Perhaps it was. Certainly, it ought not to matter to Callie. Even if the Earl of Sinclair had not killed his wife or Alfred, she still had no reason to feel anything for him other than resentment and hatred. He had abducted her, and he was forcing her into a marriage that was unacceptable and unwanted.
“I met her, yes,” Callie agreed, biting her lip as she moved toward the lemon trees. Fat, yellow fruits hung in abundance.
The late-spring day was warm, the sun piercing the thick London fog overhead to beat through the leaden panes of the glass-domed roof. Everything in the orangery was green and lush, so very alive. Blossoming, the air perfumed with the sweet scents of blooms and exotic fruits. Filled with promise. Of all the rooms in Westmorland House, the orangery would always be one of her favorites.
She would miss it here, she realized with a sudden, stricken pang. In less than a week’s time, Westmorland House would no longer be her home. Instead, she would find herself inhabiting the threadbare townhome of the Earl of Sinclair.
“And what happened when you met her, Callie?” Jo asked, dragging her from her desolate ruminations.
“She supported what Sinclair claimed,” Callie conceded grudgingly.
If she were honest with herself, she would admit that her call upon the Duchess of Longleigh had left her more conflicted and confused than she had been prior to their brief interlude. She had wanted, so desperately, to be right about Sinclair. Because if she was wrong about him, then she had been so blinded by her grief over Alfred’s death that she had ruined an innocent man. But the duchess, who had been gracious and welcoming despite the unprecedented awkwardness of the situation, had seemed ingenuous.
“Do you believe her?” Jo asked, eyes wide, concern evident in her expression.
There was sympathy, also.
They both knew Callie was facing a lifetime of misery in a loveless marriage.
She closed her eyes for a moment, shaking her head to banish the image of the duchess, so serene and beautiful, a veritable Madonna, in her green gown with her growing belly on display. The earl had denied the child was his. But depending upon the timing of the dissolution of their arrangement, there was every possibility he was the father. The knowledge lent another layer of sorrow to her predicament.
Her eyes fluttered open again to the stark brightness of the sun and her friend’s worried visage. “I think I do believe her, Jo. She seemed honest. She certainly has no reason to lie, particularly if their association is truly at an end, as he claims.”
Jo raised a brow. “Who is she?”
Callie shook her head. For although she trusted Jo implicitly, she had promised secrecy to the Duchess of Longleigh. Or Tilly, as the earl had called her. The reminder of the intimate manner in which he had addressed his mistress—formermistress—still nettled. However, she intended to hold true to her promise.
“I am not at liberty to divulge her name,” Callie explained. “I promised her I would not tell a soul. All I can say is she was not any of the names on the list we compiled. He was discreet with her.”
Speaking that observation aloud sent another unsettling emotion through her. She refused to believe it was jealousy. It was nothing of the kind. Most assuredly not. All she could say for certain was that Sinclair was very protective of the Duchess of Longleigh.
There was that stab of something decidedly unwanted once more.
She tamped it down. Forced it to go away. Ignored it.
“I understand,” Jo said easily. “Think nothing of it. What I care most about is that you are not about to tie yourself to a murderer.”
Not long ago, she had been absolutely certain. Convinced of the suspicious timing of the deaths. Of Sinclair’s motive—the man who had been cuckolding him, the wife who had. One by one.
And yet, she was increasingly conflicted.
Increasingly unsure.
She wet her suddenly dry lips. “God help me, Jo, I do not know. Part of me wants to go on believing what I always have. The facts have not changed. Alfred died in the midst of the night in a fall down the stairs. The earl was one of the last people to see him alive, and they argued. Lady Sinclair died suddenly afterward. It makes sense that he was responsible for both deaths, and yet…”
She allowed her words to trail off.
“And yet,” Jo prompted softly.
“And yet, the d—his former mistress, told me that Lady Sinclair intentionally drank poison, that she was unwell,” Callie said, correcting herself before she revealed more than she intended. “Her death was not sudden in the sense I had supposed, nor inexplicable. If she died by her own hand, the earl could not have been responsible.”
Because of her brother, Benny’s, close ties to Scotland Yard, she had been able to discuss her suspicions with a detective. However, as far as she knew, the case had never been pursued. She had been told repeatedly that the fall had been an accident. She had assumed it had been because Sinclair was a peer of the realm. However, now, she was no longer so sure.
What if he had never been investigated because his wife had truly ended her life at her own hand? What if the previous Lady Sinclair had indeed been mad? And what if Alfred’s death had really been an accident? He could have been walking in his sleep. Or perhaps inebriated, though it was rare that he imbibed…
“But even if Lady Sinclair took her own life, the earl still could have pushed your brother down the stairs that night,” Jo pointed out, frowning.
“He could have, yes.” Callie paused for a moment while she gathered her thoughts. “His former mistress vouched for his presence there with her for the entire night, however. She does not strike me as the sort of woman who would lie about such a thing. Indeed, lying to me would serve her no purpose now.”
