Page 27 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
“As to that, perhaps you can shed some light. Lord Diddenton thought it a good idea for me to visit with Mr. Jarrow.”
Her cheeks heated before succumbing to a cold chill. She took a sip of the warming drink and reached for composure, training her features to indifference, hiding the fear and alarm that stiffened her.
“The magistrate.” She cleared her throat. “I see. I wondered about the sudden need to visit Risley Manor.”
Her hand trembled as she raised the glass again. She set it down without drinking and looked up at him. He was watching, waiting, trying to discompose her. He must not see that he was succeeding.
“Mr. Herbert Jarrow had an apoplexy a few months ago,” she said. “He is bedridden. His son, Mr. Edward Jarrow, has returned home and was appointed as his replacement.”
Apparently, Graeme had not thought to look into the full name of the local magistrate, though he’d surely know the name of the Lord Lieutenant for Hampshire, Lord Wellington.
“Lord Diddenton didn’t tell me that. Do you know why he thought I should speak with him?”
She pressed her lips together against a rising panic and fought for self-control.
Graeme frowned, looking not angry but concerned. Unwelcome tears pricked the back of her eyes and she blinked them away. This would not do. She was stronger than this.
Graeme leaned in. “Diddenton told me he had Jarrow search Risley Manor for a copy of the missing will.”
“The will he believes is missing.”
“Yes. Could there be any other reason for a search?”
As Blythe’s heart quickened, a loud clacking began in her head.
When Archie died, there had been whispers about poison. Mr. Herbert Jarrow, who was both magistrate and coroner, had raised his eyebrows at Blythe. The doctor’s eyes had widened and then narrowed speculatively, before he’d shaken his head and ruled that death had been due to a lung fever of several weeks’ duration.
Mr. Jarrow had decided that no inquest was needed. A toady of the worst sort, he claimed he didn’t wish to bring disrepute to the Chilcombe name.
But she’d seen the doubt in his eyes.
Murder was one crime she hadn’t committed, would never have committed. She wouldn’t raise the topic—she couldn’t bear to see suspicion stir in Graeme.
Holding her glass with two hands to control her trembling, she placed it carefully on the table and stood. “You will have to ask Jarrow or your friend, Lord Diddenton, if there was another reason for a search.”
Graeme shot to his feet and snatched her hand. “No, you don’t, my lady. Don’t run away before we speak.”
* * *
The chilly hand he held trembled. He’d seen the play of emotions, the shining eyes, the desire to dodge questions, the indignation.
The fear.
“You don’t need to be wary of me, Blythe. I won’t hurt you.”
She huffed out a breath and tried to tug her hand away.
He clamped his other hand over hers. “You’re chilled.”
It being only April and a damned wet and cold one at that, the fire screen had not gone up and a few coals burned in the grate. “Come, let us move closer to the fire.”
She shook her head. “No, I’ll be warm enough when I draw my shawl closer. After you release my hand.”
The shawl had slipped over one shoulder and dangled below the puffed-out mutton sleeve of one arm.
“Allow me.” Graeme released her and draped the covering, resisting the temptation to stroke the white column of skin above the modest neckline of her carriage gown. He turned her chair to face his before seating her and then taking his own seat.
“Shall I pour you more wine?” he asked.
