Her hands clenched tightly at her sides, turning her knuckles white. “So, you weren’t even certain it was Stanford. You, in your usual headlong way, accused him of dire misdeeds.”
Gabby’s frustration was complete. She let loose. “Everyone knew Stanford’s penchant for actresses and opera dancers. You knew it. Lady Ingleby was bandying it about at Madam Bovine’s just this week.”
“You haven’t changed an iota, have you? You’re still inventing the most despicable hurtful tales.” Genuine hatred glittered through her eyes, her tears spilling over. “I insist you leave my home. I have nothing more to say to you,” she sobbed.
“Rose.” Rebecca spoke sharply, startling Rose. “Gabby did not hurt your husband.”
Gabby could have kissed Rebecca.
She turned on Rebecca. “I disagree. Stanford says—used to say—Gabriella is too high in the instep. She is not a duchess,” she ended on a scream at the top of her lungs. “All her childish antics, and now, my husband is dead because of her.”
Recoiling, Gabby backed away. “I think you best explain what you mean. How can the responsibility of his death be laid at my feet?”
Rose broke down in earnest, then. “He told me it was my fault I hadn’t conceived. I lost my temper and yelled at him.”
“Darling. You’re not making sense,” Gabby said gently, feeling as if she were the older sister, not Rose. “You not conceiving a child is not your fault. Matters of such are out of one’s hands.” Exasperation seeped through. “And, has nothing to do with your husband’s actions. Stanford went after Florence Groves, Rose. A girl young enough to be his daughter.”
She shook her head. “It’s not true.”
“It is true,” Gabby said, resisting an urge to stomp her foot. “I went to Drury Lane to meet her. Florence is all of seventeen.”
Rose stared at her as if she’d never seen her before. As if she’d hadn’t changed Gabby’s nappies as an infant.
Rebecca wrapped an arm around Rose’s shoulders and guided her to the settee. Gabby followed more slowly, reeling from the shock of her sister’s words. Her attack.
“I’ll order tea,” Gabby said.
Rose clenched a handkerchief in a fist. “No. It’s already coming.”
Gabby met Rebecca’s eyes over Rose’s bent head.
Rose lifted her eyes to Gabby’s. “Forgive me, Gabriella. I’m lashing out at you because I’m frightened.” She dropped her face in her palms, sobbing hysterically. “Servants talk. They are sure to tell someone of our row. It was horrendous. Now, he’s dead and the authorities are going to believe I’m the one who did him in.” Her voice ended on a wail.
Gabby lost patience then. “Of course, they won't, Rose. They already think I killed him. I am the one who found Stanford’s body, and, Rose, you were nowhere around. Stanford and I had words a few days ago,” she confessed.
Rose started. “I knew it!”
“That’s enough, Lady Stanford” Rebecca said. “You have an obligation to listen to your sister. She would do the same for you.”
Gabby inhaled deeply and pressed on. “When I learned what Stanford was about with the players on Drury Lane. I, er, threatened to expose him. He, in turn, returned the threat with some nonsense of my being in danger. Huntley overheard him.”
“Huntley killed my husband?”
Patience, Gabby silently prayed. “Let me finish. The next morning, I mean this morning, I received a note telling me to meet Florence at Theatre Royale. But there was no one there when I arrived. No one but Stanford.” She shuddered at the memory.
“So, you did kill him,” Rose said.
“Damn it, Rose, I didn’t kill him. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t me.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he was already dead when I tripped over him. I tried to pull the knife out of his chest, and I couldn’t,” she burst out, her voice quaking.
Rebecca’s and Rose’s gasps were harsh in the sudden silence.
Rose quickly rallied. “So, his little harpy did him in.”
“There was no sign of her when I arrived.”
