Page 110 of One Wicked Secret
“And so you got rid of him.”
Miss Denby gave a sad pout. “It was such a shame. He was rather handsome, but he threatened to expose me if I didn’t align with his grand plans.”
“You mean he planned to tell everyone your grandfather murdered Clarence and Cynthia Denby?” Mentioning their names made Elsa’s heart lurch. “That my mother was the child who survived?”
“You have no proof that is true. Mr Carver scoured the house and found nothing to suggest the comments he’d heard were anything but a sick woman’s fantasy. I doubt your father even kept a journal.”
Though tempted to reveal the evidence, Elsa remained tight-lipped. It was better to let Miss Denby think she had the upper hand.
“Why didn’t you kill me when you found me in Mr Carver’s bed?” Poor Signora Conti must wonder what sort of woman her master had married.
A sly smile played on the devil’s lips. “It was certainly tempting. Quite an unexpected gift. I should have listened to Mr Graves, but my brother would have been the prime suspect. So we devised another plan.”
“To make it seem like Mr Carver was my lover and not someone who’d helped an injured woman in the woods?” she said, suddenly realising Mr Graves must be the coachman.
“You must admit, it was an ingenious idea. Had there been an investigation, your sordid rendezvous at The Raven Hotel would have served as proof of a love affair.”
Elsa wondered how Miss Denby became so vindictive.But a darker question loomed. “Who stripped off my clothes and smeared blood on my thighs?”
“Certainly not Mr Graves. I wouldn’t allow it. He’s going to live with me at Wendlow Follies. It pays to have a loyal man at hand.”
Many questions flitted through Elsa’s mind … about the cologne and what excuse Miss Denby had given for travelling to Chippenham. But in the end, it all came down to one thing.
“You had two men killed, tried to frame me for murder, and enlisted Mr Carver to ruin my father—all to cover up a crime committed over fifty years ago?”
Miss Denby clasped her chest and sagged back against the squab. “Clearly, you don’t know everything, Mrs Dalton.” Her mocking chuckle grated. “I suppose I can tell you now. We’ll reach Greenwich soon, and everything will return to normality.”
Elsa glanced out the window as they neared London Bridge, aware this was a trap, relieved Daniel wasn’t preparing to duel at Greenwich Park, and wondering how they might escape. If only she’d kept a blade strapped to her thigh.
“Had you kept out of my affairs, you wouldn’t be in this predicament,” Miss Denby said, her hand creeping towards the lap blanket beside her on the seat. “Wendlow Follies is within my grasp. I’ll be the first woman in seven generations to survive long enough to inherit. Do you honestly think I’d let gossip about Clarence Denby ruin that?”
Before Elsa could make sense of her rambling, Miss Denby drew a pistol from beneath the blanket, cocked the hammer, and aimed at her.
Elsa met her gaze without flinching, as nothing fazed hernow. “Do you plan to shoot me here or wait for somewhere dark and discreet?”
Miss Denby’s lips curled into a smile as she gripped the pistol. “A lady doesn’t bloody her own hands. Mr Graves will see to it once we’ve left the city.” She glanced at the housekeeper, her eyes gleaming with twisted satisfaction. “You should have listened to your master and stayed at home tonight.”
Signora Conti smiled. “My purpose here is clear. I would rather die in service to love than be consumed by hatred.”
Elsa reached for Signora Conti’s hand, clasping it tightly. “When we return home, we’ll eat almond cakes and drink sherry.”
“And makeTorta della Nonna, or maybe we will just eat the cream.”
Elsa chuckled—her laugh a Norse maiden’s armour. “Yes, while I explain how I ended up in a dead man’s bed. Rest assured, my husband already knows every detail.”
Annoyed they weren’t on their knees, begging for their lives, Miss Denby waved her pistol. “I’ve heard it said that fear makes people mad, but I have never witnessed the phenomenon myself.”
“But you have,” Elsa said, noticing they were crossing London Bridge. Fog rose from the river, wrapping everything in a ghostly shroud. Each lamp light vanished as quickly as it appeared, forcing the coachman to slow to a crawling pace. “Fear is the reason you’re pointing a pistol at my heart. And your actions are the definition of madness.”
“Protecting one’s birthright is not madness, Mrs Dalton. Some would call it survival. And one needs a rational mind to devise a cunning plan.”
Elsa braced herself, preparing to strike. “Yet you madetwo foolish mistakes.” She nudged Signora Conti. “You underestimated how hard an Italian woman will fight when cornered, and your tongue is looser than your drawers.”
Without warning, Elsa shook off her fear and lurched forward. She shoved Miss Denby’s arm aside, grabbing the barrel of the pistol in a tight grip. The cold metal bit into her palm, and she yanked hard, aiming the muzzle at the carriage roof.
They wrestled for the pistol, but it slipped free and clattered to the floor, skittering across the wooden boards as it spun to a stop.
“Open the door and run, Signora!” Elsa shouted, her heart racing as she fought to stop Miss Denby reaching for the weapon. “Hurry! Before the vehicle picks up speed.”
