“What has happened?” she asked in a breathless whisper.
A colorfully garbed dandy she did not recognize tried to block her view. “There appears to have been an accident.”
“Who is it?” another man cried out. “Do you know who has been hurt?”
“The Marchioness of Dardington,” a third man replied. “Her husband is with her.”
No!Meredith began shaking with a terror that ran all the way down her body to her toes. For an instant she could not move, could not think, could not feel. Then, with strength born of primal fear, Meredith pushed her way through the men ringing the edge of crowd.
She dimly felt the touch of a hand trying to hold her back, but she shook it forcefully off and emerged but a few feet from a waking nightmare.
A moan escaped her lips. There, on the edge of the grass near the Grecian temple lay a body. A female body, clothed in lavender. It was not moving.
Meredith swallowed a shriek and fought to control her breathing. Stumbling forward, she came closer to the inert form. There were three men surrounding the body.
They were as still and silent as the form that lay at their feet.
Meredith struggled to master her emotions. Lavinia needed her to be calm. An hysterical female would only be in the way. But a cool, composed lady would be an asset. Resolutely she stepped forward. Saying nothing, the three men allowed her to pass.
Trevor Morely was kneeling beside his wife. His head was bent, yet Meredith could almost feel his whole being vibrating with suppressed emotion.
Her lips pressed stubbornly tight, Meredith knelt on the other side of Lavinia, facing the marquess. She tried to gaze down at the body, but could not bring herself to look. She did notice, however, that the marquess held his wife’s hand gently in his own.
They stayed that way for what seemed like an eternity. At last, he raised his head, but he did not release his wife’s hand.
Meredith watched him in silence, the muscle flexing and unflexing in his jaw. He said nothing as the speculative conversation surrounding them grew in volume and intensity.
“What a tragic accident! Her neck’s broken. She must have tripped and fell and fatally injured herself when she hit the ground.”
“Perhaps she was frightened by something,” a male voice muttered. “Why else would she have screamed?”
“A good fright would explain both the scream and the fall,” the third man interjected. “It might have been an animal. But what?”
“There are no wild beasts in the duchess’s folly. It wouldn’t be allowed.”
The speculation and muttering continued, but Meredith turned her attention away from it.
She looked again at the marquess and the grief inside her returned, stifling in its intensity. His face mirrored her own emotions of shock and pain, and she could see the faint trace of tears shimmering in his eyes.
Trembling, Meredith reached out to offer him comfort, but her hand faltered. Instead she grasped the fringed edge of the shawl that now draped Lavinia’s lifeless body.
Mesmerized, she slowly moved her hand, gliding it along the delicate silk, remembering how her friend had not wanted to wear the garment, saying there was no need.
The baby!Stillness gripped her as she recalled Lavinia’s joking and laughing about being extra careful of her health.Merciful God, that tender little life was gone now too.
Tearful, Meredith raised her chin. The marquess was no longer staring at his wife but looking straight at her. She couldn’t avoid his eyes.
Questioning, hollow, lifeless.
Meredith’s composure shattered. She lifted the edge of the shawl and stuffed it in her mouth, struggling to quiet her heaving sobs.
From the covering of trees, the man watched in silence. His breath blew out in panting gasps. His heart raced with a strange rush of exhilaration. He pressed his damp palms together and cast an approving glance at the scene before him.
He was close enough to hear their conversation, their speculation. He had done his job well. They were convinced it was an accident, a cruel stroke of fate. It had been difficult, but he had not demonstrated any savagery when he performed his task. The young woman barely had time to be frightened before his hands had stolen around her neck.
Her soft eyes had widened in surprise, then panic and finally pain. She had lost consciousness quickly and it had taken only a quick snap to break her neck.
For him, killing was a compulsion. A necessity, like food and water and air for other men. He had long ago ceased trying to understand it, for it had always been a part of him, cleverly and successfully concealed from the world.
