Page 106 of The Forbidden Lord
“You didn’t?” he said.
She gaped at him. “You actually thought I did?”
“Well, I … I … my servant went to Willow Crossing and he found out … that is, I deduced …” Seeing that he was sinking deeper with every word, he added fiercely, “It wouldn’t matter, you know. She was in pain, and you have a tender heart. I understand that. I?—”
“It’s all right,” she said as laughter bubbled up from her throat. She ought to be furious that he’d thought her capable of murder, but he obviously knew the circumstances. Amazingly, he’d been willing to make great sacrifices for her, even while thinking she’d taken her mother’s life.
A giddy delight filled her. “It’s all right, Jordan,” she repeated soothingly. “But I didn’t kill her.”
Her father frowned at her improper amusement, then scowled at Nesfield. “No, she didn’t. My wife killed herself.”
The words stunned everyone but Emily into silence, more because of who was saying them than what he was saying. Now sure that he had everyone’s attention, her father added, “What’s more important, I can prove it.” Reaching into his pocket, he whisked out a folded sheet of paper. “You see, my wife left a suicide note.”
Once again, Emily felt an overwhelming sense of relief. She still hated that it had been her laudanum which killed Mama. But it made a difference to know that Mama hadn’t simply succumbed to a burst of pain and taken too much of a medicine Emily had carelessly left nearby. No, the note’s thorough explanation of Mama’s reasons for killing herself proved that she had planned her death—planned it and executed it. And Emily couldn’t blame her—or herself—for that.
“What do you mean?” Nesfield said suspiciously. “You never said anything about a note.”
Her father colored. “I know. That proved not only sinful, but a terrible mistake as well.” He hesitated, as if unwilling to reveal so much in front of strangers. Then he sighed, apparently realizing he had no choice. “The day of her death, when I came home to find you and Emily with my poor Phoebe, I was distraught, to say the least. I fled into my own bedroom—Phoebe and I had been sleeping apart because she rested easier that way—and there I found the note. Phoebe had left her sickbed long enough to stumble to our dresser.”
Emily hurried to Papa’s side, feeling all his anguish again. He leaned on her for support. “My first reaction was horror. Phoebe had committed the ultimate sin. She was damned forever.” He halted a moment, overcome by emotion. “And even worse was the knowledge that her pain had been so great she’d been driven to an unthinkable act.”
He stared down into his daughter’s face. “Then I began to think of other things, selfish things. If Phoebe’s suicide were made known, I’d lose my living, I’d be disgraced. And what would become of my daughter? It would make it nearly impossible for her to marry or have any kind of a life. I’m not proud of it, but I don’t think I was wrong to consider such things.”
He lifted his head with a stubborn expression. “Anyway, that’s when I decided to keep it secret, even from Emily. I thought she didn’t know about the suicide. And to be honest, neither of us was willing to talk about Phoebe’s death.” His hand gripped her arm. “But that was wrong. I see it now. At the very least, I should have told my sweet girl what went on.”
“I should have told you the truth, too, Papa,” she interrupted, unwilling to let him take all the blame. “But I wanted to protect you.”
“And I you.” He gave a bitter laugh. “So we both were punished for our silence. I deserved my punishment.” His voicebroke. “But my dear girl did not. If I’d ever dreamed, if I’d ever thought that she and Lord Nesfield knew or that he would use it against her?—”
“You couldn’t have known,” she reassured him, tears streaming down her cheeks. It amazed her that he’d held such darkness in him all that time. No wonder he’d been unable to forget his grief. And to think he’d done it for her! “Oh, Papa, I love you.”
“I love you, too, my sweet girl.”
“A touching scene,” Lord Nesfield bit out, stabbing his cane into the carpet. “But that note is no proof. How do I know you did not write it up yourself at your daughter’s request?”
Her father glared at Lord Nesfield. “You may have power and riches, my lord, but even you cannot dismiss a note written in the hand of a dead woman. Anyone who compares it to her other writing will see it was written by her. And since it’s marked with the date of her death and states quite baldly that she plans to take her own life, that’s all the proof we need.”
Lord Nesfield might be a blackguard, but he was no fool. He shook a little as he stared through his lorgnette at all the witnesses to this exchange. “The lot of you think you have won. Very well, perhaps I cannot prove murder. But that shan’t stop me from ruining you, Fairchild. The world shall hear that your wife killed herself, and you will not be able to find a living anywhere?—”
“I doubt that,” Jordan interrupted. “Here stand three people eager to give the man a living.” He came up to Lord Nesfield, lowering his voice threateningly. “As for scandal, I’m sure the world would love to hear how the Marquess of Nesfield’s daughter ran off with a barrister.”
Lord Nesfield paled.
“Or perhaps,” Jordan went on, “I should tell the world how you used the suicide of your own rector’s wife to force hisdaughter into masquerading against her will. That should make for entertaining dinner conversation.”
“You would not spread such a tale! It would shame Miss Fairchild, too!”
“Perhaps at first. But what does it matter once she’s my wife?” When Lord Nesfield paled, he added, “Yes, I intend to marry her, now more than ever. And no one will dare say anything against her around me. It might even be seen as a grand melodrama, complete with villain. Lady Dundee can provide her side of the tale, and Ian can impress his friends by claiming to have seen through the masquerade all along. And your name will be vilified every time it’s repeated.”
“Enough!” Lord Nesfield swayed where he stood, his face contorted in horror.
Emily had never seen him look so old. Or so helpless. Deprived of his daughter and any possibility of revenging himself against the man who’d taken her, he looked shriveled and pathetic. If it hadn’t been for everything he’d put her through, she could almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
“All right.” Lord Nesfield gripped his cane. “None of what was said today shall leave this room.”
“Not good enough,” Jordan growled. “I don’t want my wife forced into continuing a lie.” He cast her a quick smile, which she answered with all the love in her heart. “You see, Emily abhors lying, and I don’t wish to upset her. But you’ve widely proclaimed her to be Lady Dundee’s daughter.”
