Fear tangled inside Richard, but he kept his composure. “Wickham is no criminal. He didn’t kill Monique de Brouet,” he said with quiet vehemence. “It is true that they were once lovers, and she kept that ring as a memento of their affair. But you’ll recall that Dr. Abernathy found that broken chain? Well, whoever killed her must have seen her wearing the ring on the chain, tore it off, and put it in her hand to frame Wick—”
“And did they also place the murder weapon in your brother’s room?” The rejoinder came from the brown-haired McLeod whose arms were crossed over the wide girth of his chest. “Because you ken we found that too.”
Frost spread over Richard’s insides. “What murder weapon?”
“The missing pillow. The yellow fabric matches the fibers found by Abernathy on the victim, and the pillow is stained with blood,” Kent stated. “An hour ago, we found this pillow stuffed beneath your brother’s bed.”
Richard’s heart thudded in his ears.
“I-I don’t know anything about that damned pillow,” Wick stammered. “I didn’t put it there!”
“Then Lugo and McLeod arrived from London. With this.” Kent withdrew a leather bound journal. “After searching Monique de Brouet’s home, they found her diary, which gives a detailed account of her relationship with Wickham Murray. With this, she could have blackmailed your brother, put a dint in his plans to marry a respectable young heiress to pay off his debts.” As if reading Richard’s thoughts, Kent said in a steely voice, “Yes, I know about your arrangement with Turbett. He’s been less than discreet about his willingness to buy himself a son-in-law from a noble family.”
Richard was paralyzed by helplessness, unable to think or do anything to protect his brother.
“And now,” Kent said with quiet lethality, “we discover that your brother’s ring was found on the dead woman’s body,andyou concealed this fact from the authorities. Do you realize how guilty this all looks?”
“No,” Wick whispered, backing away. “No.”
Before Richard could stop him, Wick sprinted for his horse, panic imbuing him with uncanny speed. He mounted, spurring his horse, racing down the drive. Dimly aware of the investigators’ shouts, Richard ran for his own horse, intending to halt his brother’s desperate flight which would only make matters worse—
His boot wasn’t even in the stirrup when a fleet of constables rode up, blocking Wick’s escape route. They circled him, a black carriage pulling up behind them.
Magistrate Jones stepped out from the equipage, his black coat swirling.
“Wickham Murray,” the magistrate said in sepulchral tones, “I hereby place you under arrest for the murder of Monique de Brouet.”
Richard surged forward; Lugo and McLeod held him back.
“Calm yourself.” Lugo spoke for the first time, his accented baritone resonating with warning. “There’s nothing you can do for him now.”
“He’s mybrother. And he didn’t do any of it,” Richard shouted.
He struggled against the men’s hold, but between the pair of them, they held him fast. He could only watch as Wick was dragged from his horse, irons clamped on his wrists. One of the constables shoved Wick into the carriage.
“Wick,” he shouted at his brother’s disappearing back, “don’t panic. Just hold on. I’ll find the true killer, clear your name…”
The carriage drove off with the convoy of constables.
When the dust cleared, Lugo and McLeod released him. Panting, Richard battled hopelessness and despair. He looked for Violet—only to see that she’d been loaded into a waiting carriage with the other Kent girls, the door closing.
“Violet! Wait—”
He sprinted toward the moving conveyance only to have Kent and his partners block his path.
“From here on in, stay away from my sister,” Kent said in tones that brooked no refusal. “Go near her, and you and I will be meeting at dawn.”
Richard’s chest constricted. “But I love her—”
“I don’t give a damn. You’re a liar and a scoundrel, and I won’t have you near her.”
As Kent stalked away, flanked by his partners, Richard couldn’t argue—because the man was right. He was a scoundrel. He’d failed his brother and Violet. Standing alone once again, he watched the carriage disappear into the darkening night, carrying his dreams along with it.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Inside the carriage, Violet slumped against the squabs. Her mind swirled with worry over Wick and Richard, and her own disgrace was like an uninvited guest in the cabin, muting conversation and camaraderie. Rosie, sitting on the opposite bench with Marianne, was devoid of chatter for once, staring out into the passing darkness, and beside Vi, Polly fiddled listlessly with the strings of her reticule.
Vi could stand the oppressive silence no longer.
