Oliver did not like it at all. It reminded him of the countess and her withering death stare. “I hesitate to say, only that he was not himself. Dalmere said as much.”
His friend closed his eyes as if bracing for unwelcome news. “Bellamy, what did he do?”
He would be damned if he would tell him exactly what Dalmere had indicated. “That is the thing. I cannot believe my brother would even entertain such thoughts, let alone act on anything.”
“What thoughts? Bellamy!” Tony was up in a flash, pacing in front of him.
Putting his hands up in surrender Oliver said, “Only that he hated Blackhurst.”
“Well, that is not new. Everyone hated him.”
“Before he was dead, and the scheme was revealed as fake?”
“What are you intimating?” Tony had stopped his pacing now and glared at him again.
Oliver glared back. “Dalmere said that Henry wanted to kill Blackhurst. He said that my brother, my steadfast, never impulsive brother, was in love with Lisbeth. That he took offense to the way Blackhurst treated his wife.”
“And you believe this to be wrong?”
“You knew Henry from Eton. Was he the type to challenge someone to a duel? I mean, yes, he did invest in the speculation,which was also out of character, but he was not usually emotionally reckless.”
Tony took up position by the window and peered out. “No, he was not. However, we cannot ignore the possibility.”
“Lisbeth said they met only once.”
“Debatable. We cannot rule out some kind of arrangement between them.”
Oliver wiped a hand down his face. “I don’t know what I believe.” Should he tell Tony about the sketches? That would only make his brother look guilty, and deep down in his gut Oliver knew his brother was not a killer.
But did he know the same when it came to Lisbeth?
Chapter Eleven
Blurred faces. Far-offvoices taunting. Dreadful names, chanted at her as she descended from the prison carriage for her trial. Hurtful words, as clear and sharp as a razor’s blade, cutting her over and over.
She had not expected this reception. She had not been prepared to be pelted from all angles by rotten fruit, have her hair pulled, and her gown ripped. Who were these people and why did they hate her so?
The crowd was a cresting wave of hatred, looming all around her, ready to crash down and drown her. Shouts of, “hang her, hang her,” echoed off the stone walls as she passed on her way into the courtroom. “Murderous bitch, sinner, pox-ridden harlot!”
Lisbeth looked desperately for one friendly face, one set of sympathetic eyes in the crowded courtroom. It made her dizzy. Was there not one person in all of London who cared if she was innocent?
Nathaniel’s family was there, united in a group of vile looks. These people had been her family, had loved her as a sister, or so she had thought. They knew her; how could they believe she had killed her husband? Where was her father, her grandmother, her sister? Was there no one here who loved her?…
Lisbeth blinked furiously upon waking. Tears fell in relentless streams down her cheeks to stain her pillow. She hadlearned long ago, it was better to weep in the privacy of her room than to let others see her weakness.
It was always just before dawn that she felt the most alone. Surrounded by all the worldly goods she could ever want, and yet her life was empty—meaningless. There was nothing and no one to love her. She could hardly expect less when she had ceased to even like herself.
It wasn’t until she was undressing for bed last night she realized Bellamy, dratted man, had stolen her pistol. Not that a pistol could protect her from him. Not any longer. Oliver Whitely had shaken her to her core, and she had not a clue how she should feel about it.
She had to concede everything that had happened last evening she’d deserved. Acting like a Bedlamite over a silly piece of paper was bad enough, but to faint over a watch? A watch she hated because it had belonged to Nathaniel. She only carried it to keep her focused on her task of proving her innocence.
Having decided she must stop this destructive behavior she had triednotto write her schedule for the next day. But at four this morning, candle in hand, she had found herself heading for her desk in the library to do just that. Some habits were just too hard to break.
She had avoided Nathaniel’s study like the plague. His room was more than the place where he had died. Dark shadows had haunted it long before the ghost of her husband. It had been his private domain, his place of secrets, as well as his place of hatred. She knew it was silly to be scared of a room, but shewasafraid. Afraid of the memories there, the nightmares they evoked, and her weakness. More than anything she was terrified of what she might find in there about herself.
She could hardly read her own handwriting the first time she had attempted to write out her schedule. Her hand had shaken so violently it was amazing the scribble even resembled words.
Perhaps a few more days grace, then I might be strong enough to venture where devils danced,she’d thought.
