Nate gave a sigh of relief. The colonel’s insensitivity hadn’t helped the situation at all.
“Oh dear. I’m afraid my nerves cannot tolerate this.” Lady Matheson sank onto the settee once the colonel had left the room.
“Shall I pour you a glass of port, or something stronger, perhaps?”
“Yes, do. Please. A little brandy to steady my nerves.”
“Certainly, I think we can all use a bit of that.” Nate turned back to the drinks cabinet and poured a second brandy, which he then took to Lady Matheson. “There you go. It’s a good, strong cognac, and just the thing to help calm you.”
Lady Matheson accepted the glass with a shaking hand. Then, much to Nate’s surprise, she swallowed its contents in one gulp. “Oh yes,” she said, putting a hand to her throat. “That’s lovely and warm. I think I’ll have another.”
Nate hesitated. She’d just drained a quarter glass of potent cognac without so much as a splutter or a tearing eye. The only other woman he’d seen drink like that had been his former betrothed, Helen Morley—now the Countess of Luxton—and she’d turned out to be aheartless creature. Like Lady Matheson, Helen was an exceptionally beautiful woman, and she’d used her beauty to climb the social ladder. Starting with himself, she’d wormed her way into society, and then, she’d discarded him for someone old enough to be her grandfather, but that had not mattered to her, as the gentleman was richer than Croesus. And that begged the question, what had a wealthy society widow wanted with a poor poet? If Lady Matheson were lonely, surely, she would have no problem finding a new husband.
“Mr. Squires”—Lady Matheson stood and held out her glass—“shall I pour the brandy myself?”
“No, of course not.” Nate snapped out of his reverie and took the glass from the lady with a smile. When he returned it to her, he wondered if she would swallow the brandy in one gulp again, but she did not. Instead, she wrapped her gloved hands around the glass as if it were her lifeline and stared into it.
“Why don’t you sit down again, Lady Matheson?” Nate said.
She looked up at him. Her exquisite amber eyes mirrored the color of the liquid in her glass. “It cannot be him,” she said. “Say it’s not George.” Then her knees buckled, and Nate lunged forward, catching her by her arm before she fell. Luckily, she managed to hold onto her glass, but brandy splashed onto her navy-blue dress. She didn’t seem to notice. Nate helped her into a chair. She sank into the plush, pale blue armchair and cradled her forehead as if she were too weary to lift her head.
Nate left her to her thoughts and went to fetch his own brandy. He stood by the decanter and sipped his drink, thinking he would need to pour a few more when the others arrived, and checked the contents of the decanter to ascertain if there would be enough.
He glanced at Lady Matheson, who had not moved. He wondered if she was truly upset or if she was being melodramatic. Helen had always been melodramatic, either for attention or to fool those around her. Her feelings were seldom honest. Was Lady Matheson the same?
It irked him that Helen’s dishonesty had made him skeptical of most everyone he met. She’d distorted his reality. He would put her right out of his mind if it weren’t for their son. His heart contracted. He still couldn’t believe he had a son—a boy Helen had sworn he’d never see again. She liked to punish those who refused to do her bidding or rejected her demands.
Nate inhaled, but the heaviness in his chest did not subside. Helen had cut out his heart just as truly as the murderer had done to Otis. Whoever killed Otis wanted to make a point. They wanted to hurt him or someone dear to him—someone who’d loved him. Nate’s mind immediately jumped to Bridget. She’d had great affection for the poet, though she’d only known him for two months. He moved to the window and peered out at the garden. Perhaps, he should have waited in the village for her. If there was a vengeful lunatic on the loose, no one associated with Otis was safe.
“I’ve given them all five minutes to gather in the drawing room,” the colonel’s voice sounded behind Nate as the man marched into the drawing room. “But I daresay they might be here sooner. They seem quite eager for details about the death.”
Nate turned away from the window, and Lady Matheson stood up again. He noticed that her glass was empty once more. “Oh, please don’t make me wait for the others. I must know now. How did George die? Is it as the colonel said? Did someone…did the killer cut out his…heart?” she heaved rather than spoke the last word.
“I’m afraid the colonel is correct,” Nate said gently.
“Of course I’m correct,” the colonel snapped. “I am never wrong.”
Lady Matheson’s cheeks paled, and she slumped back onto her chair as if she had no more strength left in her body. “No, it cannot be. I simply cannot believe it. It’s a mistake, I tell you. Why, I saw him just last night.”
“Did you?” Nate swallowed. There’d be no distancing Villa De Lacey from this murder now. He went and sat across from thewoman. “What time was that?”
The corners of Lady Matheson’s lips curved into a dreamy smile. “It was rather late. The moon was out, so we walked by the lake.” She circled the rim of her empty glass with her gloved finger, the slight smile still on her lips as though she was relishing the memory of her evening with Mr. Otis. “It’s beautiful under the moonlight, you know.”
“Yes, I do,” Nate said.
“And the stars. Oh, my goodness, the stars! George loved to gaze at the stars.”
“Are you saying that you and Mr. Otis were out alone in the middle of the night?” the colonel asked.
“And why shouldn’t we have been?” Lady Matheson straightened her back. “He wrote me the most beautiful poem.”
“It hardly seems appropriate,” the colonel sputtered. “A lady of your standing mingling with that…”
“Continue,” Lady Matheson said coldly.
“Ruffian,” Colonel Kendall said.
“How dare you!” Lady Matheson snarled. “Mr. Otis was a talented young gentleman, well versed in the classics. And he had a gentle soul. You should know better than to speak ill of a man who is no longer here to defend his person.”
