“Do they? Well, he probably deserved it, like my Harold.”
“Harold?”
“My first husband. He was like a petulant child. Always wanted everything his way. Never happy to wait. Always had to butt in where he shouldn’t. He was killed by a wine cork, you know.”
Oliver sat back in disbelief. “No, I didn’t know.”
“They wanted to blame the poor footman, but I was there as and so were several others. Harold had been an impatient man. He grabbed the champagne bottle off the dear boy and popped that cork right into his own temple. He was gone from this Earthly plane before he even hit the Persian rug.” She lookedoff into the distance for a moment before redirecting her eyes to him.
Shocked, Oliver shook his head. He had never known any of this. He had just assumed that Uncle George had been her only husband. “So, then you married Uncle George?”
“George? Heaven’s no.”
“No?”
“After Harold there was Charles. He had an unfortunate reaction to something and hiccupped himself to the other side.”
Oliver shut his mouth and wondered how such a thing was even possible. “How… awful,” he replied, horrified. And yet he had to swallow a bubble of laughter which threatened to escape.
“Oh, it went on for months,” she went on. “We were all quite relieved in the end, including Charles, I suspect.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask if there are any others.”
“I think seeing three husbands to the grave is more than enough for any poor woman, don’t you?”
“I agree. So, you think Lady Blackhurst did kill her husband then?”
“If she was not found guilty then she must be… not guilty.”
Well, he supposed that made sense but…
She frowned at him. “So, are you going to marry the girl or not? Henry fancied her, you know. Were he still alive you might have had a fight on your hands. He would talk of no one else. Her dark hair, her lovely eyes, her complexion. It was quite nauseating, I have to say.”
Now it was his turn to frown. “I had no idea he and Lisbeth had met.”
“Is that her name? That is pretty.” His aunt smiled, happiness evident on her wrinkled face.
A face that was a constant in his life, the only constant he had left. He would not even entertain the thought of her not being part of his life. “What did he say?” Oliver asked.
“About what, dear?”
“About the Countess of Blackhurst?”
“Who?”
“The lady I am not marrying? The Black Raven?”
She stared at him for a moment, a look of pleasure sweeping over her face. “Are you getting married?”
He shut his eyes briefly and took a breath. “No.” Her face fell in disappointment, which made him feel like pond scum.
“Bellamy, you are confusing me on purpose. Do not be cruel. I am dying, you know.”
“You are not…”
She grabbed at his hand, which made the dog jump from his lap. “I want you to settle a small cottage on Mrs. Turner when I go. Somewhere near her daughter would be nice. I can give her a small allowance.”
“I will do my best, but, Aunt, you are not dying.”
