Gabriel looked into her angelic blue eyes and wanted to believe her. But she had already confessed that somethinghidden in the valise was a cause for doubt. Still, she was his wife. It was his duty to protect her.
“You couldn’t have done this,” he said, daring to trace the backs of his fingers along her porcelain cheek. He shouldn’t have touched her, but he suspected he would regret it if he didn’t. It was meant as reassurance, a gesture of friendship, yet her skin was so soft it roused feelings he struggled to master.
In the silence that followed, the world seemed to shrink around him.
Justin Lovelace.
Damn the man.
A decade lost to doubt and speculation, searching, cursing, hoping, yet he had always known the truth.
Justin had not died in Cambridge.
“Has there been a formal identification?” he asked, his tone iron-hard to mask the tremor beneath. Ten years of torment could not end with a scrap of paper and no explanation. “Or are you basing your accusation on a letter found in a dead man’s pocket?”
“You know how these things are handled,” Daventry said. “When a man is found dead under your roof, suspicion falls close to home.”
Olivia pressed a hand to her brow, searching for sense in the confusion. “I returned the key to Mrs Hodge two days ago. She can testify to that. When the coroner confirms the time of death, surely my name will be cleared.”
He saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes and hated that he could do nothing to ease it. “I’ll accompany you to Bow Street. We’ll see this matter settled and have you home before nightfall.”
Home?
Studland Park was no one’s sanctuary.
Indeed, his past felt like the devil at his heels. First Miss Bourne had sought to make amends. Now, if the corpse proved to be Justin, it meant his closest friend had not been the victim of a crime but the author of a lie.
Daventry moved to the door. “We must leave at once. I’ll inform the magistrate that I’ll stand surety and see that she’s released into your custody. Then you’ll visit my Hart Street office, and we’ll try to make sense of this business together.”
Gabriel would take any help offered, so long as Daventry didn’t interfere. “I’ll ride with you. My coachman can follow behind.”
“Wait.” Olivia caught his sleeve. “I will ride alone with Mr Daventry and explain on the way.”
He tried to ignore the sharp sting of rejection. “I’m your husband. I made a vow, and I intend to keep it. You need my support, whether you want it or not.”
“Gabriel, there’s something you need to do without me. Look in the valise and examine the remaining two items. Decide then if you wish to follow.”
Her calmness disarmed him more than any plea for mercy could. He saw only honesty in her eyes, the same quiet truth he’d glimpsed when she stood beneath the lamplight at The Jade reciting her own poem with unflinching grace.
He had wanted to own her then, had believed possession might still the restlessness in him. He had wanted to own her the moment he slipped his ring onto her finger. Except that claim had been born of hunger, not honour.
“Very well. I shall follow with Kincaid.”
She turned to Mr Daventry. “I’m ready, and will have Mrs Boswell fetch my bonnet and pelisse.”
At the threshold, she paused and looked back, her warmgaze seeming to drink in the moment, as if this were farewell. “Regardless of what you decide, I shall never forget the kindness you’ve shown me. You’re the most honourable man I have ever known.”
She left him with that compliment, and his heart stumbled like a boy’s at his first dance.
He reached for the bottle of Madeira on the desk and poured a measure, the amber liquid catching the light while something darker churned in his chest.
Damn fate for ruining his wedding day. Though he shouldn’t be surprised. Happiness never lingered long in his grasp.
The valise drew his gaze. It sat upon the desk like a threat, and he dreaded what lay within. If only ignorance were bliss. But better the ugly truth than a beautiful lie.
He drank while he waited, wondering what destiny had in store. Then he gathered himself, settled into the chair, and reached for the valise.
He withdrew a brass pocket compass, its case dulled by age and the touch of countless seafaring hands. A common enough item, yet he owed it to his wife to examine it closely.
