Page 43 of The Rogue and the Viscountess

Chapter Eleven

Jenny and Morys, who seemed to have reached some understanding, stood guard at both the parlor doors. The salmon pink and the pea green gentled to a soft gray in the light of the lamps. Barbara had thrown on a dressing gown for the late night interview, and Prunella, after a quick scrub to remove the trace of Calvin Vaughn from her skin, had donned her own.

Calvin Vaughn was currently in the watch house in Corsham, under the guard of a very surprised constable. Barbara looked less surprised and more wary. Mary Grist had declined the invitation to join them; she made clear she had nothing to say.

“Well. You seem none the worse for wear, despite your adventures.” Barbara studied Prunella, who sat on the chaise. Pete, overflowing his chair as usual, hung his elbows over the arms. Prunella placed a hand on his forearm, drawing on his sturdy strength.

“I have thoroughly done with being kidnapped,” Prunella said. “The next person who tries to make me go somewhere I do not wish to go, I shall bash over the head.”

From the doorway, Jenny snickered. Pete placed his other hand over Prunella’s.

“Grandmother,” he said. “Prunella talked to Mary Grist today.”

“Our old housekeeper, who retired after Barnaby’s death?” Barbara lifted the white traces of her brows, nearly invisible without paint. “What accident brought you to her?”

“I found her living in the almshouses, as a matter of fact. Did you know that Botley, your former butler, has blackmailed her out of the very generous pension you gave her when she left?”

Barbara frowned. “Now why should he do a thing like that?”

The lamp oil gave off a pungent odor. Prunella shifted in her chair. “What threat should Botley make to Mrs. Grist that would make her surrender her income?”

Barbara sniffed. “I’m sure I have no idea.”

“I have a notion,” Prunella said. “Does Botley know that Mrs. Grist put caustic soda in Barnaby’s cakes? Or does he only suspect?”

Barbara went utterly still. “I cannot imagine what you could be talking about.”

“And I can only imagine she would not have done so on her own volition. It would have cost her post if not her life. She must have been following the request of another. Someone she feared or respected, who was prepared to pay a great deal of money to keep her quiet.”

Pete sat perfectly still, but she felt him straining like ropes holding a sail filled with wind. The chair creaked beneath his weight.

“This is a very serious accusation, child,” Barbara said softly. Her gaze shifted. “Peter. I fear your viscountess is a bit mad.”

“I am very interested in the answer to her question,” Pete rumbled.

“I cannot begin to think where you took such a ridiculous notion. Some awful Gothic novel, I don’t doubt.” Barbara curled her hands over the arms of her chair, but Prunella could not tell if she meant to hold her ground or to flee.

“It is the only answer that makes all the pieces fit,” Prunella said. “Everyone talks about how Barnaby seemed to be hale and in good health. Fit in body, if not in mind. It seems, from talk of his tempers and rages, he must have been a terrible person to live with. But to die so suddenly, with no prior illness—I wondered why. Then I saw the account book you had left. You recorded the monies paid to Mrs. Grist. And she had recorded a purchase for quantities of caustic soda far beyond what a house this size would require.

“That’s lye,” she added for Pete’s benefit. “Quite useful for cleaning, especially for the wash. But quite lethal if ingested, and easily be confused with baking powder, both being powdery white substances. A housekeeper must be very careful how she stores such things.”

Barbara folded her hands over one another in her lap. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice flat and calm.

Prunella glanced at Pete, still as taut as a strung bow. “For myself, I am only curious to know why. But Pete might have other questions.”

“That is my question,” he rumbled.

Barbara held her wrapper at her throat and bowed her head. “He was worse,” she said. “Worse than Elmer, his father. Worse than Ebeneezer, my husband. I think they all drank from the same poisoned well.”

“Or perhaps inherited a tendency,” Prunella guessed.

Barbara shuddered. “Ebeneezer I could deal with. He was merely suspicious and sometimes cruel. Elmer I could control, for the most part. When he tried to kill your father—”

Pete startled at this, his hands clenching into fists. Prunella stroked his arm, wishing she could soothe his distress, but waiting with bated breath, just as he was.

“My uncle tried to kill my father?” he croaked.

Barbara nodded sharply, once. “I sent Nathaniel away after that. I don’t blame him that he shook off contact with me. I should have stopped Elmer then, but can you conscience the shame of having such a thing known? We were the best family in the neighborhood, if not as rich as the Methuens nor as blooded as the Awbrys, but I couldn’t hold my head up to the Guys or anyone if the truth came out. So I let Nathaniel go. And when Elmer died of apoplexy, and Barnaby came home from London…” She shuddered again, rocking slightly. “He was worse. So much worse.”