Page 29 of Never a Duchess
“Poison?” Never knowing the woman, Lillian had no reason to cry. Still, she suddenly felt the duke’s pain as keenly as her own, and tears welled in her eyes. “How old was he?” For some reason, it mattered.
“Twelve or thirteen, but I cannae be certain.”
“Still a boy, then?”
“Aye.”
The lump in her throat made it hard to breathe.
“’Twas a foolish mistake. A silly accident in the forest.” Lorna cupped Lillian’s cheek as if she were a porcelain doll that might easily shatter, not a woman who had buried her troubles beneath a thick skin. “But that’s how these things happen. Now I’ve come to understand what Dounreay dealt with that day.”
“He was there?”
Lorna released a mournful sigh. “Aye.”
A single tear trickled down Lillian’s cheek.
Poor Dounreay.
To have everything one minute and nothing the next.
Lorna dashed the droplet away with her thumb. “Go now and take a good swig of brandy. ’Twill chase away the cold and the memories. There’s sherry if ye prefer. But I’ll have nae more tears today. We’ve much to be thankful for.”
Lillian inhaled a calming breath. She clutched Lady MacTavish’s hands and gave them a gentle squeeze. A means of thanking her for her kindness and motherly affection. To say the words aloud would invariably rouse unwelcome emotions.
Barefoot, she crept downstairs.
All was quiet. The servants were abed. Despite the daunting thought of sitting alone in the darkness, she entered the drawing room.
She could still feel Dounreay’s presence in the house, hear the soft whisper of his breath, as if he had left some remnant of his spirit behind to torment her.
Only when she neared the drinks table did she notice him sitting in the shadows, one arm stretched over the back of the sofa, those godforsaken knees visible beneath the hem of the borrowed kilt.
Her heart almost stopped. “Your Grace. I thought you’d left hours ago.”
“Miss Ware?” Sounding surprised, he pushed to his feet. “I didnae mean to startle ye. I’m waiting for Dewart to return to take me home. I’d walk, but MacTavish’s kilt is on the large side, and I’ll nae be arrested for indecency.”
She might have laughed, but the temptation for wickedness hung heavily in the air, and she daren’t lower her guard for a second.
“I couldn’t sleep and hoped a nip of brandy might do the trick.”
His gaze slid slowly over her white dressing gown, leaving a hot trail in its wake. “I doubt I shall sleep either. Daventry arrived an hour ago and has only just left. I’d have sent for ye if I’d known ye were awake.”
She swallowed down her nerves. The way he looked at her, as if she were a naked nymph walking the wild moorlands, left her at a loss as to what to say.
“Daventry agrees we must involve the magistrate.” Turning to the drinks tray, Dounreay pulled the stopper from a decanter and splashed brandy into two glasses. “Baudelaire’s perfumery will close until they can locate the source of the poison.”
“Oh, I see.” There would be no need to spend time with him. No excuse to force her hand. “Does Mr Daventry plan to oversee the entire case?”
A familiar feeling came over her.
Half relief. Half regret.
“Nae.” He faced her and thrust a goblet into her hand. “We’re to continue with our investigation as planned. We’re to interview Lord Kinver’s staff after breakfast in the morning. Daventry will arrange for Mr and Mrs Masters to act as chaperones.”
Good Lord!
Devon Masters would watch them like a hawk.
