Page 42 of My Deceitful Duchess
A comforting lie. She hadn’t hadnervessince she’d been brought here. Instead she had had only a sort of fatalistic tranquility. She had worn her impending death like a battle-hardened warrior—entirely unaffected by it.
But now—now, she thought, shedidhave nerves. Nerves wrought from her sour stomach, which had persisted for some days now. A kind of sickness she’d seen before, but never thought to experience herself.
The kind of sickness that had plagued Lottie so terribly in the earliest stages of her pregnancy. She didn’t know whether she ought to laugh or cry. England did not hang women who were with child—she might very well have earned herself a reprieve from the gallows.Now, when she had accepted that her life would abruptly cut short—nowcame a tiny shred of hope for the future.
Still a short one, no doubt. They’d likely hang her shortly after she’d given birth. Only now she would have to suffer months more, watching herself grow round with a child she would never know. Who would never knowher. And who would doubtless suffer for the blood which ran in its veins.
No. No; fate would not be so unkind. Perhaps she was only ill. Her constitution had always been hardy, but she had been so strained lately—perhaps her weakness had made her more susceptible than usual to sickness, to disease. But even as the thought crossed her mind, that insuppressible nausea rose once more in her throat, and she was obliged to dive for the chamber pot, casting up only the bile that remained within her churning stomach.
“It’s not possible,” she said firmly as she scraped her hand over her mouth once more, though the sour taste remained, coating her tongue. “It’s justnot.” As if saying the words might somehow make them true.
And for the very first time in her life, she dropped her head back against the wall and prayed to be merely ill.
Chapter Nineteen
“Ineed to review her statements,” Sebastian said, without preamble, as he strode into Mr. Beckett’s office.
“I needyouto find me a goddamned murderer,” Beckett replied. “I’ve got two aristocrats up my arse day in and day out—and one of them is a bloodyduke.” He took a huge swig of his tea. “Pendleton is seeking answers, and I’ve none to give him.”
“Yes, well, I’ve devoted as much attention to the case as I can.” Which was admittedly not much. His brain was muddled in a way it had never been before, and it had been an effort only to trawl through the list of stolen items he’d received from the various victims of theft and to devise his own list from it of items which would necessarily stand out from amongst the rest. A rare star sapphire brooch that had belonged to Lady Pendleton; a massive ruby pendant that had been in Lord Melville’s family for generations; a tiara featuring a large, polished emerald that had been passed down to every woman who had married into the Haveringham marquessate. It was possible that many of the larger gems had already been refashioned or recut—but the largest part of their value was in theirsize, so Sebastian thought it unlikely.
“Why now?” Beckett inquired, scratching at the back of his neck. “You’ve not asked for the statements before.”
Because he hadn’t wanted toknow. It had been bad enough to know that his lover had been a criminal all along—as if his choice of woman reflected some deficient character of his own. He hadn’t wanted to see it printed in ink; hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the vileness of it, hadn't wanted any more of her lies, her deceit.
Despite the initial inquest years ago, which had pronounced the duke's death to be murder, and Jenny to be the likely culprit, still she had proclaimed her innocence. Which would not save her, he knew—not when a duke had spent the better part of a month calling for her stretched neck. Even more than a decade removed from the crime of which she stood accused, without much—if any—evidence to go upon, there was little chance she could escape punishment. What English court would take the word of an alleged murderess over that of a duke?
“Since she has not confessed,” he said. “I would see what it is shehassaid.” And as she would not speak it to him, perhaps he could use her statement to divine truth from lies. To see if there might be even a sliver of honesty in her words. Something, however minuscule, he might use to tilt the scales of justice. Because whether or not she was a murderess, whatever her crimes had been—he could not see her hang.
He hadn’t realized he had spoken the words aloud until Mr. Beckett gave a disdainful snort and said, “No chance ofthatanytime soon. Certain…complications have arisen.”
There was some subtle insinuation in Mr. Beckett’s voice that Sebastian could not quite grasp. “Complications?”
“Her Grace has been ill recently,” Mr. Beckett said, the taut surface of his cheeks pulling his mouth down into a frown.
“Ill?” That wretched skirl of guilt curdled his stomach. He’d known she wasn’t eating particularly well. But then, the food that would have been served to her was not at all the sort to which she would have been accustomed.
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Youdorealize that she is no common prisoner,” Sebastian said. “She’s wasting here. Even those in Newgate are allowed better than the slop she’s been fed if they can afford it.” And Jenny certainlycould. She might not bestarving, precisely—but she was notthriving.
“She’s not requested it,” Mr. Beckett said. “A woman of her station could request any number of accommodations, provided she was willing to pay for them. But she hasn’t. In fact, what shehasn’trequested is what concerns me now.”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“Somehow I didn’t think you would,” Mr. Beckett said wryly. “You are aware, are you not, that Her Grace has been a…guestof Bow Street for more than a month now.”
How could he be anythingbutaware? He was the one who had pitched her into it in the first place. “I am.”
“It’s the foremost reason, at the moment, that my office is struggling with what to do with her, since she cannot be hanged.” A brief expression of discomfort passed over Mr. Beckett’s face. “She’s not asked for…certain items.”
“You’ve said.”
Mr. Beckett gave an aggrieved sigh, passing his hand over his mouth in frustration. “Certain items that a woman might…have need of at some point during the month.” His cup landed upon his desk with a bit too much force, splattering a few drops of liquid across the scarred surface.
“But what should that have to do with—” The bottom dropped out of his stomach, and he sank into a chair. “She’s pregnant.”
“It would seem so.”
