“The Earl of Hardford,” she explained. “He came to Hardford early last month. He— I— We—”
Hugo, seated next to her again, took her hand and drew it firmly through his arm before covering it with his own. Vincent on her other side patted her thigh and then gripped it.
“I told him my story,” she said. “But he was not satisfied. He knew there was something missing and he asked again. It was the night before I came here. It was impossible not to tell him. So I did.”
She tipped back her head, her eyes still closed—and the back of her head bumped against Flavian’s chest. He had come up behind her, and his hands came to rest on her shoulders. Her free hand was suddenly in a strong grip. Ralph was down on his haunches in front of her.
And she realized she was wailing, a high, keening sound that did not seem to be issuing from her but must be.
George’s voice was calm and soft—ah, what memories it evoked!
“Whatdid you tell him, Imogen?” he asked.
“That I k-k-killed Dicky,” she wailed.
“And what else?”
“What else is there to tell?” She hardly recognized her own voice. “Thereisnothing else. In the whole wide world, there is only that. I killed him.”
“Imogen.” It was Ben’s voice this time. “There is a great deal more than just that.”
“No, there is n-n-not,” she said, shaking her head from side to side. “There isonlythat.”
From behind her, Flavian cupped her jaw in his hands.
“One must ask,” he said with his sighing, rather bored voice—it was deliberate, she thought, to try to soothe her with normality. “Does this Hardford fellowloveyou, perchance, Imogen? Or does he merely like to play heavy-handed lord of the manor?”
She opened her eyes and lifted her head. “It does not matter,” she said. “Oh, but he is not heavy-handed or dictatorial or obnoxious, though I thought he was at first.”
“And do you perchance lovehim?” Flavian asked.
“I cannot,” she said, drawing her hands free of Ralph’s and Hugo’s arms and setting the heels of them against her eyes. “Iwillnot. You all know that.”
Ralph and Flavian resumed their seats. Hugo set an arm about her shoulders and drew her head down onto his shoulder.
“Why are you so upset?” he asked. “I mean, why are yousoupset?”
“Someone else betrayed him,” she said. “Dicky, I mean. He was never meant to come home alive from the Peninsula. Someone betrayed him to the French.”
And she poured out the story of the smugglers and Mr. Ratchett and James Mawgan and her husband’s valet and how Percy had confronted them all when no one else would since Dicky’s time and had pursued the matter recklessly and relentlessly until he had exposed the truth and the two men had been arrested and were awaiting trial. She had no idea if her story made sense.
Vincent was still patting her thigh when she had finished.
“I came here early,” she said, lowering her hands to her lap. “I needed to feel safe. I needed to— I needed—”
“Us,” Flavian said. “We all need us too, Imogen. You can rest here. We all can.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “But it must be horribly late. I should let you all go to bed. I am exhausted if you are not. Thank you. I do love you all.”
George, smiling gently, was holding out a hand for hers.
“Come,” he said. “I’ll see you to your door. You know you canalwayscome here, Imogen.”
“I also know,” she said, getting to her feet, “that I must live my own life. And Iwill. This is just a brief setback, like Vincent’s panic attacks. Good night.”
She squared her shoulders and looked at them each in turn. She did not even notice that none of them was making a move to follow her from the room.
***
