The one he despised more than any other man on this earth.
“Uncle?” she said, interrupting his pacing.
He jolted, almost as if he had forgotten she was there, and turned to her. He looked tired. Drawn out. He didn’t sleep much, she knew that. Grief had gripped him and it sometimes felt like it was edging toward madness. But she had no idea what to do for him.
“What is it?” he asked.
She swallowed hard. To talk to him about this was to open a Pandora’s box. And yet she had to do it. For her own sanity.
“Do you truly believe that Tyndale killed my cousin?” she asked.
He stiffened and his gaze grew faraway. Clouded. “She drowned,” he said, the tremble heavy in his voice. “She drowned and it was his fault. He did it to her. He did it.”
Isabel gripped her hands in her lap. That was not exactly a satisfactory or even clear answer. There were so little details about Angelica’s death. Drowning, yes, she knew that. It had been labeled as a tragic accident by Society. People had clucked their tongues and murmured sympathetic noises at her family, at the duke, himself.
It was only Uncle Fenton who implied that Tyndale had more to do with it. That somehow he was at fault. But he never made it clear what he meant by the accusation. Isabel had never felt motivated to garner more details from him. He believed Tyndale responsible and that had little to do with her.
Until now. Now that she had climbed into a bed with Matthew, given herself to him entirely, the facts of that horrible night seemed far more pressing. And her uncle’s belief seemed far less acceptable. Tyndale had been nothing but gentle with her. Passionate, but kind.
It was hard to believe he was a killer, as Uncle Fenton did.
She tapped her foot beneath her gown and looked at Angelica’s portrait. They could have been no less alike. Her cousin had been fair and tall. Isabel was dark and petite. Angelica was popular and rich, Isabel came from a merchant’s family. Their only connection to Society was her uncle on her mother’s side.
She’dlikedher cousin, of course. Angelica had been a few years older and so sophisticated and beautiful. How could one not be enchanted by her?
Now she found herself looking at the portrait and wondering about her relationship with Matthew. Not just the particulars of her death, but the details of whatever life they had shared. Had Angelica kissed him as Isabel had? Had she given herself to him?
She didn’t know the answers. By the time Angelica was engaged to the man, they’d been living such different lives. Isabel was just coming out in their Society, her father was already arranging her own marriage. They barely wrote anymore, and when Angelica did her letters were filled with upper Society tidbits about people Isabel didn’t even know and vague references to her future.
She’d seemed happy enough, certainly, and Isabel hadn’t been that interested in pressing into a world she had no connection to. Now she wished she had.
“Would you mind very much if I called on Sarah?” Isabel asked.
Her uncle ceased his pacing and stared at her. He shrugged. “Whatever you like. Take the carriage, but I need it back by six. I have an appointment.”
“Certainly,” Isabel said. “Thank you, uncle.”
He ignored her and pivoted to look at the portrait of his daughter. She frowned. When he did that, he would sometimes get lost for hours. And drink. And God knew what else.
She slipped from the room and asked for the carriage. Soon she was dashing through the streets, her hands clenched in her lap, wondering how she was going to tell Sarah what had happened.
And wondering what in the world she would do next.
“The Duke of Tyndale?” Sarah gasped. “The one your uncle is convinced killed your cousin?”
“Yes,” Isabel said, sinking into the closest seat and covering her eyes. She had been at Sarah’s house for all of ten minutes and the entire story had spilled from her lips. “Oh God. I never meant to go so far with any man. But how could it be him, Sarah? How?”
“It is a mighty coincidence,” her friend said, voice trembling. “But how…was it?”
Isabel stared at her with wide eyes. Sarah had never been married—she was an innocent, and yet she seemed truly interested in details of activities that Isabel knew she shouldn’t talk about. But oh, how she needed to do just that.
“Wonderful. Erotic,” she admitted with a deep blush. “Terrifying.”
Sarah’s jaw tightened in displeasure at that last descriptor. “Because he was threatening?” she asked.
Isabel shook her head. “No, not at all. He was gentle. He was even kind.”
“I’m glad of that.” The tension seemed to bleed from Sarah’s face. “But it does beg the question ofwhyyou did it.”
