Page 104 of One Wicked Secret
Magnus muttered something about his grandparents.
Lady Denby clung to her pearls like a lifeline. “Stop this at once. I did not take you for a gossipmonger, Mr Dalton.”
But Daniel pressed on. “It’s not gossip. There’s a record of their marriage and of their daughter Diana’s baptism.”
Lady Denby gripped the arm of the sofa. “Poppycock. Everyone knew they lived in sin. He bought her a house in Chelsea while he stayed in Mayfair. I heard they married in Geneva like modern Bohemians.”
“I’ve seen the parish records,” he said, deciding not to disclose where. “They married in London, and their child was legitimate. I have letters, evidence Clarence and Cynthia were murdered by his family.”
The look Denby shared with his mother—as if the ceiling might cave in—confirmed they were not ignorant of the fact.
“What do you want, Dalton?” Denby said tightly.
He could ask for numerous things—answers to a dozen questions. But only one thing mattered more than all the lies and secrets.
“I want to know who shot my wife.”
A heavy silence descended.
The Denbys appeared stunned.
The matron stumbled over her words before saying, “Shot? Where? When? I trust this isn’t another trick to intimidate us, Mr Dalton.”
“You can’t think we’re involved,” Denby added.
Daniel told them what had happened to Elsa at Edenberry. “She’s lucky to be alive.” The memory of the lonely hours spent at her bedside, blaming himself, haunted him still.
Dragging a hand down his face, Denby muttered, “Carver has to be the shooter. She must have uncovered his treachery. The man was up to something. He was always making trips to London, forgetting papers meant for Tyler or inventing an excuse to return.”
“I’m quite certain it wasn’t Carver.” He explained the scheme involving fraud and the plot to ruin Jacob Tyler. “There was a conspiracy to see him bankrupt,” he said before telling them Charmers was now in custody. “It was Charmers’ lackey who murdered Lord Grafton some days ago. The killer bears a scar on his cheek from a recent knife wound.”
The matron’s eyes widened. “A scar? H-how recent?”
“A month at most. Mr Daventry’s men are dealing with the case. It’s only a matter of time before they find the person responsible.”
“Mr Daventry’s men? Good Lord!” Lady Denby collapsed into the seat. She pressed her trembling hand to her brow and closed her eyes tightly. “You’ll have to tell them. It’s no good. Truth is Daventry’s quarry, and he hunts it like a man possessed.”
“Mother, you’re speaking in riddles.” Lord Denby turned to them. “She has a weak constitution. It’s all too much for her.”
Too much forher!
“You should have married Miss Tyler the moment her mother died.” Lady Denby gripped the edge of her seat like she teetered on a precipice. “We wouldn’t be in this predicament if you’d not been so desperate to cling to your bachelorhood.”
“Mother!” Denby said firmly. “We will discuss this privately.”
“Yes, over a crude table in the Marshalsea once Daventry has picked the carcass dry. The moment Mr Carver told you, we should have taken steps to protect our assets.”
“Be quiet, Mother!”
“It’s a little late to caution her now,” Rothley said. “She’s practically admitted you’re involved. The ship has sailed and set fire to the docks on its way out.”
“She’s delirious and doesn’t know what she’s saying.”
On the contrary, as Rothley pointed out, Lady Denby’s ramblings were an admission of guilt. But strange she mentioned the Marshalsea, not Newgate. Why speak of poverty and not their role in a violent murder?
“Your mother is referring to the Last Will and Testament of Georgina Denby that dates back to the seventeenth century,” Daniel said, placing his final cards on the table. They didn’t know he hadn’t read the will, so he stayed quiet, hoping they’d say more.
No one spoke. But Daniel saw the flickers of unease and their tightening jaws. They couldn’t beat his hand, and their only option was to concede.
