“Unfortunately you will not be,” the marquess said in his wavery voice. Beck caught the silver gleam of a dueling pistol in his hand. The gun was cocked. His finger was on the trigger. The weapon shook slightly.
“This is it, then?” Beck said, holding his arms out to show he had no tricks to play.
“Yes, it is,” the marquess answered.
Lady Middlebury’s expression appeared strained in the lamplight, her brow furrowed. “Walter—”
“Quiet,” her husband barked. He didn’t sound befuddled at all.
“How did you know who I was?” Beck said, assuming that his disguise as Curran was no longer useful.
“Lady Orpington should be kinder to her companion,” the marquess said.
Beck released a sound of frustration. “Mrs. Newsome. I liked her,” he admitted readily. “I believed her loyal to her mistress.”
“You were wrong,” Lady Middlebury said. “Sooner or later, everyone tires of Ellen Orpington. And that dog of hers. I received a message from her a few days ago not to trust Ellen. Or Mr. Curran. I will say I was hurt. Ellen would betray me over cards—” Her voice broke off.
“And what did Mrs. Newsome receive from your generosity?” Beck had to ask.
Lord Middlebury spoke up. “A cottage of her own at Colemore and the promise that she’ll never have to see her cousin’s damned dog ever again.”
“Well, that makes sense,” Beck conceded.
“I’m glad you approve.”
“So, now,” Beck pushed, “you are going to do your own handiwork. It never was just Lady Middlebury, was it?”
“My wife?” The marquess looked to the marchioness, who appeared miserable and anxious. “She knew nothing of my plans. Of course, if Winstead had killed you years ago as I had instructed, we wouldn’t be in this fuss.”
“But he didn’t,” Lady Middlebury told her husband, speaking as if this was a long-standingargument between them. “And then, when I learned the child was alive—to murder an innocent is not right.”
“You were never ruthless, dear,” he answered.
“Apparently neither was Winstead,” she responded.
“True. However, you were as happy as I that Catalina was dead. Don’t deny it, Franny.”
“But I didn’t plot tokillher,” Lady Middlebury lashed back.
“What started it?” Beck wanted to know.
“Her,” Lady Middlebury said. “She started it. She was unreasonable. She made me angry.” Her voice grew louder with each accusation. “She threatened to cut us off. She didn’t want us at Colemore, even though we had a right to live here. More so than she did. We had been here longer.”
“Why did she wish you to leave?”
“She believed herself superior to us. And all because I had run up some expenses—”
“Gambling debts,” her husband corrected her.
The marchioness glared at him. Her jaw hardened.
“Whist,” the marquess said to Beck as if that explained everything. “Her downfall. Always her downfall.”
His wife straightened her shoulders and admitted, “Very well, I had run up rather serious debts. I understood”—she paused to shoot her husband a look—“that it was not wise of me. However, they were debts of honor. They had to be paid. Your mother refused.”
His mother.Lady Middlebury had used the words.
Beck was Robert Chaytor.
