“Yes, it was lying under the bed, blade out. I don’t know what a lady would be doing with a knife,” Miss Jennings spoke in a faint whisper as if she were afraid to say the words out loud.
Bridget walked around the bed to where Miss Jennings stood and picked up the knife. She inspected it closely, turning it around and looking at both sides of the blade and handle, but what she was looking for, she did not know. And then she saw something—two tiny flecks of bright green on the tip of the blade—only visible when she squinted and held the blade close to her face.
“Do be careful,” she heard Miss Jennings’s faint voice behind her. “You might poke yourself in the eye.”
“Can you see this?” She pointed to the green flecks on the tip of the blade.
Miss Jennings squinted at the blade but declined to get too close. “I don’t see anything.”
“There’s a little bit of green on the tip of the blade. I do believe it’s spots of paint.”
“Paint?” Miss Jennings blinked in surprise.
“Yes. I think that this knife was used to slash Mr. Angert’s paintings. Perhaps, he’d done a bit of touch-up on one of them and it wasn’t completely dry, so a spot of paint got onto the knife.”
“You…you think Lady Matheson destroyed Mr. Angert’s paintings?”
“I do,” Bridget said. “It all makes perfect sense. Those paintings were horrible. They exploited George’s death. Anyone who cared about George would have been highly offended by them. I know I was. The pain of losing a loved one, be it a friend or family member, is brutal. It can make you want to destroy things.”
The agony Bridget had felt upon learning that her papa had died by his own hand and that his body had been desecrated and buried at a crossroads came flooding back to her. She would have destroyed everything in her path had she not taken herself out of the house and screamed her throat raw in the open air.
“Miss De Lacey?” Miss Jennings backed away from Bridget, her eyes fixed on the knife.
Bridget looked down at her hand and realized that she was squeezing the knife so hard her knuckles had turned white.
*
“You need totrust me,” Nate pleaded with Helen. “I cannot give you any details, but I’m telling you that it might not be safe here, and I think it’s best you take Henry back to Scotland.”
“Are you really that threatened by my having a little fun with Rupert?” The corners of Helen’s pink lips curved into a smile.
Nate squeezed the back of his neck, which felt as though it might snap from tension. Helen truly would not give up the fantasy that he might still have an interest in her. He cared about his son, and that was all. “I told you that Rupert may not be trustworthy. We don’t know anything about him, and there may be a killer on the loose.”
“You said Lady Matheson died from a bad heart, and that poet’s killer is in jail, so what’s to fear?”
Nate massaged his jaw. Every part of his body ached with tension. He would have to tell Helen that Lady Matheson was poisoned, but could she be trusted? He didn’t think so. Still, he had no choice. Henry’s safety was at stake. “We’re not a hundred percent certain that Lady Matheson died from a bad heart. There may have been arsenic involved,” he said. “Please don’t say anything to Rupert—for your own safety.”
“So you think Rupert gave her arsenic?” Helen laughed.
“No…what I mean is…I don’t know yet. It could have been anyone. We don’t know the level of danger, so it’s better to be safe.” Feeling his frustration build in his chest, he paused and turned to look at the green fells. Then he inhaled and turned back to Helen. “I need Henry to be safe,” he said.
“Henry is perfectly safe. And he is having fun. He’s become quite attached to Rupert. He spends more time with Henry than you do.”
“That’s because you won’t let me spend time with him,” Nate said through gritted teeth. “I will gladly—”
“Well, which is it? Would you like to spend time with your son, or would you like to send him away?”
Nate closed his eyes and inhaled. Why had he thought trying to reason with Helen a good idea?
“Scotland is a terrible bore. My husband—a man I married to secure your child’s future as the next Earl of Luxton—is old enough to be my grandfather. Yet, you have chosen to resent me for it. I offered you a chance to be Henry’s father when the earl dies, but your pride won’t allow it. And now, you still think you can dictate how I live my life.”
Nate felt his nostrils flare as he worked to keep his anger in check. How was it that she had abandoned him at the altar, yet had somehow turned it around to make him the one who’d rejected her? He swallowed his frustration. “I’m not trying to dictate you. I only want to ensure your and Henry’s safety.”
“Indeed,” she said spitefully. “Well, I shan’t go back. I’m having too much fun with Rupert, and if you could stand to give up your little blond orphan, then the fun could have been all yours. But then you’ve always been a hopeless romantic, haven’t you?” she said mockingly.
Beautiful as she was, Nate suddenly wondered how he’d ever been attracted to her. She’d lied, cheated, and behaved selfishly at every turn, yet she was Henry’s mother, so he was stuck with her. He only hoped she’d do nothing to hurt their son in the future.
*
