“You would cling to his name after the discoveries we have made?” he asked, his gaze searching.
She did not need to ask which name he referred to. Her husband’s. Her beloved George. Gone for nearly a year now. Tears pricked her eyes and she swallowed, tamping them down. She would not humiliate herself further before Northwich.
“I cling to what I know,” she corrected him, pleased when her voice did not waiver but instead emerged clear and cool. “The letters you showed me are not definitive proof of George’s involvement in anything criminal.”
But even as she offered the defense of him, Pippa knew deep in her heart that George had indeed conducted some sort of business dealings with the former Duke of Longleigh, who had been an evil man in his own right. The letters Northwich and her dearest friend Tilly had shown her gave credence to that. While worded vaguely, there had been a distinctly nefarious undertone. Realization had descended.
And if Longleigh had paid George to have a man falsely imprisoned, and that man was Tilly’s new husband, Mr. Adrian Hastings…
It was too impossible and terrible to allow her mind to traverse that road of thought just yet. George’s sudden death had already torn her life asunder. She had been left reeling, with a daughter to raise alone, caught in the crushing grip of her grief. If George had been responsible for Mr. Hastings’ imprisonment and suffering, she was not certain she could bear the agony such a discovery would bring with it.
“You scarcely read the letters,” Northwich told her now. “You left in haste. Had you remained and listened to reason instead of fleeing, you would have had the opportunity to understand the enormity of your husband’s sins.”
“I refuse to speak of this with you further.” She clutched the reticule more tightly and turned her attention to the window of the carriage.
She could not look upon the duke for another second. He was too cruel. Too deceptive.
More handsome than he had been years ago when she had first met him, that summer in Oxfordshire.
Pippa banished the thought. It was unworthy and disloyal. Furthermore, did not the perfect exterior form a deceptive mask behind which his inner ugliness could reign freely? George had been betrayed by this man. To think she had almost become his duchess. What had she been thinking all those years ago?
Moreover, what was she thinkingnow? She needed to fortify herself, to remain impervious.
“If you will not speak of your husband’s crimes, then perhaps you will listen,” the duke drawled, his sangfroid impeccable.
Still, she refused to look at him. “You may as well conserve your breath, Your Grace. I have no desire to hear anything you have to say, not now and not ever.”
“Pity. That was not always true between us, was it?”
His question, issued in the silken voice that had once sent trills down her spine, forced her gaze back to him. “Do not dare to speak of my past folly.”
“Why?” He raised a dark brow, continuing to idly drum his fingers. “Are you afraid you will be tempted to revisit it?”
Yes.
“No,” she spat. “Stop talking.”
Why had her coachman continued after the duke’s interference? She would have a stern discussion with him when they arrived.
“You cannot keep me from speaking any more than you could keep me from this carriage, and if I were you, I would listen, Lady Philippa. There is every chance you could be in grave danger should any of the men who aided Shaw learn of the existence of these letters.”
She ground her molars, seeking the appropriate response. There was none.
“Indeed,” she settled upon, keeping her voice carefully cold. “If you think to bully me into believing my husband was a villain by claiming my safety is at risk, you may as well hold your tongue.”
Just who did he think he was? Had he forgotten she knew what he had done? There had only been one villain in her life thus far, and he was the Duke of Northwich. He wasstillthe villain. Only, now it seemed that mayhap George had been one as well.
Her thoughts flitted to the extravagant townhome in Mayfair, the shopping excursions he had insisted she take, the trips to Paris so that she would be fitted with Worth gowns. The shocking amount of funds he had possessed at the time of his death. His largesse belied that of a third son of an earl, but prior to his death, she had always believed their comfortable lifestyle had been a result of George’s investment acumen. Now…
Now, the truth did not seem nearly as clear as it once had.
Oh George, what did you involve yourself in?
Her heart cried out in anguish, but it was not as if she could ask him. He was forever gone. All she had left of him were memories and their beloved daughter Charlotte. A tear she very much wished to keep from falling escaped, slipping down her cheek.
She kept her face averted to the window, watching as the carriage made its familiar turn from Oxford Street to Park Lane. Her vision blurred. But suddenly, there was the distinct snowy-white of a linen handkerchief on the periphery of her swirling sight. She ignored it, too proud to dash away the tear with the back of her hand or search in her reticule for one of her own.
Even if it meant allowing Northwich to witness her tears.
