seaton, the Reverend, or Major Weston—with Seaton being eliminated because he’s now dead. But what if those women were actually killed by the guilty man’s angry, jealous wife?”
“What a ghastly thought,” said Hero. “Although if you’re right, it means Agnes Underwood and Liv Weston should also be considered suspects.”
“True. Except Reverend Underwood and Major Weston are both still very much alive, whereas Leopold Seaton is long dead. Supposedly he fell off his horse one dark night riding home drunk from the Blue Boar and cracked his head open on a conveniently situated stone bridge.”
“You’re suggesting his loving wife actually bashed in his head, instead? And then killed Emma when she found out the young woman was her husband’s child?” Hero was silent for a moment. “But Lady Seaton didn’t know why Emma was here.”
“We think she didn’t know, but that doesn’t mean she didn’t. Apart from which, she could actually have an entirely different motive if Emma was killed because she accidently stumbled upon a meeting between Lucien Bonaparte and someone delivering a message from Paris.”
“If there was a message from Paris that day. And if Lady Seaton knows of Lucien’s contact with Paris. That’s three ifs,” said Hero.
Sebastian found himself smiling. “You’re right; it is.”
Hero began slowly turning the pages of Emma’s second sketchbook. “When one meets her, Lady Seaton seems so feminine and even-tempered. Could she really be that different? That . . . evil?”
Sebastian stared down at Emma’s sketch of Northcott Abbey, its leaded windows sparkling in the summer sunshine. Virtually every aspect of a gentlewoman’s existence, from her tastes and talents to her behavior and basic personality, was expected to conform to their society’s narrow definition of womanhood. Some women were lucky: They were born fitting into that tight, predetermined mold. But most struggled their entire lives to cope with the discrepancy between the reality of who they were and the illusion of what their society expected them to be.
Some, like Hero—and, he realized, Emma Chandler—were independent minded enough to go their own way regardless of the consequences. But few were that brave. Most learned early to affect a false persona, to hide their intelligence and determination and tuck away their true selves behind a gentle, smiling, unnatural facade. And he had no doubt into which category Grace Seaton fell.
“I think Lady Seaton is very good at playing whatever role other people expect her to play. What she’s actually like is anyone’s guess.”
“But how could she have managed it? Physically, I mean. She’s so tiny. And then there’s what happened to Hannibal Pierce. Even if she’s a marvelous shot, I can’t imagine her ladyship creeping through a misty churchyard with a rifled pistol to shoot Hannibal Pierce. Or hiding in the bushes beside the river to leap out and bash Reuben Dickie over the head.”
“No. But she has a very devoted cousin.”
“Samuel Atwater?” Hero considered this possibility in silence for a moment. “Ironically, I can believe her capable of murder easier than I can him. I find him rather likeable.”