“You’re wicked!” Helen cried.
Mrs. Chance shrugged. “Bart must have realized his life was in danger, for I heard him asking Jeremy to deliver a letter to Whitehall. Then Pierre began following Bart, waiting for a chance to kill him without rousing suspicion. An opportunity to poison his tonic arose at the Lamb and Flag. Pierre paid a man to provoke Bart into a fight.” She stared up at them, and her expression became one of great cunning. “When Bart grew too ill to meet you and knew he wouldn’t live, he wrote a letter for Lord Kinsey. Hid it in his Bible. As if I wouldn’t find it!”
“We discovered the scorched remains of his letter in the fireplace,” Jason said. “You left enough to give us a vital clue.”
For a moment, her eyes burned with hatred, and then she dropped her gaze to her hands.
“You might have killed Alice, who did nothing to hurt you.” Helen’s voice was low and hard with anger.
“It was a warning,” Charlotte Chance said. “Just to get her out of the way.”
“I don’t believe you!” Helen came closer, her hands coiled into fists, her breast rising and falling with her agitated breath. “Youwantedto hurt Alice because she had defied you.”
Watching with amazement and pride, Jason stepped closer in case he needed to restrain Helen should she try to hit the woman. She stared down at Mrs. Chance with intense loathing. “You deserve everything that is coming to you.”
The door opened to admit the constable.
“Most of the household will be awake. I’d best go and speak to them, but first I want to tend your wound.” Helen turned and left the room.
Several hours past dawn, Helen had managed to dress and wake Diana. The house was still in an uproar after the coroner left and the body was removed. An officer from Bow Street took Charlotte Chance away in the wagon.
At the front door, with Helen’s expertly applied bandage covering a long but shallow knife wound, Jason placed his good arm around her. “You were magnificent. Now you should go to bed. You must be exhausted.”
She turned her vivid gaze up to him, her inviting lips curling in a smile. “I’ve never felt so alive. We have avenged Bart.”
“You are right, sweetheart.”
“About what you said in the sarcophagus,” she began. “You must—”
“I meant every word.” He drew her close and planted a kiss on her mouth.
A lanky gentleman with sunburned skin paused at the gate. “This is what occurs when my back is turned?” he cried, stalking down the path.
“Papa!” Helen ran and threw her arms around him.
Brilliant blue eyes flicked from Jason’s sleeve to his face. “Lord Peyton? What are you about kissing my daughter in full view of the street?”
“We need to talk, sir,” Peyton began.
“Papa, Lord Peyton has been wonderful. He—” Helen rushed to explain.
Kinsey held up a hand. “The coach lost a wheel on the outskirts of London. I have endured a bumpy ride in a horrible reeking hackney for some hours. I require coffee and food. Where is your mother? Surely it’s too early for her to embark on one of her charity affairs?”
“No, Mama is at Walcott. Alexander has broken his leg.”
“Dear heaven, the poor boy! Can’t I leave you all alone for a few weeks?”
“I’m afraid there’s more to tell, Lord Kinsey,” Jason said.
“Please join us for breakfast, Lord Peyton.” He swept his daughter inside.
In the breakfast room, Lord Kinsey, having disposed of a large breakfast of kidneys, bacon, and eggs, leaned back in his chair, his fingers linked over his stomach. “That’s an extraordinary story.” He shook his head. “Poor Bartholomew. I liked him very much. Intelligent and brave. He certainly didn’t deserve such a fate.”
“No, he did not.” Jason planned to tell Kinsey about his experience of Bart during the war. But that could wait.
“But, Papa, Volta has written,” Helen said. “He’s decided not to continue working with you.”
“Oh well. As to that. I’ve already come to the same conclusion, having discovered something with greater promise. I can’t wait to begin my research and shall look for a likely inventor to join me in my quest.”
