This would mean she would know exactly who had invested with her husband. How much they invested and how much she would have to pay back. Who had the most to lose and who had the most motive to kill Nathaniel. She should be overjoyed, but instead she felt anxious and unsure. These two books changed everything. They had the potential to destroy all she had worked for or give her all she needed to finally put this horrible mess behind her. She needed time to read them, think things through.
The thought of being able to pay back all the investors should be a happy one. It wasn’t that she worried over her own finances. She led a fairly simple life and gave herself a modest allowance. She paid her staff well and on time every quarter and she dined sufficiently for one who lived mostly on her own.
She ran her finger down the list. Oliver’s brother was there, so were Dalmere and several other men she had met this season, thanks to Bellamy. There were a few on the list she had not known to be investors. Perhaps tomorrow, while watching the balloon ascension she could hint that she knew Dalmere was an investor and question him on it. Should she tell Dalmere or Oliver about the ledger? First, she must be sure it was for the right speculation, for her husband had been dealing in investments for many years. When she knew for sure, then she would tell him.
She turned then to the other book. The journal. What would it say? Did she want to know? She could skip the parts about her and just look for entries where he may have spoken about the speculation. She already knew he had despised her; it was no use upsetting herself further by knowing exactly how much. Lisbeth knew, despite her reasoning not to read about herself in the journal, she would read every damning word Nathaniel wrote in that infernal journal.
She should be celebrating; these two books could contain the evidence she needed to prove her innocence. She could be holding in her hands the ticket to her salvation or the name of the killer.
She looked up. Both Mr. and Mrs. Rollands were waiting for her to say something.
“Thank you for bringing these to my notice. I will read them and decide what is to be done with them.”
“Are you sure you want to read them?” Rollands asked.
She knew he was trying to tell her it was all right to ignore them if she wished. How could she? They were hard and real in her hands.
“Where were they hidden?” she asked her housekeeper.
“They were sticking out from beside one of the bookshelves. I only noticed because I was putting the other books away on the shelf.”
Lisbeth gave Mrs. Rollands a reassuring smile. “You did the right thing, bringing them to me. However good or bad the contents may be. You can both go to bed now.”
She waited until both of them had left the room and then she opened the journal to a random page towards the back.
My preparations are nearly complete. I have made good my finances and prepare to disappear.
Lisbeth gasped. He had planned to run away and take everyone’s money with him? How typical. She shouldn’t have been so surprised.
I will be rich and live like a king! Those fools will never find me.
Lisbeth slammed the book shut and let it drop to the floor like it had burned her fingers. He really had planned it to the letter. What had he planned to do with her? Leave her to bear the consequences? Probably. Take her with him? No, why would he bother to do that? She was nothing but a burden to him. Then why did he leave her all the money? It still didn’t make any sense. Maybe he had planned for her to be blamed for his disappearance. It was quite likely he had planned to empty his coffers and then run off to destinations unknown, leaving her with his mess. Perhaps the journal would tell her, but she felt sick to her stomach at the thought of reading it.
Lisbeth picked up the ledger and, reluctantly, the journal and went upstairs to bed. Tomorrow she would decide what to do.
Chapter Seventeen
From the journal of Nathaniel Carslake, Earl of Blackhurst.
July, 1813…My wife is like a timid mouse. I hate her. She is so annoyingly weak. There is no fight in her. She bores me. Even when I bed her she makes not a sound. I slap her about but it is not the same as when she used to fight me…
January, 1814…I have lost my son, my heir. I am furious she has given me a weakling son. A weakling like his mother. I am glad he did not grow up to be like her. Insipid and stupid. She caterwauls from dawn ’til dusk grating on my nerves. I dragged her by the hair into our room and threw her against the wall yelling at her to shut up but she kept on crying…
July, 1814…I have tired of London. I have tired of the stupidity of my peers. I have a plan that will set me up for life. It is so cunningly clever even I am in awe of my brilliance. Those fools will never know until it is too late…
Lisbeth closed the journal and placed it on the table next to her. Tears threatened to stream down her cheeks in rivers of misery. She would not let them flow, would not give Nathaniel the satisfaction, even if he was dead. The fire was roaring in front of her but inside she was colder than a winter blizzard.
If nothing else, the journal proved that Nathaniel had planned to fleece his friends and run off to the Americas tobuild a new life there—without her. His last entry was two days before his murder and did not mention any suspicions regarding his wellbeing. It also proved that she had not been part of the speculation. This much, at least, was good news, but how could she show this to Oliver—to anyone? He would read it and think her a woman who had let her husband turn her into a wraith, who gave up on herself. The truth was she had. She had been that weak woman. A sad excuse, but at the same time it was the only way she knew how to survive him.
What surprised her about his scribbled, spiteful words was the anger she’d felt at herself. How could she have let it become so bad? Thankfully, she was not that same woman now. Lisbeth had lived through a trial, incarceration, and the torment of the last two years as the Black Raven and was stronger for it. Stronger than she’d ever been. If nothing else came of all of this she knew one thing—she would never let a man rule her as Nathaniel had.
However, a decision had to be made about the dreaded diary. Could she let his diary and all the vile truth it contained be read by others? She felt ill at the thought. It did not paint a pretty picture of either her or Blackhurst. Letting the diary go public just to prove she wasn’t involved in Blackhurst’s plans would only cause humiliation and more scandal for her family. She had just reunited with her sister and grandmother; she couldn’t bear to lose them again. After all, it didn’t help her prove she hadn’t killed him. If anything it would strengthen the possibility. For who had more motive than she? It would end up doing more harm than good. Lisbeth decided she would keep the diary to herself, for now.
*
“Eh?” Aunt Petunialooked up from the lap blanket Mrs. Grey had just put around her legs. “Virginia Marsdon, Lady Fortesque? I remember her well. She was second cousin to my first husband… or was it first cousin to my second husband? Younger than I, of course, but I could out dance her any day of the week. I was quite the dancer in my day, you know.”
Oliver took his seat opposite her in the carriage. “I bet you were.”
