Go somewhere else to seek yer pleasure
With some other poor pearl.
Light flashed behind his eyes. His stomach clenched. He wanted to tear the paper to shreds as though the author himself. What shoddy rhyme. What a shoddy waste of paper and ink.
He read the note again. The words spoke of heartfelt injury. Yet he doubted this “poet” had a heart. One phrase snagged his attention: “a sweet innocent girl...” Could it be—had Lewis met and seduced one of Preston’s daughters when he lived in Barbados? Nathaniel shook his head. It didn’t make sense. Lewis had left Barbados more than two years ago. Why now? Yet here was proof before his eyes, if proof it was. He squeezed them shut. He had lost all objectivity in his determination to identify the man who shot Lewis. He hated feeling helpless, unable to do even this for his poor brother.
He decided he would show the poem to Helen. Perhaps she could make sense ofit.
Someone scratched at the morning room door. He looked up as it inched open and Margaret’s face appeared.
“Pardon me, Mr. Upchurch?”
His pulse quickened. “Yes, Nora?”
She swallowed. “May I speak with you a moment?”
He hesitated, conflicting emotions coursing through him. His determination to keep his distance warring against the irrational longing to be near her. “Very well. Come in.”
She shut the door behind her and stepped forward. “Please excuse me, but I couldn’t help overhearing a little of your conversation with your sister last night. About Mr. Saxby.”
He stared at her. Realized she had forgotten to use her accent.
“I felt I should say something.” She clasped her hands before her. “While I cannot speak to his character, I think you are wrong to accuse him of challenging your brother to a duel over Miss Lyons.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I happen to know Mr. Saxby broke things off with Miss Lyons before the... incident.”
“And how would you know that?”
She swallowed. “I overheard her tell a friend he had done so.”
“When was this?”
“The evening of the masquerade ball. In the ladies’ dressing room.”
He considered this. “He might have changed his mind.”
She faltered, “Do men... change their minds once they deem a woman unworthy?”
He studied her, pondered her words. “Not easily.”
She looked down.
“Perhaps Saxby was only upset with Miss Lyons but still loves her.” He added in a low voice, “Any man might be angry, to think the woman he loved preferred Lewis.”
She met his gaze. “She does not.”
He regarded her closely. “Doesn’t she?” Was she speaking for Miss Lyons or for herself?
She shook her head. “If she once did, she does no longer.”
He blinked, pulling his stubborn gaze from hers. “And have you a better theory? A more likely suspect?”
“I am afraid not.”
“Well—” he rose—“thank you for telling me.”
