Chapter Thirteen
After a restless sleep plagued by more nightmares, Phillip had spent the entire morning in Clayton’s study going over the ledgers that a harried-looking solicitor had brought over first thing. From what Phillip had determined so far, Hugh had wasted no time spending the Harlowe fortune. Phillip wasn’t surprised. His cousin had always been a spendthrift. But was he a murderer? The question haunted him.
Bell was on his way over to fetch Phillip for their meeting with the doctor. Yesterday, Hugh had mentioned Dr. Brigham, the doctor who’d declared Malcolm’s death an attack of the heart. But there was another doctor. Dr. Landry had examined Malcolm’s body before Dr. Brigham and had later gone to the Home Office to share his concerns that Malcolm had not died of a natural cause. Dr. Landry’s suspicions had caused Grimaldi and Bell to become involved and begin an investigation. Phillip hoped meeting with Landry would finally provide some answers he sought.
And as for answers, he had side-stepped providing one to Sophie last night when she’d asked him why he believed she shouldn’t want him any longer. The truth was, he hadn’t only been physically sick. He’d been mentally sick, too. Not just the nightmares and the sweating, but he’d been so ill he hadn’t spoken for months. That’s why he hadn’t returned to Society sooner, long after his physical wounds had healed. What if that happened to him again? What sort of future could he offer her, being married to a man who couldn’t sleep through the night without waking in terror, and who might lose his ability to speak, of all things? No. He would rather Sophie hate him than pity him. He couldn’t stand to see pity in her eyes. Not to mention the fact that if he told her everything he’d been through, he’d have to give voice to the awful thought that had been lurking in the back of his mind since Malcolm’s death…if Phillip had been mentally strong enough to return, to speak, to let everyone know he was alive, Malcolm might still be here. The thought haunted Phillip day and night.
He’d kissed Sophie last night. He couldn’t help himself. She looked so pretty and vulnerable and, for a moment, he’d wanted to feel as if the last three years had never happened. He’d wanted to pretend they were who they used to be to each other. He’d told her the truth. He would no longer make a good husband for her. She deserved a whole man. A man’s whose mind hadn’t been shattered by war. A man who could sleep with her wrapped tightly in his arms at night, make love to her, and fall asleep without the specter of a nightmare glowering on his shoulder.
He probably shouldn’t have kissed her. She was right when she pointed out that he was confusing the matter. But he hadn’t been able to stop himself. His body was a traitor to him where Sophie was concerned. He’d taken her into his arms and wanted to bury himself inside of her. She still wanted him, too. At least there was that. The moan she’d emitted had been proof enough. She hadn’t been pretending when she’d responded so passionately to his kiss. That much was certain. Nothing else was.
This morning’s papers had been just as unkind as the day before. Apparently, by the time the evening ended last night, the entire Covingtons’ ballroom was agog with the gossip that the returning Duke of Harlowe just might have set his sights on Miss Sophia Payton, who was of late betrothed to his cousin. Was the new duke planning to take over his cousin’s entire existence? Apparently, turnabout was fair play. Phillip shook his head. How ridiculous. And slightly maddening.
Of course, it had been noted that Phillip and Sophie had been seen waltzing and then leaving the dance floor together. Phillip could only imagine Bell’s reaction. The marquess wouldn’t be pleased when he heard Phillip had escorted Sophie out onto the verandah last night in front of half the ton. And Phillip would find out Bell’s reaction soon enough. The marquess was on his way.
Not a quarter hour later, Bell arrived on Clayton’s doorstep. Phillip, wearing his hat and coat, opened the front door himself. The marquess had his hands firmly planted on his hips while he gave Phillip yet another condemning look.
“I know what you intend to say, so I’ll spare you the need to say it,” Phillip said, tipping his hat and giving Bell a jaunty smile.
Bell shook his head and turned back down the steps to return to his carriage, with Phillip behind him. “You’d think a man whose life I was trying to save would be more thankful.” He gestured for Phillip to enter the coach ahead of him.
Phillip pulled himself up into the conveyance and threw himself into the jade-green velvet seat facing forward. “I do appreciate it, Bell. Believe me.”
“Yet you continue to spend time alone with Miss Payton,” Bell replied with a sigh, taking the opposite seat.
“I suppose you won’t care if I tell you I hardly thought she was hiding a pistol or some poison in her reticule at the ball last night.”
“This isn’t a jest, Harlowe,” Bell replied, frowning. “Your brother was killed in his own home. Last night on the verandah, anyone could have happened by. That ballroom and the surrounding grounds were filled with people. If you had been harmed, we wouldn’t have been able to track down the culprit easily.”
“Sophie sent me a note warning me I might be in danger yesterday, yet you still think she may have had something to do with Malcolm’s death?” Phillip asked.
Bell gave him a skeptical glance. “If she did have something to do with it, she may have sent you that note to throw you off her path, convince you to trust her.”
“I do trust her, Bell,” Phillip replied softly.
Bell rolled his eyes. “You’re a fool in love. But you don’t have to be convinced. I am convinced for you.”
Phillip narrowed his eyes at his friend. “But you have no proof.”
“Not yet. But I have my suspicions, not to mention the word of Malcolm’s valet, who said he saw an unknown young woman leaving the house just before he found Malcolm’s body.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but the valet didn’t see the woman’s face, did he?” Phillip prodded.
“No, he didn’t,” Bell replied. “But Miss Payton is hardly helping her case for innocence by betrothing herself to your cousin, confronting you upon arrival, and now spending time with you alone. In a word, it looks…bad, Harlowe.”
“Those things don’t prove she was at Malcolm’s house that night,” Phillip pointed out.
“I agree,” Bell replied. “They don’t prove it was her. Let’s go speak to Dr. Landry. Perhaps he can provide more details.”
The better part of an hour later, Phillip and Bell were settled in chairs in Dr. Landry’s sitting room, while a maid served them tea. The doctor was a middle-aged man with white-streaked dark hair and a full mustache. He had bright blue eyes and a sharp nose, and he wasted no time coming directly to the point.
“I wondered when you’d come,” Dr. Landry said after they’d each been poured a cup and the maid had retreated from the room.
Phillip’s brow shot up. “Really?”
“Yes. It’s been several months since I spoke with General Grimaldi, but I always believed he took my concerns seriously.”
“Quite seriously,” Bell replied, lifting his teacup to his lips. “Please begin with what you know about Malcolm Grayson’s injuries.”
