Sybil’s eyes flashed. “I don’t need your pity. I got something better:revenge. Before Daltry eloped with you, he paid me a final visit. Here in this shabby apartment that he used for our rendezvous. He crowed about finding a pretty young thing to breed his heirs—and that was when I knew I had to act.”
“Because you didn’t want his fortune to go to his heirs?”
“Because if he married you and had heirs, then Peter wouldn’t inherit.”
“Peter… you mean Mr. Theale?” Rosie said in surprise. “Is he involved?”
“Peter knows nothing of what I’ve done. We are in love, and he is a good man, but he cannot marry me because of his debts. He has been forced to consider offering for a merchant’s daughter—and I couldn’t let it happen.” Sybil’s lips pressed together. “I couldn’t allow Daltry to stand in the way of my happiness again. So I made the trip to Gretna and surprised him.”
More pieces fell into place. “He was with you… before our wedding night?”
Sybil gave a grim nod. “It didn’t take much to entice him. Daltry was nothing if not a lecher and a vain one to boot. He actually believed my Banbury Tale that I’d followed him like a lovesick fool, not wanting to let him go. We tupped, and afterward, we toasted, and he drank the wine I’d laced with foxglove. Then he went back to you, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
Seeing the demented gleam in Sybil’s eyes, Rosie prayed that Caster had received her note.I have to keep Sybil talking until he arrives.
“But it isn’t quite,” she said. “Because after you killed Daltry, you also tried to kill me.”
“I do regret that.” Sybil stood. “Again, the blame lies at Daltry’s door. He was the one who altered the terms of the will, leaving his fortune to you instead of Peter. This left Peter in direr straits than ever—unless you remarried or met an early demise. I couldn’t wait for the former to happen: Peter was too close to offering for that tea merchant’s girl. So I had to get rid of you.”
Getridof me—as if that were nothing more than tossing out an old slipper!
Rosie quelled a shudder. “Did you hire the cutthroat to assassinate me? Did you kill him too?”
“When I learned the contents of Daltry’s will, I panicked. Given that I’d poisoned Daltry, I didn’t want to poison you for fear of rousing suspicion. So I hired the cutthroat. It turned out to be a mistake for he demanded full payment despite his failure to complete his task. Since I couldn’t trust him not to talk, I had to take care of him too.” Sybil shrugged. “All it took was a bottle of cognac laced with foxglove.”
Shaking her head, Rosie said, “Do you think Mr. Theale will want to be with you knowing what you’ve done?”
“Peter will never find out the cost for our happiness. Being with him and having my freedom are worth any price.” Sybil’s face blazed with righteous conviction. “Daltry deserved what he got for making me suffer. Finally, I will have my happy ending.”
“I’m sorry for your suffering,” Rosie said quietly, “but that does not give you the right to cause suffering to others. I’ve done nothing to you.”
Sybil’s lips pressed together, and Rosie felt a spark of hope—which was snuffed out when the other came closer, waving the gun at her. “Time to drink your tea.”
What kind of fool does she think I am?
“I’ll not drink your poison,” Rosie declared.
“You’d rather die with a bullet in your brain?” The gun’s cold muzzle dug into Rosie’s left temple. “Because those are your choices.”
She had a third choice—and now was the time to act upon it. If Sybil truly meant to shoot her, she’d have done so already. No, the otherwantedher to die from poisoning: a cleaner method of murder and one that would be more difficult to prove.
Over my dead body.Hopefully, not literally.
“All right,” she said quickly. “I’ll drink the tea. But I can’t very well do so with a pistol embedded in my head.”
While the pressure on her temple eased, Sybil remained at her side, keeping the weapon trained on her. “Be quick about it.”
Rosie reached for the tea cup with one hand, the other slipping beneath the table, into the hidden pocket of her skirts. She gripped the handle of the loaded pistol.
She paused, the cup’s rim inches from her lips. “May I have some sugar? I like my tea sweet.”
“Stop stalling,” Sybil snapped, “or I’ll just shoot you and be done with it.”
Rosie whipped out her pistol, had a moment to aim for Sybil’s shoulder before squeezing the trigger. The blast and Sybil’s scream filled the room. Rosie stumbled backward from the table, clutching the gun.
The door flew open. At the sight of the large figure filling the doorway, a dizzying wave of relief crashed through her.
“Andrew,” she breathed.
