Page 75 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
She’d been allowed that bit of propriety. Watching him die had been almost as painful as observing the way he’d lived in the years since she’d departed Risley Manor. He’d escaped the wretched mess he’d created, and though she’d felt some relief at his passing, she knew he’d left a bigger wretched mess that she needed to untangle.
“How did you come to find the house in Soho that Lord Chilcombe said you visited this morning?” Jarrow asked, bringing her back to the matter at hand.
“Through my brother. I haven’t had a chance to discuss the matter with Will, Captain Lynford. I asked him to make inquiries for me. As a military officer home on leave he would have access to the sort of haunts where one might look for her. He’d prepared a letter to be sent to me in Hampshire which I read when we arrived in London last night, and I have not yet had a chance to speak at length with him. He…” She glanced at Graeme. “He was out and about last night, following Lord Vernon and even drinking with him at one of his hells. Will was deathly ill this morning and unable to join us in the drawing room.”
Graeme’s mouth tightened. “I helped him into bed last night and he mentioned Vernon’s name. Did he tamper with Will’s drink?”
“So I believe. It would not be out of character.” She suppressed a shudder. She’d experienced what Lord Vernon was capable of. “In his letter, my brother referenced a house in Soho, and I remembered the mention some years ago of a Soho address for Lunetta. Number 13, Bridie Lane. The steward had occasion to send correspondence to that address for her.”
“You have an excellent memory, Lady Chilcombe,” Mr. Jarrow said.
“You are skeptical?” She pushed down a rising panic. Mr. Jarrow might now begin to interrogate her more forcefully. “It was to me a distinctive address.”
Graeme stepped in and told them about the woman they’d met and what she’d said, giving her time to calm herself, as if he sensed her disquiet.
“Was it your intention to pay money for the will, Lady Chilcombe, if that is in fact what she had?” Jarrow asked.
Blythe released a slow breath. Time to dance.
“Five hundred pounds is a great deal of money,” she said. “I couldn’t easily obtain that much. Perhaps not at all. But a smaller amount? Yes, it would be tempting to lay hands on that will.”
“And do what?”
She chewed her lip, thinking. Give them what they would expect.
“It would be tempting to destroy it, if I am being honest. However, if she sold it to Diddenton and he presented it to the court… well…” She tapped her chin, thinking. “Might such a sale be an illegal act on her part? Might she be questioned, and might her testimony cast scandal on the marquess that would persuade the court to dismiss his claim? Perhaps, in the end, the suit I will have to file against Lord Chilcombe for his predecessor’s violation of the marriage contract would not be required.”
Graeme reached for her hand and squeezed it. “You know, my dear, whatever happens you will not have to take me to court.”
Mr. Morley’s lips quirked and Mr. Jarrow studied his cup of tea until the embarrassing moment passed.
Graeme, however, still had hold of her hand. She stopped resisting and left it there.
“I believe Lunetta might be dead,” she continued. “The letter might have been written by the other woman at Bridie Lane. Whether she has the will, I don’t know.”
“Have you read the will, Lady Chilcombe?” Mr. Jarrow asked.
“I have read the copy Lord Diddenton submitted to the court.”
That was true.
“And the day your late husband signed it. Did you see it then?”
Ah, now she must dance with a bit more vigor. Though she wasn’t such an actress that she could readily call up tears, she was chagrined to sense moisture welling.
She closed her eyes a moment, reliving the horrible memories of that morning. “I received an urgent summons to Risley Manor and I went. Archie—Lord Chilcombe—announced to me that he had changed his will. He apologized and told me that Bluebelle Lodge would go to Lord Diddenton to settle a land dispute.”
She’d been both livid with anger and terrified.
“He was so… so intoxicated or drugged, he rambled. He’d simplified things, I remember him saying that. There’d be no dribs and drabs of money going to various retainers was how he said it. Imagine? Loyal servants who’d been with the family for years, who might expect to be remembered with a few pounds upon the earl’s death, and who had been provided for in the will Archie signed at the time of our marriage.”
She squeezed her eyes closed on a memory of Archie, half reclining in bed, his blond hair limp and dirty, his skin yellow, his nightshirt open to reveal a haggard, bony chest. He’d been a shockingly handsome young man, an Adonis, but no more.
“By then, he was slurring his words and telling me I would be taken care of. He passed out before he explained more.”
A handkerchief appeared in her free hand. She took in a long breath and composed herself before going on.
“Archie did not show me the will. Later, though, after his death, Mr. Stockwell, one of the solicitor’s clerks and I made an effort in good faith to find it before Mr. Fleming proceeded with matters. We searched high and low for it. Everywhere, to no avail. That was before Lord Diddenton instructed your father to repeat the search.”
