“Lately, I read them and think only of you.” He wished they were home in bed—her heat, her breath, her closeness replacing the chill of this centuries-old mausoleum and its ghostly echoes.
She smiled like she wanted to believe him, but he saw her silent misgivings and hoped time would erase them.
The butler reappeared, a middle-aged man Gabriel barely knew. “Mrs Culpepper has agreed to see you, my lord. But only for a few minutes. I’m afraid her strength is slowly ebbing.”
“We’ll be mindful of her frailty,” he said.
“We?” The butler hesitated. “Mrs Culpepper will see only you.”
Gabriel stiffened. The woman sought to control everyone and bore some blame for Miss Bourne accepting the bribe. Once, he might have cursed her to Hades. Now he felt like kneeling at her bedside and offering a prayer of thanks.
“I insist my wife accompany me.”
“My mistress was quite adamant, my lord.”
Olivia touched his arm. “I’ll wait in the carriage. It’s important you speak to her, to ensure there are no misunderstandings.”
He covered her hand with his, reluctant to release her. “Not without you.”
“We need to put the past behind us. Speak to her. Make your intentions clear. Let there be no more confusion.”
Despite his grumble of frustration, he knew she was right. He escorted her to the carriage before returning to the house and following the butler’s trudge upstairs.
“Is Miss Bourne at home?” he asked, not because he gave a damn, but because it was odd she hadn’t swept into the hall and made a grand entrance.
“Not at present, my lord.”
He was led into Mrs Culpepper’s dark, curtained chamber, the air laced with the cloying scent of sickness and medicine. The sixty-year-old woman sat propped against a snowy mound of pillows, some spotted with blood, her grey hair tucked beneath an ugly yellow turban.
She raised a gaunt hand, beckoning him to the foot of the poster bed. “Come closer. It’s my heart that’s failing, not my lungs. You’ll not catch scarlet fever.” She waved the butler away. “Close the door on your way out, Jenkins.”
After a brief coughing fit that had Gabriel reaching for the glass of herbal infusion on the nightstand, Mrs Culpepper sipped and found her voice again.
“Well? Is it true? Did you marry the chit?”
He ground his teeth so hard he might chip one. “I did, and you’ll speak of my wife with more respect.”
Mrs Culpepper’s weak sneer was barely audible. “Why? You married her to spite Katherine, to prove you’ve not been pining for her all these years.”
“Pining?” He scoffed. “All I’ve ever wanted are answers.” An end to the constant questions. An explanation for all the lies.
“Who told you my niece had returned to England?”
“No one. I made the discovery when she called at Studland Park.” A wraith in the night, so confident she would earn his forgiveness. “And I married for many reasons, none as petty as spite.”
Mrs Culpepper drew a stained handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her lips. “There’s talk you married a wanted felon.”
“That’s a lie. I’m her alibi.” Someone had betrayed them. In his own damned house. “As for my visit, tell your niece I’ll have her hauled before the assizes for trespass if I so much as see her shadow on my land again.”
Mrs Culpepper’s mocking snort dissolved into a cough. When she finally spoke, she lifted her chin, her tone clipped and sour.
“Perhaps you’ve forgotten the night I caught you kissing her in the garden. I’ve never seen a man so besotted. Such love cannot be supplanted. How long before you send your wife to live at Eaton Chase, so you may court the woman you truly desire?”
The words should have cut deep.
They should have stirred an old ache.
They did neither.
